the best that he can hope for, and now it seems impossibly wonderful: that time will still keep ticking by for him, and will not stop.
He wishes that she had got the postcard. That he’d promised her everything she wanted. That he had lied.
When the first torpedo hits, a few minutes shy of 1 a.m., William is stripped to the waist, sweat darkening the waistband of his trousers and forming a V shape down his backside, hair pushed back in a dark, sweat-soaked slick. Coal leaps from the blade of his shovel; flames flicker up to devour them. His back and shoulders are knotted with muscle. His arms are like twisted rope. He is all body, all movement, lost in the mechanism of his work.
The impact of the first torpedo makes him stagger. The explosion bursts his eardrums. He hears just the rush of his blood.
He rights himself, looks to the next man, Paveley, red-lit from the boilers’ glow; his mouth is moving, he’s shouting something. William can’t hear.
When the second torpedo hits six seconds later, he doesn’t hear iteither, he just feels the thump of impact, the shudder through the body of the ship. The deck beneath him bucks, and it’s too late now to think about anything because the ship is tilting, and William’s slithering, trying to get purchase; he yells,
Head for the stairs
, but can’t hear himself either, and the heaped coal is slithering too, rolling out underneath his feet and the ship tilts further, and then there’s nothing but the horror of burning coals pouring from the boilers’ open mouths, falling around him like a punishment from God; his hair burnt through to his head, the scalp seared, his hand burning as he scrabbles the coal away; his shoulder burnt and as he whisks round to brush the burning embers off, his cheek kissed by a glowing orange coal and there’s water round his feet, coals hissing as they land, and Paveley is there, he didn’t make it to the stairs, and they are thrashing and scrabbling through the fire and the water with the others, trying to get to the stairs, and the water’s round his knees, up to his waist, his chest. A third impact. A crunch and then a massive jolt as the torpedo finds the ammunition store and explodes. Water up to his shoulders, and now he’s struggling to keep his face above the water, and the hissing falling coals and the smoke and steam, and the water rises to his mouth, his nose, and it’s bubbling, sooty and harsh, in his nostrils, and he can’t keep his head above the water.
Knox Road, Battersea
May 14, 1915
THE OLD MAN OPENS THE DOOR . She hadn’t even reached the handle. He must have been looking out for her. She doesn’t need him to say anything. His face, and his presence there, a strong, squat shape in the door when he should be at the factory, say everything. He brings with him the smell of that place, the hot waxy reek.
She drops her basket. It spills onto the flags. Lengths of lemon and mauve ribbon ripple along the pavement. A cotton reel bumps down into the gutter.
He holds out a stained hand to her. He takes her by the elbow and helps her into the dark parlour. He sits her down in the best chair.
“I’ll get the—”
He leaves the front door open and gathers up the spilt things, rolling up the sprawling ribbon, chasing down the cotton, placing them thick-fingered back into their paper wrappings. He brings in her basket, sets it down on her lap, in front of the hard bulge of her belly. She takes the basket handle in her hands.
“I’m sorry, love,” he says.
She nods. Thumbs at the weave of the basket handle. She looks up at him, at the pitted skin.
“Is it certain? Is it absolutely certain?”
He nods.
Her mouth is dry, and the words come out dry as husks: “All hands?”
“Five hundred lives lost.”
“So there are survivors?”
“They’ve fished out a couple of hundred, that’s what they’re saying.”
“Then it’s not certain—he could be—”
He takes her hand, squeezes it. “He was on
He wishes that she had got the postcard. That he’d promised her everything she wanted. That he had lied.
When the first torpedo hits, a few minutes shy of 1 a.m., William is stripped to the waist, sweat darkening the waistband of his trousers and forming a V shape down his backside, hair pushed back in a dark, sweat-soaked slick. Coal leaps from the blade of his shovel; flames flicker up to devour them. His back and shoulders are knotted with muscle. His arms are like twisted rope. He is all body, all movement, lost in the mechanism of his work.
The impact of the first torpedo makes him stagger. The explosion bursts his eardrums. He hears just the rush of his blood.
He rights himself, looks to the next man, Paveley, red-lit from the boilers’ glow; his mouth is moving, he’s shouting something. William can’t hear.
When the second torpedo hits six seconds later, he doesn’t hear iteither, he just feels the thump of impact, the shudder through the body of the ship. The deck beneath him bucks, and it’s too late now to think about anything because the ship is tilting, and William’s slithering, trying to get purchase; he yells,
Head for the stairs
, but can’t hear himself either, and the heaped coal is slithering too, rolling out underneath his feet and the ship tilts further, and then there’s nothing but the horror of burning coals pouring from the boilers’ open mouths, falling around him like a punishment from God; his hair burnt through to his head, the scalp seared, his hand burning as he scrabbles the coal away; his shoulder burnt and as he whisks round to brush the burning embers off, his cheek kissed by a glowing orange coal and there’s water round his feet, coals hissing as they land, and Paveley is there, he didn’t make it to the stairs, and they are thrashing and scrabbling through the fire and the water with the others, trying to get to the stairs, and the water’s round his knees, up to his waist, his chest. A third impact. A crunch and then a massive jolt as the torpedo finds the ammunition store and explodes. Water up to his shoulders, and now he’s struggling to keep his face above the water, and the hissing falling coals and the smoke and steam, and the water rises to his mouth, his nose, and it’s bubbling, sooty and harsh, in his nostrils, and he can’t keep his head above the water.
Knox Road, Battersea
May 14, 1915
THE OLD MAN OPENS THE DOOR . She hadn’t even reached the handle. He must have been looking out for her. She doesn’t need him to say anything. His face, and his presence there, a strong, squat shape in the door when he should be at the factory, say everything. He brings with him the smell of that place, the hot waxy reek.
She drops her basket. It spills onto the flags. Lengths of lemon and mauve ribbon ripple along the pavement. A cotton reel bumps down into the gutter.
He holds out a stained hand to her. He takes her by the elbow and helps her into the dark parlour. He sits her down in the best chair.
“I’ll get the—”
He leaves the front door open and gathers up the spilt things, rolling up the sprawling ribbon, chasing down the cotton, placing them thick-fingered back into their paper wrappings. He brings in her basket, sets it down on her lap, in front of the hard bulge of her belly. She takes the basket handle in her hands.
“I’m sorry, love,” he says.
She nods. Thumbs at the weave of the basket handle. She looks up at him, at the pitted skin.
“Is it certain? Is it absolutely certain?”
He nods.
Her mouth is dry, and the words come out dry as husks: “All hands?”
“Five hundred lives lost.”
“So there are survivors?”
“They’ve fished out a couple of hundred, that’s what they’re saying.”
“Then it’s not certain—he could be—”
He takes her hand, squeezes it. “He was on
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