refuge in Graham’s
mildly concerned smile, her mother tries to hold her gaze,
and she realizes another reason why her fear might be
peaking. She’s committed an act of betrayal.
Her eyes duck to her plate, back to Graham, avoiding
Mother’s for the moment while she runs through her own
words to Evelyn Ismay and their implications. There’s
nothing to be done with Mother . She imagines her mother
hearing the words as she spoke them, imagines her scooping straight into her own recent memory of the event,
reading her thoughts. How profoundly unsayable the
simple sentence seems now, like an obscene gesture made
against a cathedral altar during the quietest hush of a
service.
Loyalty to family, and particularly to Mother, has
always been extreme. And Miranda feels it not as some
shackle foisted upon her, but rather as a part of her, a
muscle at the core of her heart responding to the urgent
need for life-giving blood. She remembers the freezing
deck once more, feels her mother’s protective power in
the bristling fur of her coat, a great mother bear protecting her young, towering proudly as she eases Miranda
forward from the high lip of the great ship onto the
lifeboat suspended a terrifying distance from the water.
“Don’t look down, Miranda. Look straight ahead.” Her
hands were warm and protective on Miranda’s shoulders
as she moved onto the lifeboat. “Make room for my
daughter, please, ” Mother’s voice warns, and a space
opens before her, hands reaching up to steady her onto a
low seat. Mother stands for a moment, dignified,
unafraid, and then settles beside her. Miranda gazes back
onto the deck as men scuttle around, their shoes shining
under the deck lights, trousers comically flaring as they
bend and crouch and turn the clanking iron wheel of the
lifeboat support. The boat deck is no longer level, and
even Miranda knows this can’t be right. For something as
huge as the Titanic to tilt even a little is like the moon
disappearing from the heavens on a cloudless night. It can
mean nothing good. She sees the concentration in the face
of one of the sailors, a blue vein running along his forehead as he turns the crank, eyes moist with the cold, staring straight ahead. She wonders about him, whether he is
thinking of himself, his family back home. Perhaps he has
a daughter too. When her thoughts stray onto her father,
she’s hit by a wave of emotion so painful she can hardly
bear it. She sees him at the Ismay dinner table, deferring
in that odd, quiet way of his—a combination of tight-lipped northern pride and cow-eyed need for approval—remembers the twinkle appearing in his eye as Mr. Ismay
talked of the luxury of the liner upon which Miranda and
her mother were booked.
“They’ll be travelling first class, of course, ” Father told
Mr. Ismay, his voice slightly defensive, fingers creeping
into his waistcoat pocket.
“Of course, ” said Mr. Ismay, his voice soft, reassuring,
as though humouring a child.
Father sniffed, nodding.
Her father’s vulnerability was poignant, saddening
even to the nine-year-old Miranda. How dreadful, how
unendurable it would be, she thought, to see him upon
the deck with the other fathers and husbands—some
waving handkerchiefs jokingly, others pensive, one or two
smiling sadly then suddenly looking away—as the lifeboat
jolts downwards, the deck slipping away.
“Women and children only, ” yells an officer now out of
sight, and Miranda hears footsteps scuttling along the
deck to the next available lifeboat.
MIRANDA LOOKS AT HER father now, remembering, watches him take a sip of water then go back to his
meat, his thoughts no doubt far from the table, at the
office, thinking of exports at one of the factories, thinking
of new equipment or productivity. Gratitude for his safety
comes over her shoulders like a warm blanket, but she
feels a prickle and shiver of breeze too.
On the other side of the palm, Evelyn returns to her
table. Miranda catches sight of her
mildly concerned smile, her mother tries to hold her gaze,
and she realizes another reason why her fear might be
peaking. She’s committed an act of betrayal.
Her eyes duck to her plate, back to Graham, avoiding
Mother’s for the moment while she runs through her own
words to Evelyn Ismay and their implications. There’s
nothing to be done with Mother . She imagines her mother
hearing the words as she spoke them, imagines her scooping straight into her own recent memory of the event,
reading her thoughts. How profoundly unsayable the
simple sentence seems now, like an obscene gesture made
against a cathedral altar during the quietest hush of a
service.
Loyalty to family, and particularly to Mother, has
always been extreme. And Miranda feels it not as some
shackle foisted upon her, but rather as a part of her, a
muscle at the core of her heart responding to the urgent
need for life-giving blood. She remembers the freezing
deck once more, feels her mother’s protective power in
the bristling fur of her coat, a great mother bear protecting her young, towering proudly as she eases Miranda
forward from the high lip of the great ship onto the
lifeboat suspended a terrifying distance from the water.
“Don’t look down, Miranda. Look straight ahead.” Her
hands were warm and protective on Miranda’s shoulders
as she moved onto the lifeboat. “Make room for my
daughter, please, ” Mother’s voice warns, and a space
opens before her, hands reaching up to steady her onto a
low seat. Mother stands for a moment, dignified,
unafraid, and then settles beside her. Miranda gazes back
onto the deck as men scuttle around, their shoes shining
under the deck lights, trousers comically flaring as they
bend and crouch and turn the clanking iron wheel of the
lifeboat support. The boat deck is no longer level, and
even Miranda knows this can’t be right. For something as
huge as the Titanic to tilt even a little is like the moon
disappearing from the heavens on a cloudless night. It can
mean nothing good. She sees the concentration in the face
of one of the sailors, a blue vein running along his forehead as he turns the crank, eyes moist with the cold, staring straight ahead. She wonders about him, whether he is
thinking of himself, his family back home. Perhaps he has
a daughter too. When her thoughts stray onto her father,
she’s hit by a wave of emotion so painful she can hardly
bear it. She sees him at the Ismay dinner table, deferring
in that odd, quiet way of his—a combination of tight-lipped northern pride and cow-eyed need for approval—remembers the twinkle appearing in his eye as Mr. Ismay
talked of the luxury of the liner upon which Miranda and
her mother were booked.
“They’ll be travelling first class, of course, ” Father told
Mr. Ismay, his voice slightly defensive, fingers creeping
into his waistcoat pocket.
“Of course, ” said Mr. Ismay, his voice soft, reassuring,
as though humouring a child.
Father sniffed, nodding.
Her father’s vulnerability was poignant, saddening
even to the nine-year-old Miranda. How dreadful, how
unendurable it would be, she thought, to see him upon
the deck with the other fathers and husbands—some
waving handkerchiefs jokingly, others pensive, one or two
smiling sadly then suddenly looking away—as the lifeboat
jolts downwards, the deck slipping away.
“Women and children only, ” yells an officer now out of
sight, and Miranda hears footsteps scuttling along the
deck to the next available lifeboat.
MIRANDA LOOKS AT HER father now, remembering, watches him take a sip of water then go back to his
meat, his thoughts no doubt far from the table, at the
office, thinking of exports at one of the factories, thinking
of new equipment or productivity. Gratitude for his safety
comes over her shoulders like a warm blanket, but she
feels a prickle and shiver of breeze too.
On the other side of the palm, Evelyn returns to her
table. Miranda catches sight of her
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