Titanic Ashes (11 page)

The thought takes hold immediately, sending down roots
and sprouting leaves which delineate shapes of possible
sentences should she have the courage to broach the subject.
It’s Father, rather than Graham or Mother, who makes her
shy away from merely opening her mouth and talking.
There is such a tradition of protecting Father, or protecting
herself from his judgment; the two concerns sound like
polar opposites but mysteriously merge into the same
general dread of creating discomfort or embarrassment for
him. She doesn’t for the moment know how to get past it.

Father catches her eye as she gazes at him and a
premonition of that discomfort sweeps across his face. He
sighs and glances at his watch. “You’ll have to excuse me,
ladies, Graham, for a few moments. I have to go to the
lobby and make a phone call.”

With a gasp at the serendipity of it, Miranda watches
him as he stands, takes a little mock bow and leaves the
table. She catches a movement from beyond the palm, a
face, Mr. Ismay’s, watching him depart. It surprises
Miranda, this interest in her father. She had imagined Mr.
Ismay to be beyond noticing somehow. She holds onto the
thought, as she wants to delay. Now there’s nothing
between Miranda and her admission, and she sees the icy
waters of danger rippling below her, daring her to dive.
And this time she must.

“I must apologize to you, Mother, ” she says abruptly.

Her mother looks startled, worried, her deep-set eyes
seem puffy and tired.

“I’m the reason Evelyn Grimsden came to our table.”

She feels Graham’s astonishment too, can see, without
looking, his face has turned the same shade of pink it does
after he’s been playing rugby.

“You see, I apologized for a letter I once wrote to her
father. And it seems to have stirred it all up for her.”

“What did you do that for?” The tone in her voice, one
of exasperation, suggests she might well have added
you
stupid girl
, and probably would have done had Graham
not been sitting between them.

“When?” asks Graham, always a stickler for irrelevant
details.

“I wrote the letter when I was ten years old, Graham, ”
she says, rather pleased that his prosaic presence lends
the scene some stability, that Mother and she will have a
certain obligation to remain logical and measured, if only
for appearance’s sake. “And I apologized to Evelyn in the
ladies’ room tonight.”

“What was in the letter?” asks Graham, and again
Miranda is grateful he’s there, an interpreter between two
long-warring tribes.

“A series of accusations, of cowardice and treachery, a
second-hand, childish repetition of all the silliest things
that had already appeared in the newspaper.” Her ears
have gone numb. She looks from Mother’s rather
disgusted, contemptuous face, to Graham, whose eyelids
flutter in urgent embarrassment.

“You were a child, ” he says.

“An unhappy child, yes. As Mother said, the
Titanic
and
everything about it seemed to unhinge us all, rather. I was
angry then, and there was nowhere for the anger to go. So
I directed it at Mr. Ismay. He seemed such an easy target.
In any case, Mother, I apologize. It was I who brought on
the attack tonight. Again, sorry.”

She stumbled briefly before mentioning her anger. The
merest possibility existed that Graham just might ask why
she was angry. But then Graham rarely asked open-ended
questions. He preferred conversations which narrowed to
single points of fact.

“What a luxury it must be to apologize, ” says Mother.

The comment, glibly thrown, seems at first like
another of Mother’s fogging tactics; it doesn’t mean
anything, she thinks, but it prevents anyone from settling
into a point of view. It merges with the memory of the
museum, the darkened orbs of the mammoth skeleton,
the suggestion of ferocious work and sacrifice behind the
evolution of the family toward present success. This time,
Mother’s words really do point to a philosophical difference between Miranda and herself, and one that could
only make Miranda seem terribly spoilt, a child whose
privilege has been toiled for by others.

She catches a movement from beyond the palm. Mr.
Ismay stands. She assumes at first the Ismays are about to
leave after all. But Evelyn, as far as she can tell from
beyond the leaves, remains seated. Mr. Ismay talks to his
daughter for a few moments, his face smiling, his gestures
casual, almost frivolous. Then he turns and strides
through the dining room into the lobby, oblivious it seems
of the faces that glance up from the tables, the whispering
conversations left in his wake. Miranda feels a tug in her
diaphragm, a sudden frustrated desire to follow. It can’t be
coincidence that Mr. Ismay should go in the same direction as Father. Waves of panic and defeat move inside her,
making her nauseated. She can’t begin to imagine what
Mr. Ismay and her father will say to each other, or rather
what they will do, as a whole new catalogue of dangers
opens when men set themselves to battle each other.

She turns back to the palm. A clearing between leaves
this time reveals Evelyn’s face, her expression blank and
pale. Their eyes meet, unhappily. Miranda sees the trace
of a nod.

THREE CONNECTED TELEPHONE BOOTHS
stand along the lobby wall. Two are clearly free. Through
the bright glass in the middle box, Ismay sees Grimsden,
his shoulders hunched, his head bowed, and eyes safely
away from the glass. The blue-liveried attendant has
already seen Ismay’s interest in the phones and opens wide
the door to Grimsden’s right. Ismay steps inside because he
can think of no other way to act. He nods belatedly as the
attendant eases the door closed behind him.

He picks up the earpiece with one hand, keeping the
holding device depressed with the other. Turning to the
lobby he sees the attendant, square-shouldered, gloved
hands behind his back, obscuring the view passing hotel
staff and guests might get of him through the glass. His face
burns with the furtiveness of it all. This is not at all what he
envisioned when he followed Grimsden. Ismay had seen his
way clear to an honest statement of fact, something to the
effect that he did not appreciate Grimsden’s wife staring at
him and his daughter through dinner, adding perhaps that
he is proud of Evelyn’s justified challenge. What Grimsden
chose to do about it would be his business. All this played
out in an obligingly empty corridor without the complication of telephones or hotel staff.

He might have known it wouldn’t be this way. Some
romantic impulse, brought into being by Evelyn, has given
him the notion that tonight rules may be broken. Yet
Evelyn herself paid a heavy price in embarrassment and
shame for doing so, and Ismay knows he’s incapable of
diving with such complete abandon into chaos. He doesn’t mind a simple argument with Grimsden or anyone
else, but has no stomach for the crashing lack of taste that
would allow a scene to play out with hotel employees as
horrified witnesses, their white-gloved hands attempting
to intervene. Perhaps a newspaper reporter might chance
upon the disagreement, or be alerted by some passerby,
and the full weight of the catastrophe would return in all
its horrid hues. He and his family would see it all unravel
under some new ignominious headline:
Disgraced Titanic
Owner in Public Brawl.

His life, he realizes, must have always been under a
microscope, even before the
Titanic
. Like everyone in his
class and position he has always been an ant under the
lens, but since there was so little notoriety in his behaviour, the public eyes which glanced upon him—office and
hotel employees, railway porters, hotel guests, servants,
valets—remained disinterested and silent. But the disaster, and his part in it, changed all that. Since then he could
feel the burning heat of the lamp, the hush of interest, the
magnified attention, the crowds gathering to view and
confer, and has never quite shaken himself free of it.

Staring through the glass now at the attendant’s left
shoulder and twitching gloved hands, the whole exercise
seems like hopeless bravado, and so clearly not what
Evelyn wanted. Never has he seen such mortification on
his daughter’s face as when he unsuccessfully tried to
bluff his intentions.

“I find I have to rush into the lobby for an errand, my
dear.”

“No, Father, ” she said.

“It’s all right, really. Everything will be all right.”

He remembers the last time he spoke that promise, a
burning, foolish one, on a freezing deck minutes after
receiving news that the ship would founder. It seemed a
sensible thing to say at the time, as belief in safety eased
the passengers into the lifeboats far more efficiently than
signs of danger that elicited questions and a general agitation. Everything, of course, was not all right. He knew the
gash under the waterline ran along at least four watertight compartments and he knew, without Andrews’
confirmation, what that meant.

A party of two women and one man strolls by the
phones. One of the women glances in his direction and he
finds himself hunching and turning, like Grimsden in the
adjacent box, a pose he would likely use if he were talking to someone. The earpiece is hot against his lobe and
the flex slaps gently to the rhythm of his pulse against his
palm. He notices the fabric covering the wire becomes
damper with sweat each time it touches upon his skin.
The subterfuge infuriates him, makes everything seem
urgent, and when he hears the creak of Grimsden’s opening door, he drops the earpiece and steps outside.

Ismay is close enough to feel Grimsden’s body heat as
the unsuspecting man places a piece of paper in his wallet
and slides the wallet into the inner lining of his jacket
pocket. It’s a moment until he looks up, startled, brown
eyes staring into Ismay’s face. The physical closeness is
too awkward. Ismay shuffles slightly backwards but delivers the challenge quickly.

“I want a word with you, Grimsden.”

Grimsden’s face changes, his eyebrows raising.
Understanding, a hint of dark humour perhaps, comes
into his expression.

“Your wife has been staring at us through dinner.” The
same party that passed the phones now returns in the
opposite direction. The young woman who glanced at him
then, does so again now. The gentle conversation of the
party ceases altogether. Ismay realizes his words may have
carried. “She has quite upset my daughter.”

“When it comes to that, Mr. Ismay, your daughter may
have caused us some problems with digestion too. And it
was not a cheap meal.”

“Is that all you’ve got to say?”

The group of three has passed now, silently, going
toward the elevators leading to the rooms and suites.
They begin to murmur, and the other lady takes a swift
backward glance. The phone attendant stands by the
farthest door. He looks straight ahead like a soldier, but
his expression is worried.

“What would you have me say? It’s an argument between
the womenfolk. Why don’t you let them sort it out?”

The logic of it hits Ismay like a wall, but he knows
logic can’t satisfy him. Evelyn can’t sort it out, and he
doesn’t want her to try. If there is a cause for Mrs.
Grimsden’s insulting behaviour, it is he. And he can’t
argue with Mrs. Grimsden, so he must do the next best
thing. He must challenge her husband.

“I think you and I should sort it out.”

Grimsden smiles. Joviality has an odd effect upon his
bulldog appearance, bringing his jowly cheeks up several
inches, transforming him into an unlikely Father
Christmas.

“It’s been some considerable time since I’ve received
such an offer. Will it be fisticuffs in the street or should we
look into the cost of booking the Albert Hall and give
everyone a laugh?”

“I’m sorry you should find it so amusing.” Ismay finds
his eyes watering, is ashamed of how this must look, but
feels he may explode with the impotence of his fury. “But
my family have heard me called coward once too often,
and you are responsible for your wife whether you realize
it or not.”

Grimsden sighs. “Mr. Ismay, unless you are talking
about the processes of law, libel and so forth, Agnes is
responsible for Agnes, I am responsible for me, and you
are responsible for you.”

Ismay finds himself squaring up, shoulder sinews
tightening. Improbable and undignified as he knows it
will be, he is on the brink, eyes skimming Grimsden’s
bloated left ear with its tuft of brown hair, the pitted flesh
of his nose for the likely landfall of a first blow. But he
needs the trigger word—
coward
—and Grimsden will
persist in skirting it. “For the record, Mr. Ismay, I’ve no
reason to doubt your personal courage. No, I know how
newspapers and gossip work. But what did you think was
going to happen when you were saved?”

The phone attendant, who had been watching with
growing alarm, is distracted by an elderly man asking
directions. Ismay feels he is at a multiple-lane crossroads,
baffled by Grimsden’s contradictions, harried by the
constricts of time and opportunity. “You’ve had the
rewards, Mr. Ismay. First class all the way, birth on
upwards. Why should you avoid paying the price?”

“What is this?” Ismay says with a laugh. Only a trace
of spittle sparking under the light differentiates his tone
from pure, detached scorn. But his body does relax. This
is all he has been fighting for the last thirteen years, he
thinks: a brazen, primitive absence of logic. “I’ve had it
good. I’ve attracted envy. So now I must pay. Is that it?”

“I dare say that’s what it boils down to, Mr. Ismay.”
Grimsden tucks the fingertips of his right hand into his
waistcoat pocket. “You know your history, no doubt, but
I’m not talking about the classics—Greek and whatnot—
but plain, ordinary English history. The heir to a throne,
you’ll remember, is a target for assassination from the
moment he can crawl. All his rivals need is a cause, just or
otherwise. That’s all your rivals needed too, and you gave
it to them.”

“And how about you, Mr. Grimsden?” Ismay finds
himself trembling. Now he will turn the tables. Now he’ll
break a hole through Grimsden’s self-satisfied air and
make him strike first. “Did you also not have fortune in
your own career? Your marriage, for instance?”

“My marriage?” Grimsden tilts his head, brown eyes
shining.

“She’s the heiress of a shipbuilding company, too, I
gather. What does that make you?”

Ismay senses he’s just stepped into the dark. This is
what Mrs. Grimsden said, isn’t it? He traces urgently
through thirteen-year-old snatches of conversation. Her
father was a shipbuilder in Halifax, Nova Scotia. He is
sure he heard so much, either from the Grimsdens themselves or from the Foresters who provided the introduction, although the name of the company eludes him.

“Oh, my father-in-law built ships all right, Mr. Ismay, ”
he says now, folding his arms over his chest. “And he was
much more of a shipbuilder in a practical sense than you
or your celebrated father. Between you and me now, as
Agnes never says a word to a living soul. But my father-in-law was a ship’s carpenter.”

Ismay moves backwards, suspecting a trick,
hoping
for
evidence of a trick. But another look at Grimsden’s
indomitable expression and the agitation in his nerves
dissolves to defeat.

“When I met Agnes, Mr. Ismay, she was seventeen years
old, penniless, in service to a Manchester family much like
your own, business owners for generations.” He hums in
consideration, clearly enjoying Ismay’s discomfort. “I was
an employee somewhat overwhelmed to be invited to their
party. All the silk, the gold, the genuine pearls, made me
restless.” He scratches a furry earlobe at the memory. “But
you wouldn’t know about that. Naturally I found myself
gravitating to the servants, especially the young redhead
with the slightly haughty manner—yes; she had it then—
from Nova Scotia. I liked the ring of that name, New
Scotland. ‘Better than the old one, ’ it seemed to say, and I
myself was moving into new territory.”

He holds up a finger as if to flag a point in danger of
escaping. “But she was poor, Mr. Ismay, not a businessman’s daughter at all, but a serf like me, determined to
improve her lot in life. You see, I imagine that, whether or
not she knows it herself, her dislike of you—which I will
not, by the way, trouble to deny—has nothing to do with
‘women and children first.’ No. In some dim corner of my
wife’s mind she knows that had we
not
prospered as we
did, had she boarded the
Titanic
in steerage class, as she
would have been obliged to do, my wife and her daughter
would have shared the fate of the rest of her class and
accompanied your fine vessel in its long and freezing journey to the bottom of the ocean.”

The phone attendant, relieved now, glances at them as
he opens the door for a lady in a feather hat. Grimsden
stares at Ismay for a moment. He turns his wrist inwards
to glance at his watch. “Now, Mr. Ismay, if there is nothing
more, I shall return to my table. Well…” With a final
shrug, Grimsden departs, leaving in his wake the scent of
sweet tobacco and wine.

Ismay finds he’s unable even to turn toward the dining
room for fear of the life within—the shimmering dresses,
the rising smoke, and the beating fans. He hears a splash
somewhere close, off to his right, a sound so resonant, so
fully embodied and real, he’s surprised to see not a length
of oar half submerged in rippling dark waters, but rather
the richly patterned red Persian carpet. There’s no expla
nation for the noise, no jugs of water on trays, just the
Ritz lobby, the phone attendant, looking straight ahead,
with white-gloved hands at his sides.

Ismay thinks of the questions at the enquiry about why
he had his back to the sinking ship. He’d had to explain he
was at the oars, pulling, and that his back was turned not
from choice. He wasn’t in charge of the lifeboat. It was the
truth too. But he wonders if it could have been any other
way. If a clear-sighted vision had accompanied the thunderous groans of buckling metal, the crashes of boilers
and engines slamming through bulkheads, and worst of
all, the human sounds—the endless, agonizing wailing—
he wonders whether he would have been able to see
again. Would the lush rolling hills of his chosen retreat in
Ireland, the face of his wife or his children have become
forever superimposed with the images of destruction—his
ship upended in the water, its lights still burning, great
clusters of people like ants clinging to the stern, some
dropping, bouncing against the hull on the way to certain
death? It seems more than a lucky chance now that he
should have been facing the other way.