The Titanic Document

by Alan Veale

  ‘What language is that?’ asked Helen. ‘It doesn’t look like Dutch or German, and it’s certainly not English!’

  ‘Gobblegook.’ Vinke paused his finger exercises, then prodded a couple of buttons until he had the cursor positioned where he wanted it.

  ‘Is it the same as the one you borrowed from Terence for practice? Will it do everything you need?’

  ‘For now.’ He frowned in concentration, found inspiration, then started to type more deliberately.

  On the screen some words appeared: o-l-d and n-e-w. Then b-o-r-r-o-w-e-d and b-l-u-e. Helen smiled and nodded. And laughed as her husband typed two more words.

  She kissed the top of his head. ‘Of course I’ll marry you! What took you so long?’

  Ten

  Ed was the first of Emma’s new team to voice an opinion on the Titanic. It was exactly a month after Emma’s talk when Billie called on him at Fersen Marine on the south of the Clyde. He had commandeered a small room for all things Titanic. On the wall in front of him was a projector screen between two whiteboards. Both were filled with scribbled diagrams and notes that had the words collision, speed and distance underlined in blue. As his friend opened the door, Ed threw a greeting over his shoulder.

  ‘No need to knock, Billie. I’m fully dressed.’

  ‘You said it was urgent. Sorry!’

  ‘I said “Get your driving instructor to drop you off here as soon as you’re done”, but hey, it’s nice to see you. Been a long day. How’s it going?’

  Billie gave a grin. ‘Good. Think I’m getting the hang of it now. The trick is to sit holding the wheel on the right side of the car. That’s where you foreigners have been going wrong.’

  Ed kept a straight face. ‘Excellent news. I’ll make a note of that. Take a seat Oor Wullie. I need a second opinion on something.’

  ‘Okay. I like what you’ve done with the place, by the way. That’s a nice touch. Can I have a look?’ Billie left his jacket on the back of a chair and walked over to a scale model of Titanic that had been placed on top of a cupboard.

  ‘Help yourself. Serious question: how good’s your eyesight?’

  ‘Not bad for someone who’s spent half his life looking at books. Hey, this is great. Lots of detail. What’s the chalk mark for? Is that to mark the hull damage?

  ‘Yep. You do wear glasses now, don’t you? For reading?’

  ‘And for driving. No chance of passing my test if I didn’t. You had laser surgery, didn’t you? Why, what’s your interest in eyesight?’ Billie returned to his seat next to Ed.

  ‘I want to show you something.’

  Ed used a remote to switch on an overhead projector and to dim the lights in the room. Then he tapped at the laptop at his elbow and a video clip began to play on the screen in front of them. They watched as a man in naval uniform worked some controls on the bridge of a ship, then Ed froze the image.

  ‘This is a clip from a documentary made about five years ago looking at how the historical parts of Cameron’s movie measure up to known evidence. What you’ve got here is a simulator in Newfoundland used by ship’s officers for all kind of scenarios. I’ve been there myself. Real cool piece of kit. Anyhow, they used it to try and recreate what happened on Titanic’s bridge before and after the collision. So have a look at this, see what you think, and bear in mind the eyesight question.’

  The clip continued to play, with the simulator programmed to match the great ship’s original speed, power and turning characteristics. In the 1997 movie it had taken a little over two minutes for the ship to hit an iceberg that had first been spotted around a mile away. The simulator showed the same thing happening after just fifty-two seconds. The conclusion made by those conducting the exercise was that the distance between the ship and the iceberg must have been a lot closer when it was spotted: just 600 yards. Ed stopped the playback and used the remote to restore the lighting before turning to Billie.

  ‘So, what do you think? Convincing argument or what?’

  Billie was still staring at the blank screen, his hand idly stroking his chin. ‘Well, yes. It seems a fair test, especially when you acknowledge that any movie will distort the facts for dramatic licence. You don’t agree though, I can see that. You’re the technician. What am I missing?’

  Ed went over to one of the whiteboards, picking up a marker pen as he did so.

  ‘The problem comes in our expectations of a computer: the accuracy of the result depends entirely on the quality of the input. A couple of elements to consider.’ He drew two squares on the board and placed a letter T inside one. ‘This is the first element: Titanic. Lots of information to input here because we know everything about her, down to the last rivet. But then there’s the other element: the berg. What size, shape, colour? All we have are some understandably contradictory witness statements. Some say it towered above the ship. Some said it was below the rail. Others describe it as being a “black mass”, or “a huge white thing”, or “shaped like the rock of Gibraltar”.’ Ed paused a moment. ‘How do you program a computer with that?’

  Billie nodded. ‘I read that the lookouts put it as tall as the forecastle, nearly at their height on the foremast.’

  ‘That’s the generally agreed consensus, putting it between a hundred and fifty and two hundred feet above the surface, what is technically known in the business as a medium-sized berg. Thing is, Billie, there are simply no specifications available from which you can accurately assess the size and shape of the object the Titanic hit. And if you can’t do that, then the simulation is pure hokum!’ Ed put a cross through the second square on the whiteboard.

  ‘Here’s another thought: Billie Vane is out for a drive in the Trossachs in his brand-new Mercedes. Suddenly there’s a narrow bit of road where he’s going too fast and he hits another car coming toward him. What do the police and the insurance boys do? They look at the damage, the tyre marks and they talk to witnesses. If they needed to, they could take all the information, put it into a simulator and work out exactly what happened. Because they know everything about both objects.’

  ‘I see what you mean. But if it had been dark on the road, and neither car had its lights on, and it was a hit and run—’

  ‘Then without information on the other vehicle it’s a whole different ballgame. Now you’re getting it. And this is the question about eyesight.’ Ed wiped off the boxes he had just drawn, sketching instead a rough outline of a ship viewed from above, then placing a dot a few inches higher. ‘Titanic heading west and a stationary object dead ahead. Billie Vane in the crow’s nest. How far ahead is that object?’

  Billie laughed. ‘I don’t know! I’m not a sailor. I’ve never even seen an iceberg!’

  ‘Neither had lookout Fred Fleet. That’s what he said at both inquiries. Imagine what they’re looking at. It’s nearly midnight, the sea is as black as pitch, there’s no moon, just starlight. At the American inquiry Fleet said the iceberg looked to be about the size of a table when he first spotted it. When they got closer, he described it as “a black mass”. Probably an indication that the berg had flipped over at some point in its journey south, so the clean white bit had mainly gone underwater, leaving the dirty, barnacle-encrusted part above the surface. You can understand his difficulty picking out a blackened object against the dark sea. It’s likely he only appreciated the actual size once it was close enough to pick out against the starlit sky. By then it was too late.’

  Billie was deep in thought. ‘But going back to that simulation, if we accept the approximate height of the iceberg above the waterline, and we measure angles of sight so the shape can be seen against the skyline, then why can’t we determine the approximate distance from the ship when the warning was given?’

  ‘We can. Around five to six hundred yards. But the keyword is “approximate”. Let’s go back to your drive in the Trossachs. A car comes toward you and you either miss it by inches, or you hit it. Maybe the road is too narrow for cars of a particular width to pass each other safely. I
f it’s light enough and you’re both travelling slow then you can take avoiding action. Maybe you stop in time. The point I’m trying to make is that without any variable factors, when you know the width of the cars, you can see how a collision could happen. Now put the same situation at sea, with limited visibility and a hugely variable factor in the shape of the iceberg. We are talking inches here. Shave one foot off the nearest face of that berg and the Titanic would not have sustained any damage. You cannot account for that degree of variance when it comes to simulating the obstacle that sank the ship.’ Ed pointed at the blank screen. ‘The point I’m trying to make, Billie, is this: Titanic took avoiding action too late. Period. It doesn’t matter what size the iceberg was, so long as it sat in the Titanic’s path. The actual distance is irrelevant. The question we should be asking is why? Why go so fast that she couldn’t avoid a collision? Why were warnings of ice ahead completely ignored? Why do some cars drive so fast on the freeway they hit a wall of fog and then fifty other vehicles?’

  ‘Are you saying you think it was deliberate?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything. I’m only the technician. You’re the investigator.’

  Billie took a deep breath, held it a second before exhaling slowly. ‘But you’ve got an opinion.’

  ‘Sure I have. I’m a Titanic nut as well as an engineer, so I’ve got plenty of them. For a start I don’t believe the lookouts were to blame. But you’ve got to see it from their point of view: it’s their job to watch out for obstacles in the ship’s path. They hit one and it sank, so everyone’s going to assume they didn’t do their job properly. Right?’

  ‘Right, but they were ready for that.’ Billie contributed some of his own research as Ed perched on the edge of a table. ‘They had stories of a “haze” on the horizon no one else saw, and while on the rescue ship Carpathia they talked of giving warnings to the bridge much earlier than they stated at the enquiries. There were a couple of witnesses who volunteered that particular story.’

  ‘Human nature,’ observed Ed. ‘Get your defence in first before you come under attack.’

  ‘But what if it were true? What if they really had seen the iceberg earlier than suggested, and no one on the bridge took any notice? That puts the blame squarely on First Officer Murdoch for not taking appropriate action.’

  ‘Unlikely.’ Ed blinked and rubbed his forehead. ‘No serving officer would ignore messages of that sort. Sorry, Billie, I’m all done here for today. It’s been almost twelve hours since I last saw the outside of that door. How about climbing the Ben for a wee dram?’

  *

  The sound of fiddles serenaded them from the public bar of the Ben Nevis, but even a damp chill in the July air failed to discourage them from sitting at an outside table on the corner of Corunna Street with their jackets on.

  ‘I’d forgotten it was Thursday. That noise does my head in, to quote a phrase.’

  Billie nodded. ‘Maybe not the same standard as Wallace Hartley.’

  Ed took a swallow of malt whisky and raised an eyebrow. ‘Bandmaster on the Titanic. Very good! Can you name any other members of the band?’

  ‘Um… Theodore Ronald Bailey was the pianist. Roger Bricoux played the cello, and… the Scot was… Jock Hume. Another violinist like Hartley. There were others too. Sorry, can’t remember them all off the top of my head.’

  ‘Not bad, Billie-boy. Not bad.’ He sat quietly for a moment as his friend took a long drag on a cigarette. ‘I thought you’d given those things up? Or was that just to please my secretary?’

  ‘A slight relapse,’ Billie acknowledged. ‘I’ll kick the habit again soon. Has she said anything?’

  ‘Not a thing. But then, neither have you. Are you ready to talk about it yet?’ Ed waited for a response, but Billie seemed more interested in painting the edge of an ashtray with his finger. ‘I’ll take that as a negative then.’

  ‘I’m not good with women.’

  ‘What? Nearly twelve months hopping across the Atlantic, dating my sister. Then there was that skinny broad from Ayr with the “insatiable appetite”. Then you go out with our Lucy, right under my nose, and suddenly you’re an apprentice monk? I don’t buy that. What went wrong this time?’

  ‘Everything.’ Billie crushed the evidence of his relapse in the tin ashtray. ‘We just agreed we couldn’t agree, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all? Come on. Even I can recognise literary contradiction, Billie-boy.’ Ed paused, studying his friend’s solemn expression. He tried another tack. ‘I thought you and Chrissie had a lot going for you. She always seemed more fun when you were around. So what happened with Lucy? Something come between you?’

  ‘Yeah. Her fucking Great Dane.’

  Ed raised an eyebrow. ‘Hey, something touched a nerve! Not like you to swear.’

  ‘Okay, Ed. We’ll talk dirty another time. Can we change the subject please? My round.’ Billie swung his legs off the bench and strode off into the pub.

  Ed shrugged and shook his head in resignation. When his friend came back a few minutes later his mood seemed to have lightened.

  ‘Looks like there could be trouble brewing. Someone just threw up over a Chihuahua. You know what the guy said?’

  ‘How about “Och mon, I don’t remember eating that”?’

  ‘Got it in one!’ Billie grinned. ‘Sorry, Ed. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.’

  ‘That’s okay. What’s a bitten head between friends? Perhaps you’re happier talking about the other dame in your life. How are things with Tina? She’s had another birthday, hasn’t she?’

  ‘She has. Her tenth.’

  ‘Cute kid.’

  ‘I think so. She’s excited about reaching double figures now. Give her another twenty years and big birthdays will look a tad different.’ Billie sipped his beer and threw Ed a rueful smile. ‘I still don’t feel like a proper father though. I want to spend more time with her.’

  Ed nodded. ‘The driving lessons should help with that. Have I seen you since her birthday? Sorry, I’ve been bogged down on that aerospace project, and then this one, of course. And you’ve been occupied in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Yes, and chasing Emma. Still no reply to my last email.’

  ‘No? It’s been what, a month now?’

  ‘Yep. No text either. I’ll give it one more go, and if that produces nothing, I’ll have to try her agent. I know she said not to, but we need to know where we stand on this book.’

  ‘Damn right we do. I’ve reserved a slot for a Booker Prize in my trophy cabinet. Cheers.’

  Billie raised his glass. ‘Here’s to mysterious ships and attractive women. Or the other way round.’

  Eleven

  The mysterious woman known to Billie as Emma Dearing was having a bad day. Traffic north of the city's ring road was tying itself in knots, and she thumped the steering wheel in frustration, her mood darkening by the minute. Work had been demanding, as always, and it seemed everyone wanted a piece of her. As soon as she’d dealt with one problem, another two jostled for her attention. She’d delegated what she could to junior officers, but then had much of it thrown back in her lap after one guy was pulled for another task by someone of higher rank. Typical non-joined-up teamwork. She was on the edge of a migraine too, and she was due on. Could things get any worse today?

  Forward another twelve feet. Not too close to that HGV—spewing noxious fumes out his back end. Must be burning oil. An email pinged on her phone. Piss off. Sirens behind? She looked in her mirrors and spotted the flashing blue lights of an ambulance a couple of hundred yards back. He was fighting his way up the outer lane of the dual carriageway. Fair enough, pal. She edged forward with care, on full lock, to make room. At least the HGV was doing something similar. Shit! Another one?

  A second blast of a siren from her left, her blind side. Gridlock now. No one moving. She picked up her phone to check what further aggravation just landed in her inbox.

  Hi Em—I hope things are okay with you? Did you get my email from June
12th? Ed and I have made a lot more progress since then. I’ve got a few conclusions about witness statements at both enquiries and I reckon some of those by the crew (inc officers) were outright lies. Question is whether they were co-erced and I wonder if you have a view on that? Also Ed has found some conclusive stuff about the collision and where the ship was holed. He also believes speed was a hugely contributing factor and wonders if Capt Smith was under some pressure to go faster for a particular reason. Need your views on this so please get in touch. Billie

  Bugger. More pressure. Like I need this right now… Breathing exercises from her yoga class to ease that grumbling abdominal pain… Better… Or was it? Nothing left in her day to feel positive about, until she heard the engine of the HGV rumble louder, and a growing gap opened up in front. At last! Now she needed a short cut.

  But, like an Aesop fable, her increased speed through quieter streets led to further obstacles. Two schoolgirls on the way home chose to be in one road at the same moment she did. They were having a good day, holding hands and chattering happily, oblivious to the five-year-old blue Honda accelerating toward them from round the corner. The older of the two became aware of the danger a fraction ahead of the other, pulling her sister back into a gap between parked cars as a screech of tyres against tarmac filled their ears. Car at a stand-still, a third frightened face stared back at them both from a metre away.

  *

  An hour later, she stood under a hot shower and tried to face down her demons. Those girls… Like me and Em. It had been another day, another life. A fast car; two sisters walking slow. Her or me? Not my choice. Hot tears dissolved on her skin, yet the memory remained. Today she had come close to living on the other side of a twenty-five-year-old nightmare. Fuck it, who picked me not to die? She gripped her arms hard enough to bruise, angry with herself for being so angry.