by John Boyne
‘So sorry to detain you,’ she said obsequiously, beaming from ear to ear. ‘Some mix-up over our room. Mrs Antoinette Drake, so pleased to meet you,’ she added, enunciating each word perfectly.
Before her new companions could have an opportunity to answer her or add their own names, Victoria had reached across and taken the key quickly. ‘A seven,’ she said, reading the inscription. ‘Is it a nice cabin?’ she asked, reaching down to lift the hem of her skirt to prevent it dragging behind her as she made her way up the gangway.
‘One of the nicest, miss,’ came the reply. ‘I guarantee you’ll find it comfortable and relaxing. All the cabins in A and B section are reserved for our finest gentlemen and ladies.’
‘You’ll be hearing more of this, I assure you,’ said Mrs Drake, giving in now as she prepared to follow her daughter on board. She tapped the young man on the shoulder twice with her cane, sharply, as if about to ennoble him. ‘So sorry to detain you,’ she repeated to the people behind her, shifting tone once again in an attempt to create a solidarity with them. ‘I dare say we shall meet again on board ship.’
‘Charmed,’ said the old man in a dry voice which suggested he wanted her to get out of his way . . . and quickly.
‘Really, Mother,’ said Victoria.
‘Really, Victoria,’ said Mrs Drake at the same moment. ‘I just believe a person should receive what a person pays for. Nothing more and nothing less. Is that so wrong? If a person pays for a starboard cabin, then a person should be given a starboard cabin. And there’s an end to it.’ They climbed aboard and saw a sign pointing towards a staircase bearing the legend First Class Cabins: A1–A8.
‘This way, Mother,’ said Victoria, and they made their way along a narrow corridor, looking at each door as they passed, Mrs Drake sighing in frustration with every step, torn between complaining about the condition of her knees and the cleanliness of the carpet.
Outside one of the rooms, a middle-aged man and his teenage son seemed to be having some difficulty with the lock of their cabin door.
‘Let me try,’ said Edmund, taking the key from Mr Robinson’s hands and sliding it into the lock carefully. He twisted it several times and shook the door sharply before it opened, almost falling inside as it gave way before him. The cabin itself was a decent size and contained two bunk beds, a sofa, a dressing table and a small en-suite bathroom. A porthole offered a pleasant view of the sea beyond.
‘Bunks,’ said Mr Robinson, his face falling a little.
‘Never mind,’ said Edmund.
‘I do beg your pardon,’ said Mrs Drake, leaning into the room, her massive body taking them both by surprise. Mr Robinson pushed his pince-nez a little higher up his nose in order to take in this large, purple creature. ‘I just wondered whether the cabins on the starboard side were as nice as those on the port. I ordered starboard but was given port. What do you think of that, eh? Have you ever heard the like?’
‘I was unaware you could state a preference,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘Or that anyone could even have one.’
‘Apparently you can’t,’ she said, replying to the first sentiment and ignoring the second. ‘Mrs Antoinette Drake,’ she added. ‘So pleased to meet you.’
‘John Robinson,’ he said quietly, not having wished to make any acquaintances this early on and regretting not having immediately closed their cabin door after entering. He gave a polite bow. ‘My son Edmund.’
‘Lovely to meet you both,’ she said, looking them up and down with narrowed eyes as if to define whether or not they were her type of people. In the end she let the initial letter on their cabin door decide for her. ‘Edmund, what a charming suit you’re wearing,’ she added, reaching forward and touching his lapels casually, causing him to take a step backwards in surprise. ‘Oh, I’m not going to bite you,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Don’t worry. But that’s a new suit if ever I saw one.’
‘We just bought it yesterday,’ Edmund acknowledged, blushing slightly and looking at his shoes.
‘Well, it’s a charming one, and I applaud your taste. How old are you anyway, seventeen or eighteen? How lovely for you. And such delicate features. You must meet my daughter Victoria. We will be looking for suitable companions on the voyage.’
‘We were just about to get ready for departure,’ said Mr Robinson after a moment, stepping forward to usher her back through the door and out into the corridor.
‘Now I must get on,’ she said immediately. ‘My daughter and I are in Cabin A Seven. Port side, to my shame. I’m sure we will become fast friends as the voyage progresses.’
‘No doubt,’ said Mr Robinson.
She took herself out of the room and Mr Robinson and Edmund looked at each other nervously. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ said Edmund. ‘There are a lot of passengers on board. We have to be prepared to speak to them. No one knows us here.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Robinson dubiously.
While Mrs Drake was settling into Cabin A7 and finding fault with as many of its features as possible, forty feet below her, in Cabin B7, Miss Martha Hayes was sitting on the edge of her small bed, willing herself not to burst into tears. At twenty-nine years of age, Martha looked as if she was about to turn forty. Her hair was beginning to spring with jagged wires of grey and her skin was taking on a rough appearance. Still, for all that, she was what could be referred to as a handsome woman. She had been on board for almost an hour now and had spent that time quite happily arranging her clothes and belongings around her small cabin. Now that this was done, she had little left to occupy her time. She was travelling alone and had as yet formed no alliances. In Antwerp, she had considered buying a dozen new novels and secluding herself in her room for the entire voyage, but had eventually decided against that anti-social idea and instead limited herself to three books and a new hat to shield her from the sun, in order to encourage lounging on the deck. From her pocket she took a gold watch and, opening it up, stared at the face of Léon Brillt, the Belgian teacher with whom she had been embroiled for almost eighteen months. She stared at his dark face and caramel eyes and bit her lip, forcing herself not to cry. Snapping the case shut again, she stood up and shook her body violently.
‘A new beginning, Martha,’ she said aloud. ‘No more of this nonsense.’
And at that very moment Martha Hayes, Mrs Antoinette Drake, her daughter Victoria, Mr John Robinson, Master Edmund Robinson and the 1,323 other passengers of the Montrose all jumped in unison as the stately ship’s horn above them blew one long, deep snort, and the voices of the crew cried out in unison as a heavenly choir: ‘All aboard! All aboard!’
The Montrose was ready to sail.
Henry Kendall’s love of the sea stretched back to his childhood, when his father, Arthur, would read him stories of life on board ship from the small collection of books he stored on a shelf above the fireplace. Father and son shared a favourite story, the one concerning William Bligh and his adventures on board HMS Bounty, but for very different reasons. Arthur sided with Fletcher Christian and the mutineers, for he hated sadism and pompous authority. For Henry, however, it was the moment when Bligh first set foot on the small boat to navigate the seas by means of a compass and the stars that the narrative truly came to life; all else was prologue. He despised the mutineers and their blatant disregard for naval authority, and his ideal conclusion to the story would have been to see Fletcher Christian hanging by his neck for his crime, rather than living out his days as a free man on the South Sea islands.
Henry joined the navy as a sailor at the age of fifteen. A lifelong bachelor, he devoted himself to the sea from the start and made slow but steady progress through the ranks of naval officer, but to his great disappointment failed to gain his own command. At the age of forty-two, he learned that an independent company, the Canadian Pacific, was looking for experienced first officers to captain a new fleet of six transatlantic ships and he applied immediately, surprising himself at his willingness to abandon Her Majesty’s Navy. His experience and reliab
ility stood him in good stead at the interviews and he took command of the Perseverance, making regular voyages from Calais to New York, three months later. Now, at fifty years of age, he was captain of the passenger ship the SS Montrose, sailing from Antwerp to Quebec, and on the morning of Wednesday, 20 July 1910, he stared at his reflection in the mirror of his cabin and wondered sadly what the sailing world was coming to.
He had come on board some two hours earlier, as was his custom, to study the charts in private, plotting the voyage and route by the winds, and had been greeted by a young man in his late twenties who introduced himself cheerfully as Billy Carter, the new first officer.
‘The new what?’ Captain Kendall asked in surprise, irritated at even having to open his mouth, fill his lungs with air and find the energy to address this impertinent fellow. Carter was a cheeky-looking individual with a mop of sandy-brown curly hair, deep blue eyes, an impressive set of dimples and a row of freckles across his nose, all of which made him look not so much like a man as a comic book creation, animation brought to life; and Kendall was a captain who detested having to converse with anyone other than the most senior officers. There was a chain of authority on board ship, a chain which should never be broken, and he believed that this should extend not just to duty but to conversation as well.
‘First officer, sir,’ Carter replied. ‘Billy Carter. At your service. Pleased to meet you,’ he added with a wink and a toss of his curls.
Kendall frowned, appalled by the fellow’s familiarity. ‘And where is Mr Sorenson?’ he asked in an imperious tone, refusing even to meet the fellow’s eyes.
‘Mr Sorenson?’
‘First Officer Sorenson,’ Kendall explained irritably. ‘He has been with me for seven years, and it was my understanding that he would be undertaking this voyage too. The crew listings state this to be the case. So I ask again, where is he?’
‘Lord, haven’t you heard, sir?’ asked Carter, scratching his head furiously, as if a civilization of lice might lurk beneath and he needed to scrape them away. ‘He was taken into hospital only last night, screaming like a baby who’s had his rattle stolen. Appendix burst is what I heard. Not a pretty thing. I got a note from HQ early this morning asking me to take over his duties on this trip. They said they’d informed you too. Didn’t you get their note?’
‘No one has informed me of anything,’ the captain replied, his heart sinking at the loss of his most trusted colleague, worry for his friend filling him entirely. Kendall and Sorenson had built up mutual trust and professional respect over seven years of sailing together; they were also fast poker friends and had enjoyed many late-night games in the captain’s cabin over a bottle of whiskey. Sorenson was, Kendall had often realized, his only intimate. ‘Damn these people. Who are you anyway? What’s your experience?’
‘Like I said, the name’s Billy Carter,’ he began, before being interrupted by his superior.
‘Billy Carter?’ he asked, spitting out the words like undercooked meat. ‘Billy? What kind of name is that for an officer, might I ask?’
‘Short for William, sir. My father’s name before me. And his. Not his, though. His name was James. Before him there was another—’
‘I’m not interested in your family history,’ Kendall snapped.
‘They always called me Billy as a boy,’ the young man added helpfully.
‘Well, you’re a man now, aren’t you?’
‘My wife says I am anyway.’ Another wink.
‘You’re married?’ asked Kendall, appalled. He disapproved of officers who had taken wives: nasty, smelly creatures. Kendall had never met a woman who interested him and he could scarcely imagine the horrors that married life would impose upon him; he found it incredible that anyone would be interested in pursuing such a path voluntarily. The truth was, he disapproved of women as a gender, considering them entirely surplus to his requirements.
‘Two years now,’ replied Carter. ‘And we’ve got a kiddy on the way. Due around the end of August. Not sure if I’m supposed to be excited or terrified,’ he added, shaking his head and laughing, as if casual chit-chat was all that shipboard life was about. ‘Got any kids yourself, sir?’ he asked politely.
‘Mr Carter, I’m sure you’d make an excellent first officer for the Montrose but I really fail to see how—’
‘Half a mo’, Captain.’ He reached into his pocket and produced the note which the Canadian Pacific Company had sent him earlier that morning. ‘Here’s my orders, sent to me like I said. I’ve been a first officer on the Zealous and the Ontario for two years and eighteen months respectively. We only sail around Europe most of the time and I get to go home more often. Don’t think I want to spend too much time going back and forth across the pond—not with the kiddy coming soon, anyway—but they asked and I didn’t have much choice but to jump. They promised I’d be back in time for Junior’s birth. But I am experienced, Captain, and I know what I’m doing. Truth be told, I’d rather be back on my regular ship now too, just like I’m sure you’d rather have Mr Sorenson with you now than me. But there we are. Life’s funny that way.’
Kendall read the note silently, hearing only scattered portions of Carter’s speech, selecting the information he needed and discarding the rest without a moment’s thought. He sighed and stroked his heavy white beard reflectively, realizing that he would have little choice but to accept this new state of affairs. ‘And Mr Sorenson?’ he added after a moment. ‘He’ll be out of commission for how long?’
‘A good six weeks is what I’ve been told. Seems like there was a fairly messy operation involved. A burst appendix isn’t a lot of fun, you know. But don’t worry, sir, you won’t have to put up with me for long. He should be up and around in a few weeks.’
‘Very well, Mr Carter,’ said Kendall, accepting the situation but determined to set his guidelines from the start. ‘However, I think it would be appropriate if you visited the ship’s barber before we set sail today. Your hair is unkempt and I cannot abide untidiness aboard ship, especially not in my senior officers, who should be setting an example to the men.’
Carter hesitated but, after a moment, he nodded. He ran a hand through his curly mop defensively, as if a cut would deprive him, like Samson, of his powers. ‘Very good, sir,’ he muttered quietly.
‘And when walking the decks, I’ll thank you to have your cap with you at all times, either worn on your head or tucked discreetly under your arm if conversing with a lady passenger. These are small matters, you understand, but I believe they are crucial to professional conduct. Discipline. Unity. Obedience. All important watch-words aboard the Montrose.’
The first officer nodded again but said nothing. Kendall licked his lips and was surprised to find them dry and slightly chapped; if he was to break into a sudden smile, he thought, they would crack and bleed.
‘Perhaps you would also be good enough to bring me complete crew and passenger lists, in case there are any other small surprises about which our employers have failed to inform me. We set sail at two o’clock, yes?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Then we need to make sure that all visitors are ashore by one-thirty at the latest and that all passengers are on board by that time. You’ll find I’m a punctual man, Mr Carter, and I can’t abide unnecessary tardiness. The business of transatlantic crossings is guided by punctuality and speed. We compete against faster and better ships every day and I have a duty to our passengers and to the Canadian Pacific fleet to ensure no delays. That’s why I expect so much from my officers and sailors, Mr Carter. That’s why I’ll expect a lot from you.’
‘I’ll bring the lists to your cabin immediately, sir,’ said Carter in a quieter voice; he was unaccustomed to the kind of stern authority that Captain Kendall was displaying towards him.
An hour later, the captain sat alone in his cabin and listened as the ship’s horn sounded, alerting those not destined for Canada to return to the shore immediately. He glanced at his watch. One o’clock. It usually
took about half an hour to clear the decks and board the final passengers, which would bring the time to one-thirty precisely, exactly as he had instructed Mr Carter. For reasons unknown to him, he felt irritated by this, even though he had issued the order and it was being followed exactly. He realized that he expected to find many faults with Mr First Officer Billy Carter and wanted to iron them out immediately. However, if the man continued to mask his shortcomings, it would prove difficult to discipline him.
‘A man like that,’ he declared out loud, even though there was no one else present in his cabin to hear him, ‘would never have survived in the navy.’ And then, standing up and inspecting himself in the mirror, he placed his cap on his head, pulled his jacket straight and stepped outside to issue his navigational instructions to the crew.
Having packed their clothes away into the small dresser and wardrobe opposite the bunk beds, Mr John Robinson allowed Edmund to persuade him that they should watch the disappearance of Antwerp from the deck of the Montrose, although he would have been quite happy to remain in his cabin reading The Hound of the Baskervilles. He stepped inside the small bathroom and splashed some water on his face to refresh himself. A grey towel, rough and smelling of detergent, hung on a rail by the sink, and he stared at his reflection in the mirror as he dried his face. Like Captain Kendall, he found himself disturbed by his own appearance, which seemed like that of a stranger; his new features—no moustache, but a flourishing beard—were taking some getting used to, but, added to that, his face seemed a little more drawn now than it had in London, his skin a little more pasty, the dark bags under his eyes more pronounced.
‘That’s just lack of sleep,’ said Edmund when this was pointed out anxiously. ‘We’ve had a busy time in Antwerp and very little rest. But we have eleven days to relax on board. You’ll be a new man by the time we reach Quebec.’
‘I quite enjoyed our time in Belgium,’ said Mr Robinson in a quiet voice, tapping his cheeks gently to see whether any further colour would emerge, any memory of youth. ‘You aren’t missing home yet?’
