An Unfamiliar Kindness

Chapter 5

1

The RMS Windsor Castle. Cape Town, South Africa. 7 December 1969.

Emilee tightened her iron-grip on her friend’s hand and elbowed their path open to a spot next to the railing, apologizing as they went. She bestowed a sweet smile on everyone who frowned on their uncivil pushing to get to where they could have an unobstructed view of the dock far beneath. She was determined to make visual contact with her family before their ship sailed. Taken aback by their boldness, young and old, male and female, found it impossible not to take a step back to allow the two girls thoroughfare.

Caroline Washington had little control over her blushing, which only intensified as they approached the railing. She loved her friend but was equally exasperated by her forwardness. Her free arm was engaged in keeping herself decent as she smoothed and held down the hem of her summer dress that took flight in the breeze. Wearing the miniskirt dresses was Emilee’s idea. “Something cool and complimentary for our departure,” she had said.

Still attached to Emilee’s hand, she whispered, “That was so embarrassing.”

Emilee only laughed. “No, it wasn’t. There they are!” She pointed at her parents, brothers, and Caroline’s family, who stood huddled together on A-berth, waiting on the two girls to appear.

Emilee took a step back from the railing as the subtle stench of spilled sewage, salt water, dead fish, and ship’s oil shot up at them. Far below, gentle waves washed against the steel hull.

Their families heard them calling and answered their beckoning. Everyone waved. The moment they had dreaded and dreamed about had arrived.

The wave of hands intensified. Some waved with handkerchiefs, shouting endearments as the PA system behind the girls warned, “The ship is sailing.” The horn sounded. Dockworkers called in warning. Seagulls screeched excitedly as they dipped toward the water.

As the horn sounded a second time, the screws started turning. The bow—in no apparent hurry—righted in the direction of the open sea. Later, it would point at Southampton. The people on the wharf-side grew smaller, the separation taking place in slow motion until they were beyond hearing distance. Neither party had the heart to cease waving, not even when infinite specks were all that remained of them. Emilee clung to her handkerchief, waving, refusing to concede.

One by one the passengers left the railing in search of their cabins, but the two friends held fast, unwilling to say their final goodbyes. Wrapped in its cloud-blanket, Table Mountain towered behind Cape Town as the RMS Windsor Castle left port.

Emilee squeezed her friend’s hand, leaned against her, and whispered a last goodbye to Cape Town and good old Africa. Caroline repeated the farewell and wrapped her arms around her friend’s slim shoulders to slow her shaking.

She pondered whether they would ever see their folks again, or their country, and whether that would happen before they were both old and senile.

Together they swayed with the roll of the ship, leaning into the breeze.

They remained there until the mountain and the continent faded into the sea and their tear-streaked faces had dried.

Their haven for the ten-day journey was a two-berth cabin, number 54, in Tourist Class. Since it consisted of two bunk beds, they had to toss a coin on Emilee’s insistence, “in order to be fair.” Caroline spun the coin and Emilee called it. Emilee chose the top bunk.

Except for a single red chair, everything in the cabin was mint green.

Emilee immediately responded, “It’s hideous. It looks like bile!”

“Bile is yellow. This is called mint, and the bedspreads have beautiful hibiscuses. They’re gorgeous and match the chair.”

“It’s still hideous,” Emilee said, giving her final verdict. “Our cabin smells of abandoned rugby boots too.”

As she bent forward and stretched out on the hibiscus-print spread, Caroline stared at her friend of five years, baffled by her random outbursts of cynicism. She closed her eyes and imagined smelling the flowers. Rugby boots. They had both graduated three weeks earlier from Wynberg Girls High in Cape Town and were on their way to Oxford, where they would study with scholarships. She was so proud of them both—they had worked hard for this, to get accepted—and yet so afraid. England had seemed all safe and secure and not far at all on the map.

But just now, when Table Mountain finally dropped off behind the horizon, the ten long days on the open sea sunk in. It was quite disconcerting. They were scheduled to berth in Southampton on the seventeenth, with their interviews for college placement, as per special arrangement, at 9 a.m. on Friday the nineteenth. Her hopes were to study law, and Emilee was obsessed with immersing herself in English literature and modern languages.

Emilee bounced to the floor. “Come on, Carrie. Enough of this self-inflicted cabin-arrest. I’m not waiting until suppertime. Let’s go find something edible.”

They locked the door and bolted down the hallway as Emilee bellowed, “Last one to reach the Promenade deck is an old maid!” They ran neck-to-neck until Emilee overtook her friend as they rounded the corner, where they crashed into a crewmember, sending them all careening to the floor. The poor man went down without so much as a squeak.

Caroline had seldom seen Emilee crimson and in search of words. She was stuttering as they picked themselves up and straightened their clothes. The young man had gathered the small stack of papers he was carrying and pushed his fingers through his hair before he put his cap back on. He glared at Emilee.

“Is there an emergency that the captain should know about, Miss?” he managed with a straight face.

“No . . . not exactly,” Emilee stuttered, catching her breath. “We were being silly. I’m so sorry.”

“Not at all. Do you play rugby, Miss? That was a brilliant tackle.”

Emilee laughed and flushed. She was not blind. He was striking—a virile young man. He smelled of shaving cream. “You’re making fun of me, sir. Please forgive us.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I’ll have to report you to the First Officer on deck. No running is allowed on this vessel.”

“Excuse me? That’s a joke, right?” Emilee said.

“It is not. This is a Royal Mail Ship. We discourage any frivolity during the journey due to the precious cargo in the hull. Your name, Miss?” The man took a small notebook and pen from his pocket but failed to hide his grin.

Emilee groaned as she grabbed Caroline’s hand. “Come, Carrie! This man is not accepting our apology and takes us for fools.” She scrutinized his nametag. “Excuse us, Mr. Harding.” She spun around, no longer embarrassed but furious.

He capitulated immediately and called after them, “Ladies, I’m sorry! I’ve been an ass—it was unpardonable. Please allow me to make it up to you.”

Emilee turned back. “Pardon me, Mr. Harding. First you refuse to accept my apology, and the next moment you make a pass at me. I would say that is unpardonable. Come, Caroline. Perhaps we should go find the First Officer on deck.”

Mr. Harding remained only one step behind them as they went up the staircase. “Please accept my apology, Miss. But I still don’t know your name.”

“Perhaps it is better that way, Mr. Harding.” Emilee hollered, “We prefer anonymity,” and they ran off toward the dining hall.