An Unfamiliar Kindness

Chapter 7

3

A storm in the Atlantic Ocean. 8 December 1969

Caroline bolted upright and implored her friend to meet her eyes. “I don’t need to tell you—that was low. Shameful. I give you a formal time-out. I’m going for a long walk outside. Don’t try and follow me. I do not want to see you, and I do not want to talk to you. I only want to see you once you’re truly sorry.”

Emilee jumped up, her eyes wet. “Carrie, don’t go . . . I’m sorry . . . .”

“No, you’re not! Sorry comes too easy for you. I am extremely upset with you. You’re more than a little drunk. Ask the barman to help you with a black coffee.” She marched out without looking back.

Caroline followed the railing toward the stern, glad to escape the stale confines of the smoke room. The wind gusted round the superstructure, taking her by surprise, billowing her clothes; it forced her to cling to the railing. This stupid long hair. She lurched into a doorway, pulled the hair out of her face, and knotted it into a ponytail before grabbing the railing again. Just imagine if I had a dress and platform shoes on. I’ll show Emilee. I’ll finish my walk. I need some distance from her. She went down a set of stairs and had difficulty telling where the dark sea ended and where the gray skies began.

She wasn’t certain for whom she felt the most sympathy: for Douglas, for herself, or for Emilee. She hauled herself along, struggled against the wind, and moved with the roll of the ship. And they boasted about those stabilizers down below!

Only during their last year in Waterloo House, the hostel at Wynberg Girls High, did they receive half a glass of wine each, on three separate occasions, and once at a wedding, when they had champagne. She realized now how pitiful and inadequate the parental and adult educators’ guidance had been in all things men: falling in love, relationships, marriage, making love . . . contraception.

The word s*x was seldom used. It was hushed—referred to but seldom uttered. The same went for smoking, alcohol, and recreational drugs, believing it would suffice to inform them, “Ladies of good upbringing abstained from such things, since it destroys lives.” As if that would be good enough.

Emilee’s parents still worked in the Caprivi in Namibia, so she had spent every weekend in the hostel, except for the few compulsory weekends out, when she would stay with Caroline’s folks.

Limited. That was the extent of their knowledge and exposure to alcohol—and to boys. The few times she had tumbled around with them, the farthest they’d ever got was to fondle her breasts. She never allowed their hands down there.

She liked the Harding boy. He was more than sweet. To use his own word, he was different. In spite of the unruly wind that tugged at her, she found herself glowing as she thought about the first printing assistant on the Windsor Castle. He wasn’t a stalker, only a tenacious young man. She liked that. She was so ready to fall in love with such a man—someone who cared.

She was certain Douglas had taken the trouble to print the extra menus for their sole benefit, at great risk to himself, if only to impress them. She could still smell the fresh printers’ ink when he handed her the menus. Their fingers had touched for the briefest of moments, sending a current through her—it gave her goose bumps all over again.

Wake up, Caroline! He did it for your friend, before he realized she had a two-forked tongue. Now he will have nothing to do with either of us. We’ve barely been on this liner for twenty-four hours and already we’ve sunk to the bottom of the popularity list.

In the five minutes she had been outside, the wind had increased in force, and she had to pay attention and guard each step. Every second step, a spray of seawater rained down on her. She licked her lips. The saltwater stung. Gone was the nauseating odor of the harbor and docks in Cape Town.

Her path became slippery fast. The railing and deck were as if coated with soap. She lost her footing once. Then a second time. Emilee will be the death of me. But I am not ready to go back. She passed a pair of deckhands dressed in orange oilskins. They were tying down some of the big ropes on deck and securing everything around it. They mock-saluted her, pointed toward the ominous grayness above them, then pointed below. They yelled something at her. The wind stole their words.

“Excuse me?” she hollered back.

“Back! . . . You should turn back . . . Inside . . . .” She lip-read.

One of them shuffled across and was slammed into the railing next to her. Once he regained his balance, he grasped her by her upper arm. She was surprised by his immediacy and physicality and tried to yank her arm free. He smiled at her but held tight and yelled close to her ear. She smelled his hot breath and inhaled his oilskins and sweating torso. His lips brushed her ear. “Storm coming . . . Let me help you . . . This wind . . . Not your friend.”

He refused to let go of her arm and helped her work her way back, both of them clinging to the railing until they reached an outside door where she could slip in. He held the door steady against the wind and tugged her inside. She was surprised how immediately quiet it was in the hallway—safe and warm and dry.

“You’ll be fine now, Miss. Just follow the hallway all the way to the center of the vessel.”

“Thank you,” Caroline piped.

The sailor grinned at her, gave a half-salute, and, with an almost inaudible “Ma’am,” disappeared back into the storm. She pushed the door tight behind him.

Caroline leaned against the steel bulkhead to catch her breath. She was cold. Too bad about the wet blouse. I am not returning to our cabin. I’m not ready to face Emilee.

Setting off at a brisk pace, she hoped to warm herself with the walk but had to slow down. Like-minded passengers, all forced indoors by the storm, congested the hallways and stairs. The temptation for a bite became overwhelming when the aroma of fresh bread wafted from the gulley. It would have to wait until Operation Bridge is completed.

She rubbed her arms as she clambered the stairs and waited outside the door, shivering, peering inside.

Most of the bridge was visible. Officers and crew moved about with purpose, adjusting instruments and devices. No one noticed her. The glow of embarrassment crept up her neck. What were you thinking, Miss Washington? That you’re still an eight-year-old whom the captain will show around as a treat?

As she turned to leave, the door slid open and a man asked, “Can I help you, Miss?”

She spun around, her face glowing. This man is even more handsome than Mr. Harding. The arctic white uniform suited him. He was too young to be the captain—perhaps one day.

“Miss?”

“Oh yes, I . . . wanted to see the bridge.”

He hesitated, and the hint of a smile appeared as he stood back. “Sure, but you won’t be able to stay long. With the storm brewing, things are hectic around here. By the way, I am the third radio operator.” He gave her an amused look over. “It seems you have already tasted the tail end of the storm?”

She touched her wet hair and followed his gaze, regretting having chosen a white silk blouse that morning. Her n*****s strained dark against the now-transparent, damp fabric. She clasped her arms across her chest and met his eyes until he looked away with a smirk, then followed him around the bridge, not hearing a single word he said. She prayed the churning sea would swallow her.

The trance only broke when he introduced her to the helmsman, who asked, “Would you like to spin the wheel, Miss?”

Mesmerized, she nodded and took hold of the large wheel, clutching it in a death grip. “Does this steer the ship?”

“Indeed, ma’am. Why don’t you relax your grip and give it a spin?”

“Spin it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He showed her and she spun it.

Emilee would never believe that she had steered their colossal vessel during the storm. The third RO then showed her the intricacies of the radiotelephone, the gyro compass, and the radar monitor, as well as the functions of the multitude of dials against the one wall, but she was still navigating the RMS Windsor Castle through a storm in the Atlantic, off the coast of South West Africa, with a crew of 475 and some 821 passengers depending on her—Captain Caroline Washington—set on a course, north by northwest.