1966. Tilbury
Janet’s father led them up the covered gangplank in a line that was either ordered by enthusiasm for the adventure, or height, Janet couldn’t quite tell. Either way, she took up the rear. Behind her father was her brother Edward, fifteen then, an inch taller than their mother and three inches shorter than their father if he stretched his neck and pushed up his hair. A new Brownie 127 camera swung loose from his shoulder and he’d insisted on taking several photos of them all lined up with their leather suitcases in their sunhats before they boarded the ship.
Next was her mother, who’d fretted for several weeks about what to wear that first day on board and had opted for a daisy yellow sundress with matching sandals and a white cardigan with swirling green mother of pearl buttons. Janet’s father had commented that Bernadette was showing rather too much thigh for a married mother of three but, he’d whispered to Janet, he’d been disinclined to make too much of a fuss given how long it might take to choose another outfit.
Next was Philip, almost fourteen, the baby of the family. Philip, who’d recently discovered the Rolling Stones, walked from the hip and cultivated a frenetic fringe at eyebrow level. Philip’s eyes were red and, unusually, no one in the family commented. Janet stamped her feet as she followed Philip, forcing the gangplank to bounce the family into unsteady steps as they approached the Captain and his outstretched arm.
‘Welcome to the SS Himalaya’, he said to every passenger as they shook his hand and looked around, wide-eyed. ‘Looking forward to having you onboard.’
A neat young man with a blue uniform showed them to their cabins on Deck A. Cabin 90 for her parents, 92 for the boys, and 94 for Janet. The family were on the port side, a minute’s stroll from the swimming pools, a bar and a family restaurant.
‘Best part of the ship’, the neat young man said to Janet, winking at her. ‘Just you let me know if you need anything. Anything at all. There’s a bell here.’ He pointed to the brass button in her cabin, ‘or ask at the reception area for Angus.’ He put a hand on her shoulder for longer than felt necessary, left, and shut the door behind him.
Janet put her handbag down on the lower bunk and looked around. The cabin was fitted out with the micro-efficiency of a dolls house. Two bunk beds, a wash basin with hot and cold water, a narrow shower with a high entry step, a writing desk, and a wardrobe. A sign under the porthole said DO NOT OPEN. Janet lay down on the bunk. Through the porthole she could see the waists and torsos of people walking by, beyond that, the freshly painted white railings, beyond that, the sea, and beyond that, the sky. The sea was oily grey, and thick slate clouds were stacking up on the horizon. The cabin smelt of furniture polish and washing powder. There was a small pocket of sick bags at the end of each bunk and a sheet of instructions on what to do in an emergency.
Six weeks. It was going to take six whole weeks. The ship pitched and swayed. Nausea rose in her stomach. She wanted to change her mind. Run off the ship. Run down to Pop George, who was probably still standing there on the quay in his long black raincoat, giving them a military-style salute. Tell him that of course she’d look after him. She’d made a terrible mistake. A terrible selfish mistake. But beneath her came a thick rumbling vibration. And from above, a long low reverberating wail. There were sounds of cheering, shouting, clapping. A skirl of bagpipes from afar. It was too late. They were on their way.
SANDERLINGS 