1966. On board the SS Himalaya
Janet would never remember the detail of what she did in the hours after Philip went over the railings into the Indian Ocean. Or perhaps she did remember, and her actions had been so ruthless, so conniving, so venal, that she’d buried them away too deep to be excavated, even by herself. Had she screamed? Had she prayed? Had she shouted for help? Had she tried to launch the lifeboat? It was clear that she hadn’t raised the alarm. Hadn’t run into the ship’s dining room and screamed at the Captain to stop the ship. Hadn’t pressed the emergency button that they’d had so many drills on. Hadn’t done anything at all that might have saved her brother’s life. What sort of sister leaves her brother to drown? Janet didn’t have the vocabulary, or the courage, to come up with a cogent answer.
She was in a foundry or a workshop or some sort of factory. The building was large, dark, and searing hot. In each corner was an open fire, surrounded by soot-laden men. The men were wielding vast anvils, hammering hot metals, welding great pipes of lead that flashed and sparked and exploded and broke into thousands of pieces. The men seemed to have nothing to protect themselves but leather aprons that writhed around their waists, and small swimming-type goggles that they wiped for each other when they paused for breath.
Sweat beaded out down Janet’s groin, around her breasts, seeped out of the crack of her buttocks. The beading became a trickle. The trickle became salty rivulets. The rivulets became a flood. A briny pool formed around her bare feet and spread out towards the filthy men and their thrusting fires. She’d forgotten her shoes. How had she forgotten her shoes? A man by the nearest fire called out to her. Loz! Big Loz. You sleeping on the job? She leant back against the hot metal wall. She felt faint, nauseous. We’ll have the usual. Tuna for me. Sardines for them. She looked down at the tray of sandwiches that hung from her neck on a thick red canvas belt. The pool of water was creeping up around her ankles, inching up the bare skin of her calves. She’d drown in her own sweat. She couldn’t read the labels on the sandwiches. Big Loz! Our dinner pal! The men came towards her. Banging their anvils in regimental time. A line of drummers. A beating throbbing mob. She’d forgotten the sardines. Her shoes. The pool of sweat up at her waist. And still the men kept coming.
‘Janet. Janet!’ Janet rolled onto her back, opened her eyes. She was in bed. Safe in her bunk. Steeped in a slick of sweat. Someone was knocking on her door. Loud and insistent. She flicked her light on, checked the time on her watch. Four thirty in the morning. She wiped the damp of her face with her sheet. ‘Janet, it’s Ed. We can’t find Philip. You need to get up!’
To be continued.
SANDERLINGS 