1966. On board the SS Himalaya
The angst that hung around Janet’s family on the rest of the journey was akin to a plague. The day after the remembrance service, the Chief Steward had offered them a larger cabin, a suite, where, he said ‘they could be together, be more private.’ Janet knew it was nothing to do with that, that they were being sequestered away, banished from the other passengers to prevent contamination.
The new cabin had a double bed for her parents, a living area with a small built in sofa and two chairs, and two bunks set back in a private alcove by the bathroom door. The bunks were for her and her brother Edward. They moved in late in the afternoon, parents first, then Janet, with Edward an hour or so behind. Edward came into the cabin red-faced, carrying his own, and Philip’s, luggage. He shoved Philip’s things into the narrow wardrobe, threw his camera equipment in on top of it and slammed the door.
‘You were the last person to see him alive,’ Edward hissed at Janet as he climbed up onto the top bunk. ‘You must have had something to do with it.’ Janet rolled onto her stomach on the lower bunk and put her pillow over her head. Why had Philip had to sit up on the railing? It was his own bloody fault. She sobbed into the hard starch of the white cotton sheet. The pain in her chest was visceral, septic. It bullied her breathing into short sharp gasps. It peeled through layer after layer of her thoughts until only the cold, hard truth lay open and bare, exposed, a naked cadaver on a shining steel tray.
Grief skewered the family into the semblance of a routine. Janet’s father could do little but pace and weep and pace. His face changed shape, thinning and lengthening until he took on the look of an elderly rickety horse. He did manage to take charge of the basics. Opened the door for their room service. Tipped the waiter. Put the dirty plates outside their cabin door to be collected. Every evening he’d put on his jacket and leave the cabin at nine o’clock. He’d come back ninety minutes later smelling of smoke and diesel and whisky and something that might have been boiled potato. Janet, watching him go into the tiny bathroom from under her blanket, would see that his fingers were oily black and grease-stained. No one ever asked him where he’d been or why.
Janet’s mother spun herself into a mute cocoon. She trembled under the husk of her silence and, for most of each day, stood with the stain of her face pressed to the glass of their large porthole. After two or three days of staring, Bernadette developed conjunctivitis and the ship’s nurse would come twice a day, pat her trembling arm and administer eye drops. And, as soon as the nurse had left, Bernadette would be back at the porthole again. Janet wanted to tell her it was no good, it was too late, what was the point of all that staring out to sea, Philip was long gone and she, her mother, would end up going blind and then they’d all be even worse off. But Janet didn’t say anything. Couldn’t risk opening her mouth. Couldn’t let the truth bubble to the surface and gurgle out.
Twice Janet went looking for Angus. Once she thought she saw his back disappearing at the end of a corridor and she’d rushed after him, turned the corner, only to see one of the cleaning crew pushing a large trolley stacked with stiff white linen and navy blue towels. On the second trip, tiptoeing through the areas reserved for the crew, she came across a cat. She was bent over stroking its head, smiling at the arch of its back, when a man in overalls emerged from a metal hatch just in front of her. Janet pulled her hand up and leant back against the wall to let the man past. Waited for the man to tell her off. But the man turned to her and looked her up and down.
‘Hello,’ he said. You must be the Waters girl?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I am.’
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We did everything we could.’ He looked down at the cat that was curving in and around Janet’s legs. ‘Do you like cats?’ Janet nodded. ‘Well,’ he said, picking the cat up, ‘we’re still ten days from Sydney.’ He cradled the cat on its back in both arms. ‘Why don’t you hang on to her until then.’ Janet shook her head. ‘I couldn’t…’ The man interrupted her. ‘Of course you could. She loves company. She doesn’t get enough down here.’ Janet put her hand out and stroked the cat’s belly. The cat lay docile, its front paws massaging the air. ‘What’s her name,’ she asked. ‘Hettie, the man said, passing the cat over to Janet. ‘Take her now and I’ll be up later with some food for her.’
Janet walked slowly back up the steps and along the corridors with Hettie lying in her arms. The cat was soft and doll-like. Janet had never known a cat like it. The cats at her Pop George’s cottage were fierce and untouchable. They spat and ran and clawed and ran again. She’d never even been able to stroke one let alone cuddle one like this. She put her face down to the cat’s nose. Let its whiskers tickle her cheeks. The cat stared, unblinking, and purred. For a moment, perhaps even a couple of seconds, Janet forgot about Philip, forgot about Angus, forgot about her accusing brother and her grieving parents. Forgot even that she, a felon, was on her way to Australia. She only had eyes for the cat.
To be continued.
SANDERLINGS 