The children
huddle closer to each other, and Margaret stares over the
rim of the boat. The cries continue to multiply and draw
nearer; and then he can hear distinctly human syllables: or, ard, tray, or cow, tray . Each time he strains to make
them out. And then he catches them. “Traitor! Coward!”
And they repeat and grow louder, circling the lifeboat. He
waits for hands to grip the deck rail, but however loud the
cries, this never happens, and the boat never moves
beyond the gentlest of sways.
Each time he hears the voices, it is like the first time,
even though the scene has been played out many times
before. And though he knows it is he who has earned the
accusations, he knows also that the voices do not care; his
children are his heirs and, as such, are held responsible
for his crimes.
Ismay returns his daughter’s smile, trying to remember
whether this waking dream visited him last night. Hedecides it must have done; it seems so vivid he can almost
feel the tip of the lifeboat bottom beneath his chair, can
almost see the band of moonlight rippling over Evelyn’s
dress.
“Will you miss London when you go back, Father?”
Evelyn takes a sip of wine and waits for the answer.
Ismay recognizes a friendly duplicity in the question, a
need to get him thinking beyond this time and place—the
restaurant, the Grimsdens, being recognized, business
matters that still require him to come into the London
office from time to time.
“You know me, my dear, ” he replies, attempting a reassuring smile. “I’m happy where I am these days, pottering
about and whatnot. As long as your mother is with me
and my children can visit.”
“And will there be good hunting this autumn?” she
asks with a fake Irish accent and a touch of mischief in her
eye. It’s a relief, this return to her usual teasing form. Both
Evelyn and Margaret rib him, making out that since retiring he is trying on the new persona of an Irish country
squire.
“Let’s see what the local gamekeeper can rustle up!”
It’s not entirely without foundation. Ismay does hunt
occasionally in Connemara and likes it more than he
would have believed possible. There’s something reassuring about carrying a gun, its weight in his hands, solid,
reliable. He likes the fact that hunting requires him towalk long distances, take the fresh air, and really notice
the breeze and the trees and the curves of the landscape.
Most of all he likes the ritual—the cleaning of the barrel,
the rod, the polishing of the butt, the endless talks with
staff, and the visitors who care little about his past.
The question almost rescues him, nearly puts him in
tune again with the swinging rhythm of the band. But just
as his spirits rise and his vision begins to scan the restaurant, he catches her eye again: Mrs. Grimsden lifting the
drink to her lips. She seems farther from him now, though
he knows it is physically impossible, an illusion brought
about by the shielding plant. Her stare carries not so much
indignation as before but rather reveals the colder side of
anger.
He’s reminded of something he’d almost forgotten, so
buried as it was in the many accusations labelled against
him—the “cheap brittle steel” of the Titanic hull plating,
his mad pursuit of profit at the expense of safety, the criminal reduction in lifeboat allocation, the panic he was
supposed to have displayed as the boats were lowered.
Though Mrs. Grimsden herself never testified at the
inquest, she was very friendly indeed with a lady who did.
She also had, he recalled, been part of the same conversations on board from which the witness drew her assumptions. He had read the transcript of her testimony so many
times he had it memorized.
No , the witness kept repeating. She did not actually hear Mr. Ismay say they were trying for a speed record,
but it was the general impression he seemed to give, that
they intended to speed through the ice.
He’d said no such thing, of course, but the transcript
irked
huddle closer to each other, and Margaret stares over the
rim of the boat. The cries continue to multiply and draw
nearer; and then he can hear distinctly human syllables: or, ard, tray, or cow, tray . Each time he strains to make
them out. And then he catches them. “Traitor! Coward!”
And they repeat and grow louder, circling the lifeboat. He
waits for hands to grip the deck rail, but however loud the
cries, this never happens, and the boat never moves
beyond the gentlest of sways.
Each time he hears the voices, it is like the first time,
even though the scene has been played out many times
before. And though he knows it is he who has earned the
accusations, he knows also that the voices do not care; his
children are his heirs and, as such, are held responsible
for his crimes.
Ismay returns his daughter’s smile, trying to remember
whether this waking dream visited him last night. Hedecides it must have done; it seems so vivid he can almost
feel the tip of the lifeboat bottom beneath his chair, can
almost see the band of moonlight rippling over Evelyn’s
dress.
“Will you miss London when you go back, Father?”
Evelyn takes a sip of wine and waits for the answer.
Ismay recognizes a friendly duplicity in the question, a
need to get him thinking beyond this time and place—the
restaurant, the Grimsdens, being recognized, business
matters that still require him to come into the London
office from time to time.
“You know me, my dear, ” he replies, attempting a reassuring smile. “I’m happy where I am these days, pottering
about and whatnot. As long as your mother is with me
and my children can visit.”
“And will there be good hunting this autumn?” she
asks with a fake Irish accent and a touch of mischief in her
eye. It’s a relief, this return to her usual teasing form. Both
Evelyn and Margaret rib him, making out that since retiring he is trying on the new persona of an Irish country
squire.
“Let’s see what the local gamekeeper can rustle up!”
It’s not entirely without foundation. Ismay does hunt
occasionally in Connemara and likes it more than he
would have believed possible. There’s something reassuring about carrying a gun, its weight in his hands, solid,
reliable. He likes the fact that hunting requires him towalk long distances, take the fresh air, and really notice
the breeze and the trees and the curves of the landscape.
Most of all he likes the ritual—the cleaning of the barrel,
the rod, the polishing of the butt, the endless talks with
staff, and the visitors who care little about his past.
The question almost rescues him, nearly puts him in
tune again with the swinging rhythm of the band. But just
as his spirits rise and his vision begins to scan the restaurant, he catches her eye again: Mrs. Grimsden lifting the
drink to her lips. She seems farther from him now, though
he knows it is physically impossible, an illusion brought
about by the shielding plant. Her stare carries not so much
indignation as before but rather reveals the colder side of
anger.
He’s reminded of something he’d almost forgotten, so
buried as it was in the many accusations labelled against
him—the “cheap brittle steel” of the Titanic hull plating,
his mad pursuit of profit at the expense of safety, the criminal reduction in lifeboat allocation, the panic he was
supposed to have displayed as the boats were lowered.
Though Mrs. Grimsden herself never testified at the
inquest, she was very friendly indeed with a lady who did.
She also had, he recalled, been part of the same conversations on board from which the witness drew her assumptions. He had read the transcript of her testimony so many
times he had it memorized.
No , the witness kept repeating. She did not actually hear Mr. Ismay say they were trying for a speed record,
but it was the general impression he seemed to give, that
they intended to speed through the ice.
He’d said no such thing, of course, but the transcript
irked
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