by Mary Morrissy
Fred Fleet unfurls the rope skywards. It stalls in a question mark, then snags on the fork of the post that stands like a mast in the night. He tugs 鈥� once, twice. Yes, that will hold. He looks up. The sky is muddy, moon bullied by cloud. With difficulty, he clambers up on to the raked lid of the coalbunker built on to the gable of the dunny. The yard is puddled from earlier rain. He feels the cold in his veins, the ice in his joints. Soon he will be aloft, legs wheeling and juddering in the dance of death. He will be past tense, an old man who did himself in. That鈥檚 what they鈥檒l say. Couldn鈥檛 live without the wife, unbalanced the set of his mind, they鈥檒l say. And then, with her hardly cold in her grave, didn鈥檛 the brother-in-law give him his marching papers? Threw him out on the street. Never got on, those two, and without Eva between them, poor Fred was lost. That鈥檚 what they鈥檒l say, but they鈥檒l be wrong. Eva was his bulwark against the yawning chasm of another night, cold as this, that has come back to claim him.
Cold as a witch鈥檚 tit it was, no moon and dead calm. Kept your eyes peeled all the same. Down below you could hear them revelling, hallooing. Boots hoofing on boards, someone鈥檚 birthday.
鈥淲ouldn鈥檛 half mind. . .鈥� Lee said.
You knew what he meant. Wouldn鈥檛 half mind being down there with them. Instead of here, he meant, perched half-way to the heavens, blowing on your perished hands, cold to the touch as the bars of the cage that hold you. You and Reggie Lee on lookout, like a man and wife in a honeymoon bed. Second night out and you鈥檝e been paired, for life as it turns out. He don鈥檛 talk much. Suits you. Last thing you want is chitter-chatter when you鈥檙e scouting for growlers. They give out a glow, Lee said. First you see the froth, the waves licking at the base, that鈥檚 how you recognise them from afar. Like the hem of a petticoat, he said. You remember that.
The hem of a petticoat. He knots the noose, remembering the way Eva鈥檚 lace trim rippled beneath her skirts when they were courting. A proper lady, her. Towards the end, she wore the same ruffle, except this time at her ragged neck, as if it were a tide that might choke her. But Fred saw nothing that night long ago that could, even to a poet鈥檚 eye, equate with a petticoat.
鈥淭hey say they can be blue,鈥� Lee said by ways of conversation but you didn鈥檛 answer. You was the senior man. Four years on the Oceanic, you. You stared straight ahead, damned near blinded with concentration. And saw nothing at first. Just a haze. A haze is all. Happens when a berg rolls and the wet ice from down below comes up. Gives off less light. You knows that now; everyone a Solomon after the event. The habits of ice, how it sucks in light during the day, then throws it off in the night. Fooling you, fooling everyone. Iceblink, they calls it.
Blink of an eye, that鈥檚 all it took. Just after seven bells. Fifty feet of glass reared up. High as the fo鈥檆astle head, enormous, opening its jaws on the prow. You watched and were dumbstruck. Before, there had been nothing. There鈥檚 never nothing on the sea, Fred lad, but you鈥檇 have sworn to it 鈥� you did swear to it, on the bible at that bloody tribunal 鈥� there being nothing one minute and then the next. . . you struck the bell three times.
鈥淗ey,鈥� Lee protested. He鈥檇 seen nothing neither but always wanted to be in on the action. If you鈥檇 a known what was to come you鈥檇 a said to him 鈥� here, you ring the bridge, you say the words. But Lee was slow, not the sharpest knife in the box, so you fished the key from the hook and opened the box where the telephone was stowed.
鈥淔leet,鈥� you said, 鈥渃row鈥檚 nest.鈥�
No response. You ploughed right on, speaking into the seething silence, while in your ears a strange rumbling grew, like thunder doused in pain.
Lights out, a dog barking somewhere in Morse. Phil snug inside the house, the cosy-hole, while Fred鈥檚 out here, disowned and shivering. Well, damn him to hell! He might be able to dictate where Fred Fleet can live, but no one can tell Fred Fleet where he may die! He and Eva had been forced to throw themselves on Phil鈥檚 mercy early on. No home of their own with Fred away at sea so much. But it was never home, though Eva cooked and cleaned and did for all of them. It was a billet, is all 鈥� his nibs counting the tea grains and smelling Fred鈥檚 breath for liquor. A teetotaller, Phil, the worst kind, and a bible thumper with it. Little Dottie was brought up in this house, her home too, though she鈥檚 long gone, settled down with a family of her own. So with Eva in the ground, it was just the pair of 鈥檈m, him and Phil. Warring bachelors, as if Eva and Dottie and forty years of marriage had never happened. A week after the funeral Phil says quite casual 鈥� 鈥淪ling your hook, Fred, for there鈥檚 no welcome for you here anymore.鈥� He thought it was some kind of jest. Then he saw the flinty look on Phil鈥檚 face and realised how long he鈥檇 been waiting to say those very words.
鈥淚ceberg. Right ahead.鈥�
The words out, you felt the world lurch, the telephone still in your hand.
鈥淏ow鈥檚 coming round,鈥� Lee shouted at you.
A hard-a-starboard as if your words were a command. But that couldn鈥檛 be, for the ship moved before you鈥檇 finished speaking. Next thing you felt it. The groaning judder. You heard the crackle on the deck as if God were emptying a champagne bucket. Like you鈥檇 seen the liveries do in First Class.
鈥淭hank you,鈥� a voice came back from the bridge. An officer; they all sounded the same to you.
Thank you, as if you was delivering a bouquet of flowers. Not reporting the gape of blue death. Not like anything you鈥檇 ever seen. An iceberg solid as a cliff but filmy, too, so you could see right through it. A thing all at odds with nature. In your bowels you felt its grinding jaws.
When Phil showed him the door, Fred had bunked in at the mariner鈥檚 hostel, his duffel with all he owned, stowed under the bed. The place groaned as if in a gale. The other inmates, big blokes, young, spoke in tongues. Polish, was it? Or Latvian. Sounded like stones in their mouths, their arms murky with tattoos. Fred kept hearing bells in the night, waking up in a sweat and howling. . .
鈥淪hut up, old man,鈥� the fella on the upper bunk roared.
Startled out of sleep, heart thumping, he couldn鈥檛 go back. Upstairs, his companion snored raucously, while he reached for Eva in the night. She had been a balm to him, a lovely Guernsey girl, sweet-natured, whereas he felt gnarled as a salted rope. Only a few years between them, but an ocean of difference. She was more well-to-do than him; not hard since he was a Barnardo鈥檚 boy. His Ma run off with a sailor to Springfield, Massachusetts; his Da, who knew? No name on his birth papers. The only name that had ever stuck to him was the damned ship鈥檚, like an anchor around his neck. For months into their courtship, he didn鈥檛 tell Eva, couldn鈥檛 bring himself to taint her with the association.
鈥淲hat of it, lovey?鈥� was what she鈥檇 said when he finally told her. Vehement for him. 鈥淒idn鈥檛 you warn them? Didn鈥檛 you do your duty?鈥�
He did, he saw for them. Saw for everyone the ruin ahead.
And then what did you do?
That鈥檚 what those Admiralty boys wanted to know.
You stayed at your post, it鈥檚 what an able seaman does, you told 鈥檈m. Everything you said sounded stroppy when you was only stating the case. You could tell they thought you was shifty, hiding something. You thought it was a near miss, a close shave is all. You kept staring ahead, that was what you was paid for, 拢5 a month and five shillings for the crow鈥檚 nest. You stayed at your post until Hogg and Evans came on at midnight to relieve you. But the truth is, you was never relieved.
Afterwards, he would never speak the name. Wouldn鈥檛 bring it down upon himself. Bad enough it was on his record. Discharged at sea 鈥� original destination New York. There鈥檚 actors, Eva told him once, that won鈥檛 mention Macbeth for fear of bad luck. They call it the Scottish play. Eva鈥檇 been a seamstress, sewed costumes and the like, worked for theatre folks, knew all their lore. What could he call it instead? The Irish ship?
And then what did you do?
Out on the port deck, Lightoller ordered you to launch the Number 6 boat. You and the Quartermaster filled her, there were maybe 30 of 鈥檈m, ladies mostly, and Hichens put you on oars with some Major fellow who said he had a yacht and knew about the water. Some ladies in the boat wanted to go towards the ship but you were aiming away. For the light.
What light?
There was a light on the port bow. Another ship, you thought, come to help. But it seemed to move as you pulled for it. Like the light in a nightmare. Or maybe it was a ghost ship. . .
And you never reached this light?
You shake your head.
Didn鈥檛 you hear the people crying?
You was howling yourself if truth be told but it couldn鈥檛 be heard above the din.
What people?
The people in the water. . .
But there was no people in the water then. And when they were, you was too far away to hear them.
And did you not go back?
Back? To that? The ship cracking in two, the water swelling around her carcass, devouring her. Go back?
You鈥檇 had your fill of their questions. Didn鈥檛 I see it for you, you wanted to shout at them. Isn鈥檛 that enough for you?
Mr Fleet?
You looked at them, all ranged against you, the sharp fellas in the suits, the chaps with the epaulettes.
Is there any more likes to have a go at me?
He saw it, saw it first, and then went on seeing it. Or braced himself constantly to see it. Two months after, he was back on duty, lookout on the Olympic. But the White Star Line didn鈥檛 have much time for the likes of him. He was a reminder of someone who鈥檇 seen too much. He handed in his papers and switched to the Union Castle Steamship. Served till 鈥�36, then came ashore. But still there was no rest. Even on dry land, he was always on vigil, always on the lookout. For obstacles, for shadows on the horizon. He didn鈥檛 fret about people on the street behind him, no, it was what was ahead that troubled him, what might loom up. He wanted the narrow, hemmed-in comfort of Norman Road, the safety of houses. Didn鈥檛 see Phil鈥檚 ambush coming, though. Didn鈥檛 see that, no.
They took your picture on the Carpathia. Some factotum shoved you up against a wall and chalked a number over your head. As if you was a criminal. As if you鈥檇 done something wrong. You can鈥檛 look at that picture 鈥� your cheeks stoved in, something dead in your eyes. Maybe they was always dead and you only noticed when the bulb went, all seethe and sizzle, the diamondy chill of the sulphur flash. Dead with the toll of all the things that might have been.
If there鈥檇 been a moon.
If they鈥檇 given you binoculars.
If you鈥檇 shouted louder.
If there hadn鈥檛 been ice in your lungs.
He unlaces his boots, holes in his socks. Somewhere he hears Eva tutt-tutting. He peels them off and throws them and the boots to the ground. His bare feet numb on the corrugated roof. Discomfort can drive a man to courage. The moon comes out from behind its cover, a porthole in the inky sky. He feels like he鈥檚 at the bottom of a well but this time there鈥檚 an escape hatch; the rope his way to gain the light. He dons his necklace of hemp.
Frederick Fleet was a crewman on the Titanic and was on lookout duty the night the ship struck the iceberg. He committed suicide in January 1965, aged 77.
Quarryman
Contact us