Page 69 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘Never. I don’t like leaving land. God knows what can happen.’

‘Does He?’ I asked, finger pointing skywards.

She chuckled. ‘If He is planning anything, I hope He tells me first.’

We shared a low laugh. The funny thing about travel was how it made the usual pleasantries more intimate, created a space in which you could tell perfect strangers things you’d never say normally.

‘Doesn’t help that I can’t swim,’ said the nun.

‘Me either.’ I waited until she met my eyes. ‘Here’s to staying afloat then.’

‘Amen to that,’ she sighed. We stood side by side in silence. ‘I saw you earlier,’ she said eventually, her eyes darting nervously towards where the gangplank had been drawn up, then at the lifeboats. They looked too small, too shallow to be capable of saving anything. ‘You’re travelling with a little boy and a woman.’

‘My son and his governess,’ I said. ‘I’m Mrs Florence Stoker, by the way. We’re on our way to Paris for a few days. You?’

‘Pleasure to meet you. Sister Euphemia. I’m en route to Normandy, to take up a teaching position at a convent.’ She plucked her lip a few times. ‘I fear my nerves are playing havoc with my sleep – and not only because of the new job.’

‘Ah,’ I said, pity for the poor woman making me want to soothe her, even though my own sleep was disturbed, and I was as scared of water as she evidently was. ‘I’ve travelled this route many times; you’ve no need to be afraid. I can’t recall an accident on the Dieppe line.’

‘Oh, but I do.’ Coming towards us from the main cabin was an elderly lady. Beautifully dressed in a long fawn coat, she had silver hair, a beaked nose and regal bearing. ‘’Twas twenty-two years ago,’ she continued, joining us. ‘A vessel by the name of the Alexander Read ran aground on a rock outside the harbour.’ She waved towards some point in the darkness.

‘It did?’ squeaked the nun.

‘You were on board?’ I asked in a sharp tone. I was annoyed this woman had all but undone my reassurances.

‘No, but I’m the captain’s cousin,’ said the woman, dismissing me with a glance. ‘The story is legend in our family.’ Without another word, she wandered away.

I wasted no more time outside after that but escorted Sister Euphemia back to her cabin and went to mine. I lay down beside Irving, careful not to disrupt his slumber, and after a while glided into a sleep populated by glowing red eyes, swirling dark robes and waves crashing against the sides of a sinking ship.

It was dark when I woke. For a moment I wondered what had disturbed me until I heard the gentle tap-tap of the steward knocking on doors, asking for tickets. I quickly rose, straightened my clothes and rummaged in my reticule. Just before the officer reached the door, I opened it and showed him ours. There was no point trying to sleep after that. It was a bitter morning. I decided to fetch a warmer jacket from our luggage and a fresh shirt for Irving before we reached port. He’d spilled some gravy on the one he’d been wearing. Our luggage was in the box room, decks below.

The ship’s engines thrummed as I moved along the corridor, the vibrations making it seem like a living thing, and I an alien moving about its innards. There was no-one else around, though I could hear faint conversation, snores and wheezes through the doors I passed. The smell of fresh paint, seawater and mould mingled with the odours of humanity as I tried to stick to the centre of the narrow corridor, the dim lights making the interior gloomier than not.

I was halfway down the stairs when I saw a familiar shape pass at the very bottom.

I halted. ‘Is that you, sister?’ I tried to keep my voice low. I could hear no footsteps, no indication there was anyone there. My eyes slowly grew accustomed to the dimness. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, a figure waited.

It wasn’t the sister.

A chalk white face with terrible burning eyes stared. The thin blue lips were open, as if about to speak. I could see long, glistening teeth.

‘Leave me alone,’ I began, feeling not fear, but an intense dark anger. How dare he follow me. I resumed my descent. ‘What do you want? It’s not my fault you died in —’

There was a violent boom and I was flung headfirst, striking the walls, the slick wooden steps, the floor. Small lights danced before my eyes; my head throbbed. A warm trickle ran down my forehead and into my eyes. I touched it. Blood.

A great shuddering began around me as I tried to sit up. There was the tinkle of breaking glass, a giant thud as something heavy struck the deck above. Rope, lanterns and other items attached to the walls shook loose and tumbled to the floor, some striking me. There was the sound of metal twisting, a colossal groan as if the ship itself was being tortured. Screams and cries rent the air. Doors were flung open and people spilled out of the cabins, frantic, shouting, demanding to know what had happened. A baby bawled. I quickly pressed myself against the wall as people streamed past, trying to reach the staircase. My fingers were crushed, my skirt ripped as they trod on and around me. I began to lever myself to my feet. Then, the ship canted sharply.

There were more screams and people fell. Someone helped me remain upright. All I could think about was Irving. I joined the throng pushing and shoving to mount the stairs.

When I reached our cabin, the door was open and Mrs Simpson stood there, one arm around Irving who, though owl-eyed, was composed.

‘Come,’ I said, ‘we must get outside.’

When we reached the deck, it was inclined so steeply it was impossible not to slide down its length towards the figurehead I could just distinguish through the darkness, smoke and haze. Above us, the great funnel coughed and spumed. The noise was astounding. Cries, shouts and orders flew, strangely flat as they were swallowed by the thick swirling fog, occasionally escaping to echo around us. It was hard to get a sense of direction. I kept a firm hold of Irving, Mrs Simpson too.

Unable to tell which way we should go, it wasn’t until the nun joined us that we shuffled towards the davits where the lifeboats were kept. The lifeboats that only a matter of hours ago I’d thought inadequate to the task. There, male passengers were brutally shoving aside women and children to reach the boats first. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The cowardice of these men, the selfishness as they ignored the captain’s shouts, the crew’s frenzied attempts to get the weak and vulnerable to safety. A child was cruelly thrust to the deck; a woman was grabbed and flung down. The craven men cut two of the ropes holding the boats aloft and, as the lifeboat landed in what were now churning seas, leapt overboard to save themselves.

I began to hurl abuse. I wasn’t alone.