Free Titanic Ashes by Paul Butler Page A

horseracing and
himself being a central part of a catastrophe so appalling
its details are beyond imagination.
    The question creeps into his mind for the first time:
how much of it dare he witness? He thinks of the ocean,
icy enough here in the Labrador current to play host to
bergs and growlers, and he thinks of the labyrinth of
cabins and corridors already under water below and likely
deserted and quiet. The lure is powerful enough to make
his hand push too hard.
    “Steady there, ” warns the officer overlooking the
lifeboat’s descent. Ismay nods and slows down. The
faintest sound follows, more pat than splash. Half a turn
more and the lifeboat is freed.
    “Father, ” says Evelyn.
    The band ceases, the final high note hanging in the
silence. The leader, violin and bow in hand, nods to a scattering of applause. Ismay turns to his daughter, catches
her expression, both worried and chiding, and feels a
protective layer has been peeled away between them, a
taboo breached. He knows it’s no use pretending otherwise.

chapter eight
    EVELYN ENCOUNTERS THAT SMILE , the one he
uses with Mother—vague, dithery, sinking into a kind of
generalized appeasement. But there’s a change in him, too. It
was a shock a moment ago to watch him turning to meet the
stare of Agnes Grimsden—not necessarily an unwelcome
one. It suggests that either he is becoming forgetful and has
failed to spot an enemy, or that a fire long doused might be
smoldering afresh. He was once a man of authority, and a
deeply embedded rock of well-being dwelt under the foundation of their home. Even his fussiness of manner carried an
aura, a sense of being associated with work and important
matters. When the Ismays went to church and heard about
the Almighty from the pulpit, this was the aura Evelyn envisioned, and the picture that went with it was of a carefully
waxed moustache, oiled hair, the scent of decision, and the
gentleness that would come across such an entity at home
after an hour or so with a pipe and playing with the dog.
    When he returned Mrs. Grimsden’s stare and gave
what seemed to be an unforced, disparaging laugh, this
almost forgotten father had returned. Evelyn searches his
eyes now for some clue to his thoughts.
    “Father, ” she repeats, “are you all right?”
    He tilts his head and gives her an affectionate look,
lifting his glass.
    “Why shouldn’t I be all right, my dear?”
    Again a tactic used with Mother, and a challenge of a
kind. They both know perfectly well why he should be out
of sorts. But the cause has never been named and he is
banking that their mutual silence will continue. It’s a
reasonable assumption. Thirteen years of secrecy is like an
airtight cell with thick metal walls; the idea of opening it
now seems frightening, like scattering a thousand tiny
demons into the world.
    Not for the first time Evelyn considers that if the
memory of the Titanic looms over her, and Tom, and
Margaret, and Mother, and possibly even George, filling
ordinary sounds and objects—a shriek of laughter, the
tinkling of wine glasses—with images of catastrophe, how
much closer must that terrible event seem to Father?
Keeping everything unsaid, even if they all believed it was
for Father’s good, suddenly seems like a terrible disservice
to him. And it all makes so little sense.
    Generals who from the safety of distance have knowingly given commands that kill many thousands have thenstood proudly with medals pinned to their chests. Yet
Father, who hurt no one deliberately, is lambasted
publicly, whispered about, stared at, and treated like a
pariah. Her anger at them all—the Grimsdens and everyone like them—gives way a little to a sudden rush of
admiration for her father, for the fact that he can still sit
in a London hotel restaurant, eating, drinking and listening to music; and that when he catches the eye of his
accuser, he will stare back and laugh.
    Evelyn puts down her knife and fork, hands trembling
from pride mingled with