Titanic Twelve Tales - A Short Story Anthology RMS Titanic by Lynda Dunwell Page B

just here,” the officer replied as he grabbed me around the waist and lifted me off the deck.
    “That’s not Mama.” I struggled to free myself.
    “Don’t be afraid,” he said, “we’ll find her later, but you, young lady, are going in that boat.”
    I screamed as he swung me around over the side of the lifeboat and into the arms of the stewardess. I kicked out with my feet. I didn’t want to go. I wanted Mama. Hands grabbed my legs and hauled me aboard as Milly slipped from under my arm. I leant over the side and watched her fall down into the sea. I screamed at the top of my voice, the way the stewardess had asked me to do before on the deck when she tried to pick me up. “ Milly !”
     
    September 2 nd 1985
    The summer sun lingered in the sky. As I sheltered my eyes with my hand and turned towards the house, I noticed my finger nails were black with potting soil. At the kitchen sink I scrubbed away the remains of the dark earth until my nails were clean. I made a cup of tea, took it into the conservatory, sat down and put my feet up. I must have dozed off because the next thing I heard was the phone ringing.
    “Mum, I was beginning to think you’d never answer.”
    “Sorry, I’ve been working in the garden all afternoon, I must have nodded off.”
    “Have you seen the news?”
    “No dear, should I? Have I missed something important?”
    “Yes Mum, they’ve found the Titanic .”
    A strange mixture of excitement, nervous anticipation and curiosity swept through me. I didn’t know whether I felt happy or sad. “I don’t know what to say...I suppose it was inevitable they’d find her one day.”
    “Yes Mum and there are some wonderful pictures. Of course, they’re only releasing a few of them at the moment and keeping the location very secret, but isn’t it marvellous, after all the years?”
    I couldn’t sleep that night. I didn’t want to sleep if I slept then I’d be back on board, a nine year old child again, saying good-night to my mother and father. But this time I would know that good-night also meant good-bye. I took my scrapbook out of the desk. The large picture book I had kept all my life. Like Papa, I didn’t collect stamps or butterflies I collected cuttings about an event, my event, the sinking of RMS Titanic .
    I had seen the films and read the books about White Star’s most famous liner, but I hadn’t been to any of the reunions, conventions or joined any of the societies. I had kept my story to myself and pasted the cuttings into a series of scrapbooks.
    A few weeks after my daughter had telephoned with the news, she arrived on my doorstep with a set of newspaper colour supplements. “Thought you’d like these to add to your collection,” she said.
    Slowly I flicked over the pages and stopped abruptly at one. My fingers trembled, my mouth dried, stunned I couldn’t tear my gaze from the picture. A ghostly white porcelain face looked up at me through empty dark spaces where her clear blue eyes had once been. Her blonde wig, made from real human hair, and her body had been taken by the sea. A tear rolled down my cheek. After 73 years I was looking at Milly’s face again.
     

I am…
     
    The sea is my mirror, my vanity. I gaze at the ocean and see my glorious lines reflected. I am admired, chased by the press, photographed, written about, talked of and yes, I am everywhere. Nothing has been built or launched this year to match my luxurious form. From the bridge to the boilers I am beautiful. Gaze down at me from my crow’s nest, inspect my many decks, eat in the luxury of my First-Class Dining Room and relax in the Smoking Room after dinner.
    How much did you pay to come on board?
    That is important because I must know your class. We live in a monetary society. The Americans understand, my English owners only think they do because they are too refined to speak of money. They say it is vulgar to speak of money, especially “new money” made by those who have earned their