“Do you think we are going to die?”, asked Alice, or shouted, the wind was howling so loudly, the ship was being tossed back and forth, up and down, like some crazy teeter-totter in a children’s’ playground. Back and forth, up and down, the wind howling.
“No,” I yelled, “No... But the ship might break up.”
It was 1987, and I was planning a month in London to do some research on Charles Dickens and the Coram Orphanage at the London Archives; I was going by ship, the SS Stefan Batory. I had been on this ship before, and liked it, Montreal to Gdynia, with stops at England and Rotterdam. Alice had mentioned that she was planning to go to Scotland to research her Scottish roots. I called her up. “Instead of flying, why not book on the Batory? You will like it.” We met in Montreal, and as we walked up the gangplank, a little band was playing, and the Captain saluted us as we stepped on board. A sign in Polish, English, and French informed passengers that tea would be served in the first class lounge at 4pm. Everyone welcome. The ship’s whistle blew; the gangplank was pulled up. The band put away their instruments. No crowd, no streamers, but it was just as exciting. By the time we had examined our cabin, twin beds with a large dresser between, and bushed our hair, it was tea time, and there was a different band, the Silesian Band, playing pleasant music while tea was poured and plates of little cakes, rather like donuts with no holes, filled with jam and covered with lemon zest and powdered sugar, were handed round. We both agreed that it was awfully nice to be waited on. Imagine not having to think about what to make for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Alice was looking at the possible options; we decided to sign up for 10 words of Polish a Day, but not for Talent Night or anything else, at least not yet.
The Entertainments Officer, Rysard, was tall, black haired, with bright blue eyes. He went around the group asking our names, where we were going, our interests. There were ten of us, and the first was a woman who seemed very sociable; yesterday at teatime she had gone around to some of the tables, not ours, probably thought we looked too boring. She said she was a writer. Rysard smiled. “And what do you write, Madame?” She wrote articles for magazines, about lifestyles, newspapers, things of interest to Canadian women. He looked at her, smiled, said, “No, Madame, you are not a wry-ter, you are a jour—Nal—ist. Next.” Alice smiled at him, said Housewife. I said Turista, pointed to Alice, said Friend. (It turned out that Rysard had an MA in Literature, and had written his thesis on Edgar Allen Poe. One day Alice had said Alice Laidlaw, so the journalist never gave us more than a distant glance.)
It was 5 days of being pampered. Sitting on deck under navy wool blankets, faces turned to the sun, books on laps neglected, coffee or bouillon at 11, plus those little cakes, Polish at 10. Lifeboat drill (we were at Punkt Zborny #1, posted as such in our cabin.) I took a picture of Alice, grinning, in front of the boat. One day we all rushed to the railings; someone had said that we were right over the Titanic. Indeed, there was an iceberg in the distance.
A walk around the deck every morning before breakfast, which was definitely on the hearty side, dozing in deck chairs, learning our ten words: husband/mąż, wife/źona. Alice bought a postcard and wrote a greeting to Gerry all in Polish, no translation, bought a beautiful stamp. It would go off in the mailbag when we got to England. There was amber everywhere, even the half shades in the library were made of thin rolls of amber. In the little shop I bought an amber necklace.
Talent night was pretty awful. We suspected Rysard just let anybody sign up. There was dancing, some very fast music with the other band, triple time. The Polish passengers told us this was the mazurka, got up and demonstrated. 123123123.
On the last night everybody dressed up for the Captain’s Farewell Dinner, roast pork and applesauce, lots of champagne, lots of laughter. Shortly after midnight we went back to the cabin, packed away our finery, put out sensible clothes for the next stage of our journey. Suitcases to be outside our doors before breakfast; Customs would come on board at Tilbury Docks. And then, and then, just as we entered the English Channel, all hell broke loose. The worst storm in over 200 years hit the South Coast of England and France. 14,000 trees down in one night. Small boats smashed to bits.
Alice yelled, over the banshee wind, “Do you think we are going to die?”
I don’t know which of us made the suggestion that if we were going to die, or, hopefully, were discovered clinging to a piece of flotsam, we should be covered in decent garments, not old pajamas. We would have to get up and put on our dresses, then take the life jackets and lie on them, to keep from being flung off the beds, knocked unconscious. I suspect the champagne cocktails may have had something to do with this inspired thinking. Lots of shouting over the loudspeaker, all in Polish. We hadn’t learned the Polish word for HELP. The lights went out.
The boat didn’t break up, although it’s long gone now. The branch line of the train wasn’t running, a bus was being sent out. There was a mountain of luggage which had to be sorted out. I asked one of the stevedores what it was like out there. “D’you know Sevenoaks in Kent, love?” “I know of it.” “It’s bloody One Oak now.”
“I’m sorry it turned out to have such a terrifying ending,” I said. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” said Alice.
Long afterwards, over a glass of wine or two, we wondered whether the Silesian Band had been summoned, and made ready to go out there and play the Polish equivalent of Nearer My God to Thee, should the Captain had given the orders to abandon ship. Would women and children first apply, do you think? Didn’t some men dress as women when the Titanic went down? I think that was just gossip.
Friend of my youth, my middle age, my elderly-ness. I shall miss you.
