The Wreck Of The Mary Deare

I didn’t know what to say. She should have been asking Patch, not me. ‘Captain Patch will be back soon,’ I said.

‘Was my father on the Mary Deare when you boarded her?’ She stood there, very straight and boyish, and quite determined.

‘No,’ I said.

She took that in slowly, her eyes fixed steadfastly on mine. They were grey eyes, flecked with green; wide and startled-looking. ‘And this Captain Patch was in command?’ I nodded. She stared at me for a long time, her lip trembling slightly. ‘My father would never have abandoned his ship.’ She said it softly and I knew she had guessed the truth, was bracing herself for it. And then: ‘He’s dead — is that it?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

She took it, dry-eyed, standing there, stiff and small in front of me. ‘And the cause of death?’ She tried to keep it formal, impersonal, but as I hesitated, she made a sudden, small feminine movement, coming towards me: ‘Please, I must know what happened. How did he die? Was he ill?’

‘I think it was a heart attack,’ I said. And then I added, ‘You must understand, Miss Taggart, I wasn’t there. I am only passing on what Captain Patch told me.’

‘When did it happen?’

‘Early this month.’

‘And this Captain Patch?’

‘He was the first mate.’

She frowned. ‘My father didn’t mention him. He wrote me from Singapore and Rangoon and the only officers he mentioned were Rice and Adams and a man named Higgins.’

‘Patch joined at Aden.’

‘Aden?’ She shook her head, huddling her coat close to her as though she were cold. ‘My father always wrote me from every port he stopped at — every port in the world.’ And then she added, ‘But I got no letter from Aden.’ Tears started to her eyes and she turned away, fumbling for a chair. I didn’t move and after a moment she said, ‘I’m sorry. It’s just the shock.’ She looked up at me, not bothering to wipe away the tears, ‘baddy was away so much. It shouldn’t hurt like this. I haven’t seen him for five years.’ And then in a rush: ‘But he was such a wonderful person. I know that now. You see, my mother died …’ She hesitated and then said, ‘He was always coming back to England to see me. But he never did. And this time he’d promised. That’s what makes it so hard. He was coming back. And now-’ She caught her breath and I saw her bite her lip to stop it trembling.

‘Would you like some tea?’ I asked.

She nodded. She had her handkerchief out and her face was turned away from me. I hesitated, feeling there ought to be something I could do. But there was nothing and I went in search of the steward. To give her time to recover I waited whilst he made the tea and brought it back to her myself. She was composed now and though her face still looked white and pinched, she had got back some of the vitality that there had been in that photograph. She began asking me questions and to keep her mind off her father’s death I started to tell her what had happened after I boarded the Mary Deare.

And then Patch came in. He didn’t see her at first. ‘I’ve got to leave,’ he said. ‘A question of identification. They’ve picked up twelve bodies.’ His voice was hard and urgent, his face strained. ‘Rice is dead. The only one I could rely on-’

‘This is Miss Taggart,’ I said.

He stared at her. For a second he didn’t know her, didn’t connect her name; his mind was concentrated entirely on his own affairs. And then the hardness slowly left his face and he came forward, hesitantly, almost nervously. ‘Of course. Your face…’ He paused as though at a loss for words. ‘It — it was there on his desk. I never removed it.’ And then, still looking at her, as though fascinated, he added almost to himself: ‘You were with me through many bad moments.’

‘I understand my father is dead?’

The forthright way in which she put it seemed to shock him, for his eyes widened slightly as though at a blow. ‘Yes.’

‘Mr Sands said you thought it was a heart attack?’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s right — a heart attack.’ He said it automatically, not thinking about the words, all his mind concentrated in his eyes, drinking her in as though she were some apparition that had suddenly come to life.

There was an awkward pause. ‘What happened? Please tell me what happened.’ She was standing facing him now and there was a tightness in her voice that betrayed her nervousness. I suddenly felt that she was afraid of him. A sort of tension stretched between them. ‘I want to know what happened,’ she repeated and her voice sounded almost brittle in the silence.

‘Nothing happened,’ he answered slowly. ‘He died. That’s all.’ His voice was flat, without feeling.

‘But how? When? Surely you can give me some details?’

He pushed his hand up through his hair. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’m sorry. It was March 2nd. We were in the Med. then.’ He hesitated as though searching in his mind for the words he wanted. ‘He didn’t come up to the bridge that morning. And then the steward called me. He was lying in his bunk.’ Again a pause and then he added, ‘We buried him that afternoon, at sea.’

‘He died in his sleep then?’

‘Yes. That’s right. He died in his sleep.’