He reminded her of Freddie, if Freddie had been allowed to grow older. The man’s steps were steady despite the roll of the ship. Every movement was sure and measured. But there was something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Dorothy longed to catch his eye, to see a recognition there, even though they’d never met. She dared a smile but his only greeting was a brief ‘Good morning’ before he bowed his head and moved on. She was left with ghosts. She had hoped it would fade, this haunting. The ocean churned behind her, but instead of leaving memories in the wake they clung to her skin like the salt air. She took off a glove, drew a finger gently below her eyes and brought the tears that lay there to her lips. More salt.
Her morning turn around the deck had lost its charm. There was a place, though, where she would feel less at sea. Heading away from the greyness of the ocean, she clattered down through the levels, thankful for her practical low-heeled boots. Below the waterline, deep within its metal hull, the beating heart of the ship lured her onwards. As she descended, the air pressed on her with the weight of heat. A sheen of sweat rose on her brow. Dorothy longed to loosen her collar and shed her jacket, but in this place of men she needed to be decorous – the line she walked was narrow. At first, she’d been unwelcome. The men were naturally wary. It was clear the superstition about women being unlucky on ships still ran like a barbed thread through their minds. A woman on deck was one thing, but here in the bowels of the ship she’d been met with dark looks and aversion. However, her thoughtful questions, curiosity and enthusiasm had won their acceptance, eventually. A man responded to interest in his work when that interest was genuine, and a widow, especially in these times, was given a respect that a single woman of her age might not have garnered.
The door to the engine room swung open and she rose to meet the wall of heat and noise with a matching burst of intensity. Here, surrounded by the power of machinery and steam, and the earth-based scent of coal, she felt more solid. Here was the gravity she needed, afloat on the roiling sea. Here she was grounded by the massive mechanism of the four geared steam turbines that powered the ocean liner far from Birmingham and the Cadbury’s factory at Bournville and towards Dorothy’s new life in Tasmania.
The chief engineer waved her over and her smile widened. ‘Mr Broadbent,’ she mouthed, more than said. Conversations were difficult in the engine room. Fortunately she would only need her eyes and her mind this morning. The chief had promised she could watch him repair a faulty generator. She longed to see his grease-stained hands at work, teasing out the problem, following his mind as it traced the links and breaks to find the solution. She would keep her mouth closed to any answers she might discover and only speak to ask questions, and those sparingly. Her place here was reliant on his good graces. The war had taken many things, but in return it had given her this – the chance to find out how things worked. And, even better – if they were broken, how to fix them…
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