12 July 2013, 8 a.m.
September 2013 Truro, Cornwall
September 2013 Truro, Cornwall
Captain Stiegman’s gaze swept around the ship’s library, shifting like a search light until it had touched everyone in the room. He took a deep breath, steadied his hands on the back of a chair and spoke. ‘The search has been called off.’
I pressed my hand to my mouth, stifling sob. Even though I’d been primed to hear these words, the sound of them left me winded: until now I’d still held out hope. There had been a mistake; Mum had been picked up by another ship. She’d been brought aboard, cold, weak, wrapped in a silver blanket, but alive. She’d floated on her back; she’d clung onto some flotsam; she’d been rescued by a lifeboat. Failing any of those scenarios, her body had been recovered. Anything but this; this inconclusive conclusion.
Captain Stiegman stood motionless. He was waiting for a response. I looked at John. He didn’t meet my gaze. He was looking at the floor, his thin lips pressed in a hard line, his expression inscrutable. The only part of my brother that moved was his hand, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the arm of the stuffed leather armchair. I wanted to speak but there were no words.
Captain Stiegman paced the library floor, his steps lithe in his rubber-soled shoes. Doris, the cruise director, stood awkwardly by the bookshelves, a walkie-talkie in her hand, her lipstick rudely red. Outside the picture window, small whitecaps topped the ocean like frosting. I imagined my mother’s arms poking desperately up from the crests of each wave, her mouth forming an ‘O’ as the lights of the ship faded into the distance. In the library, you couldn’t feel the low rumble of the ship’s engines that permeated the lower decks, but snatches of a Latin beat carried from the Vida Loca dance party taking place on the pool deck outside. Doris’s walkie-talkie crackled to life then fell silent.
‘The decision has not been taken lightly,’ said the captain, his English curt with a German accent, his words staccato. ‘We have to face the facts. Mrs Templeton has been missing for over forty hours. The ship was sailing at full speed on the night she was last seen. We have no idea when she went overboard, nor where – the search area covers thousands of square kilometres.’
He paused, looked at John and me, then—perhaps heartened by the absence of tears – continued, ticking off points with his fingers as he spoke. A band of dull platinum circled his wedding finger.
‘As you are already aware, I did not turn the ship. This was because, with Mrs Templeton missing for thirty-nine hours before the search was initiated, I felt there was nothing to be gained by retracing our route. It is my belief that Mrs Templeton did not fall overboard shortly before she was reported
