A Fleet's Night to Remember

It is the third rap on the door that Frederick Fleet is unable to ignore. It rings out through the near-empty flat with such nostalgia, a memory cutting through the ever-rumbling din of the trainyard that sits just across the street. It is a rhythm that, for a moment, he fails to consciously place; still, his body reacts, and turns over in his uncomfortable twin bed, back now towards the door. Frederick is ignoring him, as he was always want to do when he would wake him in the middle of the night: Ollie, the ruddy-faced, snaggle-toothed boy who wrongly assumed that family, foster or otherwise, means forever; Ollie, the younger brother that Frederick never in a million years asked for but always misses when he has even the smallest crumb of food to share; that is who he’s choosing to ignore. Him, and not the off chance that it’s really the wreck commissioner at his door, finally come to collect him for another day of testimony and inquisition. Frederick sucks his teeth in annoyance, tongue fiddling in the gap of a missing molar. And then, someone raps that rap at the door again, and Frederick is up.

Frederick doesn’t bother to dress for company. He makes his way down to the flat’s entrance in the same slacks he’s worn for days; bare-chested, shoeless, his hair a crown of sloth. It has been one month since the incident with the Titanic, and one hundred and forty-four since he saw the last foster family he would ever stay with. Life with them in Liverpool is but a memory now; after all, he did choose a chance to learn of life at sea over the stability they once offered. Since he arrived back in Southampton, Frederick has been fighting a losing battle against lethargy; his welcome among his fellow seamen of the White Star Line, his missing tooth reminds him, was not the warmest. Yet, today, hope wins out, and he beelines down the stairs for the door.

Embarrassment staggers him as he barrels into the state of his living room. Every surface that would hold them is piled high with newspaper on newspaper from both sides of the pond: their headlines plagiarize his experience of that night; their words martyr him. How, he wonders, had he forgotten for even a second the sway these stacks of ink and paper had on his psyche? His better judgment asks him to put them away, though each headline finds a way to hold his gaze and his haste slows to a crawl as he finds each one of them a new nook or cranny to call home. They were easier still to deal with than the shadow of ice that haunts his dreams.

There isn’t another rap on the door, though he knows that someone is still there waiting for him. After some minutes, satisfied with his handiwork, Frederick moves to meet the person on its other side. The hinge of the door sings with a reluctant pull, and for a moment that is all there is to hear: Frederick doesn’t realize he is holding his breath, and neither does the man that stands before him. The man’s hair looks aflame even hidden under his hat, dimmed in no part by the overcast sky; it was as if all the ruddiness of his skin had risen skyward, leaving only clear, porcelain skin behind. Frederick, already pale, looks even paler in contrast, his brooding brow doing no favors under the contrast of his chestnut hair. The man that stands before him has certainly come into his own; he had to be at least twenty now. His green eyes, though, are still as bright as the day that Frederick said goodbye to a life he hadn’t earned.

“Oh, I have found you, Mister Fleet,” the man says, finally, overrun with excitement. “It’s good to see you.” Alive, he leaves unsaid. The streets of Liverpool cling to his every word like toffee, and Frederick feels his heart leap at this bit of home on his doorstep. He continues, “It’s me, Ollie. Oliver Bowne.”

Oliver eagerly offers a knapsack to Frederick, though in his haste, the knot goes slack and a stack of beautifully golden hand pies splat one after another onto the ground.

“Oh, don’t be a blert, Ollie! Ma’s going to have me head!”

Frederick joins in partway, echoing the statement, and the two share a hearty laugh. Both look down at the hand pies; they haven’t broken all that much after all. Oliver immediately picks them up, his face as red as his hair once again.

Some things never change; he had never been good at tying knots.

Frederick is sure; this is Oliver, and he feels twelve years too late. But that wouldn’t stop him from making up for lost time.

“Come in,” Frederick almost forgets to say, his mouth remembering only how to smile. But he does, and he lets Oliver Bowne into his home.

“How are you?” Oliver asks, lowering his voice. Frederick realizes that he’s spent too long searching for words that don’t come as Oliver continues. “I’ve been reading some of the preliminary reporting on the American Inquiry. Quite the interesting lot of people you’ve met, isn’t it?”

He knew, Frederick thinks. Of course, he knew. Who didn’t know? Memories of the tribunal in the United States begin to flood back, reminding him of how inept a sailor he really is.

“Freddy?” Oliver's voice at that moment, though quiet, rings louder than any delusion.

“You…” Frederick laughs, playfully shoving his brother, too hard. Oliver falls squarely onto the couch, genuinely surprised. He laughs to himself as a bundle of clippings shoots from the cushions propelled by his fall. Slanderous headlines flutter through the air; all the while, Oliver never lets his gaze leave his brother’s face, patiently awaiting a response.

A weaker sailor would have read every single one of them, but Frederick isn’t able to; his eyes close, eclipsed by his cheeks, as he breaks into a wide grin.

Lookout Frederick Fleet affords himself the moment offers his brother a hand to help him stand. Frederick never does find the disappointment he searches for in Oliver's eyes.

“You call me Mister Fleet.”

Oliver nods profusely, laughing all the while, knowing that he would never again for the rest of his life call him Mister Fleet.

…

Oliver Bowne lost his life in the Second World War in one of the 57 raids on Southampton, where he had been stationed to report on the local devastation.

Frederick Fleet would not discover Bowne’s death until his return from service years after the war had ended; years after the presents for his daughter Dorothy, Oliver’s goddaughter, had failed to resume.