Kea

1

January 25, 1965

Winslow, a slight, middle aged man of forty-seven with big glasses and a receding hairline, pulled his 1964 Ford Anglia into a parking slot facing the gray, crashing sea bordering Liverpool's wharfs and cut the engine, killing I'm Sorry, I'll Read That Again on the BBC Home Service mid-laugh. An avid reader and historian, Winslow rarely listened to radio programmes, but the silence on the ride from Manchester became too great, and he turned it on to occupy himself. He was nervous about the meeting ahead, and how he would be received, and as he got out into a blast of damp sea air, he prayed to the God of his mother that the old man would hear him out.

Pulling on a newsboy cap, he hurried along a concrete pathway flanking a rush of boarded up storefronts that once catered to the seamen who called Liverpool home, but served only the gulls now. With the advent of air travel, seafaring had fallen by the wayside as a practical mode of transportation, which never ceased to annoy him. Once, long ago, proud and majestic ships sailed the routes between Southampton and New York, replete in their splendor like queens in their royal vestments; today, for the sake of speed, people flew on cramped and possibly unsafe metal tubes that lacked the decadent beauty of those bygone liners.

The sea had always interested Winslow. As a boy, he thought he would like to be a sailor, but his asthma and overall frail constitution negated that possibility. Denied knowing it himself, he took to reading about it, devouring every book on nautical subjects that he could lay his hands on. His mother encouraged his pursuits with patience and forbearing, and for that he was endlessly grateful.

One oceanic related subject that always fascinated him was shipwrecks, life and death dramas played out on the decks of sinking vessels, microcosms of human suffering, pain, resilience, and bravery. The Titanic was the most complete and intriguing of shipwrecks - also the most storied - but there were many others just as interesting. Today, he intended to hear an account of one straight from the mouth of a survivor.

The docks ran the length of the coast, lined by warehouses, stockyards, and pubs...he counted three before he came to the one he wanted. The Lion's Head was a tiny structure wedged between two larger ones, a splintered wood sign hanging over the door, gold leaf writing on faded green. Inside, it was warm and dimly lit, like most pubs are, with gleaming oak woodwork and green upholstery. A bar stood along one wall and a number of tables filled the space to the left. The scent of fish, chips, and stale vomit tinged the air like childhood memories both pleasant and otherwise. Several men sat at the bar, one chatting with the keeper and another eating a sandwich. Winslow looked around, and at the end, far removed from the others, was his mark.

A tall, bullish man of about sixty-eight with a large stomach straining against a wool sweater and tufts of white hair sticking out from beneath a brown Andy cap, Marshall Collins was the embodiment of the old Englishman, his face ruddy and weather beaten, his eyes faded, and his expression one of stoic indifference. He was not inviting, but Winslow went over and stood next to him anyway.

Taking a drink from a glass of amber liquid, Marshall looked up at him, his bushy eyebrows rising quizzically. "Can I help you?" he asked. It was clear from his tone that he was ready for a fight...and would most likely win.

"Marshall Collins?" Winslow asked.

"Aye," Marshall responded, "who's asking?"

Winslow stated his name and held out his hand. Marshall flicked his eyes contemptuously from it back to Winslow's face. "What do you want?"

Sitting in an empty stool, Winslow lied, "I'm from The Manchester Times and I'm writing an article on the HMHS Britannic."

Marshall stiffened at the mention of Britannic, as Winslow had expected. "You were on it when it sank, correct?"