Maiden Voyage

ELEVEN

During the morning, while Catriona slept, the celebrities began to arrive. A sleek black Rolls-Royce with silk blinds at the windows brought Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford from Lime Street Station, and a beige Rolls-Royce with a chocolate touring roof brought Princess Xenia.

The newspapers, as usual, had been given the full passenger list, and the boarding ramps were crowded with photographers in wide-brimmed hats. Douglas Fairbanks told reporters that he considered it "a great thrill" to sail on the Arcadia on her maiden voyage, and that she looked like "a swell boat'. Miss Pickford, in dark glasses, was feeling tired.

Claude Graham-White came storming on to the ship with five porters struggling behind him with the oddest collection of brown paper bags and tartan shooting-sacks and tattered valises. And there were plenty of other famous people for the press to harass: Dame Clara Butt, who was accompanied by a yapping circus of seven small hairy dogs, each of which was named after a different colour of the rainbow—Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, etcetera—and each of which wore an appropriate ribbon to identify it; Madge Bellamy, in a glamorous silk dress of powder-blue, and a powder-blue mink stole to match; Jack Dempsey, in a bad mood and a blue suit with loud stripes; and almost last, when the Arcadia had already let out her long farewell whistle to the Port of Liverpool and thrashed the waters of the Mersey into a yellowish foam with her four four-bladed screws, Mark Beeney, the young and eligible owner of American TransAtlantic. The reporter from the Daily Mirror managed to ask Mark Beeney why he was sailing on the maiden voyage of a luxury liner that was inevitably going to put the best of his own American TransAtlantic fleet in the shade.

Mark Beeney grinned as he stepped on board and said, "You don't think Caesar tried to lick Cleopatra without checking her barge out first, do you?" Like everybody else in England on Tuesday, June 17th, 1924, he had read in his morning paper about "Catriona Keys, the Flapper Queen of the Seas'.

At 11:00 am, the walkways and gangplanks were taken away, the ship's rails were closed, and the mooring lines were let go. Passengers cheered and waved and sang as the Liverpool Municipal Brass Band played "God Save The King" and "There'll Always Be An England',and hundreds of coloured paper streamers were thrown from the boat decks and the promenade decks onto the landing stage below. Two hundred red, white and blue gas balloons were let go, and flooded eastwards over Liverpool.

On the third-class deck, the collar of his brown tweed jacket turned up, a cigarette burning untasted in his mouth, Harry Pakenow watched the landing stage slowly turn away from him, and the last to streamers break and trail across the river. Beside him, almost apoplectic with excitement and grief, a middle-aged man in a cheap overcoat was waving goodbye to somebody on the landing-stage, somebody dear who had to stay behind. A pretty girl in a cloche hat was standing with her hands over her mouth, crying loudly and without shame. Harry thought to himself: you only get sorrow like this in third-class, the rich can afford to take their loved ones with them, or come back as often as they wish.

He was wrong, although he had no way of knowing it. In her first-class suite, Mademoiselle Louise Natron, the opera singer, was sobbing into the pillow of the bed which she would share with no one. She had left behind in England the well-known cellist Raymond Walters, who was sitting at his home in Greenwich at that very moment with his wife and two small children, trying to concentrate on a recording of Dvorak's cello concerto while thinking about the Arcadia slowly moving away from the Liverpool landing-stage.

Harry Pakenow may have been scornful about upper-class unhappiness, but grief was just as vivid on promenade Deck A as it was on lower Deck E.

Catriona opened her eyes to feel the ship shuddering beneath her. Then she sat up, unsure for a moment if she was in London, dreaming that she was on board ship; or on board ship, dreaming that she was in London.

"My God," she said to herself, "it's actually going, and they haven't told me!"

She scrambled out of bed and reached for her peignoir. Then she went to the porthole and looked out. Liverpool was already a grey and shimmering mirage of itself, and a wide stretch of chumed-up water now separated the Arcadia and the landing-stage. As if to confirm to Catriona that the liner was really on her way, a dozen tugs let out a chorus of excited whoop-whoops, and the Aquitania, which was moored a little further along the pierhead, gave a bellowing bon voyage which echoed as far as Bootle and Blundellsands. Janice Bignor heard it faintly as she waited by the bus-stop on her way to work, her eyes still blurred from crying, Harry's crumpled letter in her purse.

There was a knock at Catriona's stateroom door, and Alice came in with fresh towels.

"The ship's leaving!" Catriona told her. "Why didn't somebody wake me up?"

Alice fussily arranged the towels in the bathroom, and turned on the faucets. "The young gentleman said not to, Miss Keys. He said that nobody was to disturb you on any account at all, not until the ship had sailed."

"Nigel? But why?"

"He said something about not wanting to give you the chance to change your mind. Something about everybody having to go their own way. Well, it wasn't for me to argue."

"No," said Catriona. Then, more slowly, "No, it wasn't. You were right not to wake me. Besides, I've got a hangover like a herd of elephants."

Alice made a show of laying out a pair of blue silk step-ins on the end of the bed. She plainly didn't approve of young girls tripping around with no underwear. Catriona was just about to tell her to put a record on the gramophone when there was another knock on the sitting-room door.

"It's Mr. Philips, miss," called Alice, "the first officer. Ought I to tell him to come back later?"

Catriona tightened the sash of bet peignoir. "Yes, could you? No—don't worry. Ask him in. And can you please tell Trimmer to come down and make me a drink."

"A drink, miss? Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Of course I'm not up to it," said Catriona. "But if I don't have one now, I'll never be able to touch another drink as long as I live. Come in, Mr Philips! Excuse everything. I'm still not sure if I survived last night's party or not."

Rudyard Philips, the first officer, was a broad-shouldered, short-legged man of forty-one, with a large handsome head that looked as if it had been hewn out of Bath stone and then left in a field to weather for a century or two. He had short fair hair—"short-back-and-sides" the barbers called it—and fair bushy eyebrows, and a fleshy nose that was deeply creased at the tip.

Being so broad, and having that slightly bandy stance of a man who has been standing on tilting decks ever since he was fifteen years old, Rudyard Philips could never wear a uniform smartly. His jacket was as wide as it was long, and his braided trousers seemed to crease in at least eleven places. Nigel would probably have dismissed him with a remark like "Broad shoulders are the indisputable sign of a small willy', but Rudyard Philips had a strong masculinity about him that had attracted many unaccompanied lady passengers to book on the ships which he commanded time and time again.

"Miss Keys," said Rudyard Philips, taking off his cap. His accent sounded slightly Welsh. "I only came by to present you with my comliments."

"I didn't see you at any of the parties last night, did I?" asked Catriona.

"I was officer of the watch, Miss Keys."

"And they didn't even send up a glass of champagne for you? That's a bit thick."

Mr. Philips looked around for somewhere to put down his cap. He laid it at last on the arm of the sofa. "Officers of the watch are not allowed to tipple, Miss Keys. Obvious reasons."

"I don't see why not. The ship wasn't going anywhere."

"All the same, Miss Keys. Someone has to keep a clear head."

Catriona sat down and took out a cigarette. Rudyard Philips stepped forward with a gold Dunhill lighter and lit it for her.

"Do you mind acting as first officer, instead of captain?" she asked him through the smoke.

Rudyard Philips shrugged. "I was either going to act as first officer or stay at home."

"And you didn't want to stay at home?"

He didn't answer that. He smiled tartly and briefly to show that he had heard her, but that was all. He looked around the stateroom, noting the flowers, and the plumped-up cushions on the sofa and the wine cooler. As first officer, it was part of his personal responsibility to take care of the first-class passengers, and to make sure that they never had any reason to irritate the captain with complaints about rattling chests-of-drawers, or champagne that didn't arrive when it was ordered, or noisy private parties in next-door cabins.

Catriona watched him, and smoked, and then said, "Sir Peregrine was blowing his top about you yesterday."

"Blowing his top?" asked Rudyard Philips. "I can't believe that."

"Can't you? He seemed very steamed up indeed. He seemed to think that if you had half a chance you might do something rash, just to make him look silly."

Rudyard Philips took a long time to reply. Then he said, "I believe he can easily manage to look silly without any extra help from me."

"You don't really think that," teased Catriona. "Or do you?"

Slowly, Rudyard Philips circled around the stateroom until he was standing only a few feet behind Catriona with his arms folded and his face as inscrutable as a terracotta jug. Catriona felt that if she were to unbutton his uniform jacket, she would discover that his chest was absolutely white. Only his face would have been exposed to years of wind and salt and seawater. The rest of his body, under his uniform, would be as pale as that of a prisoner serving a life-sentence.

"I usually keep my opinions of Sir Peregrine to myself," he said. "If you work for Keys Shipping, it's wiser."

"You don't get on with him, then?"

"That's not what I said."

"But if you have opinions about Sir Peregrine, they must be either adverse or favourable. Which are yours? Sir Peregrine's opinions about you are definitely adverse."

"Yes?"

"Oh, certainly. Sir Peregrine seems to think that if there was an emergency you might put your ambition first and the safety of the Arcadia second."

Rudyard Philips tried a smile, but failed. "And you believe him?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. I don't think you'd have the je-ne-sais-quoi."

There was a difficult silence. Catriona watched Rudyard Philips through the smoke of her cigarette and kept on smiling. There was something so awkward and uncomplicated about him that she couldn't resist a naughty and almost uncontrollable urge to tease him. It was like prodding a bull with a sharp stick just to watch it toss its head in frustration, and ripple its brutish muscles.

"You're not stirring the pot a little, are you, Miss Keys?" Rudyard Philips asked her.

"I could be," said Catriona.

"There's no need," Rudyard Philips told her. "Sir Peregrine's a fine commodore and a good captain. Don't make any mistakes about that. The passengers think the world of him."

He is a boozer, though?"

I didn't say that. And, in fact, I'd rather you didn't either, with all due respect."

"Oh," said Catriona, pretending to be chastened. "I'm really very sorry. It was just that after what Sir Peregrine said about you, I imagine that you might feel the same sort of way about him."

"He's the captain of this vessel, Miss Keys. Between us, we have the largest and the most expensive luxury liner in the whole world to take care of."

"I know that. But you don't get on with him very well, do you?"

"He's not a particularly easy man to get on with, Miss Keys. But that's just part of the job. Few great sea captains are very amenable."

Catriona drew long and leisurely on her cigarette. Then she said, "Supposing the ship was in terrible danger, Mr. Philips, and Sir Peregrine was blotto. What would you do?"

"Miss Keys—"

"Supposing, Mr Philips."

Rudyard Philips rubbed at the back of his neck. "Well, the situation's completely hypothetical. But the maritime laws governing that kind of emergency are quite specific. There's even a law which tells you what to do if all your passengers decide to drink seawater and go insane."

"You're very cagey," smiled Catriona.

"You're the mistress of this shipping line, Miss Keys. Sir Peregrine's the commodore. I don't know how else you expect me to behave."

"I don't know either, Mr. Philips," said Catriona. "I really don't know. Do you?"

What Rudyard Philips had failed to grasp, of course, was that Catriona wasn't in the least bit interested in how loyal he might be to Sir Peregrine; or whether he might run the Arcadia on to the nearest shoal of rocks just to show the commodore up for a blundering drunkard. She was simply playing that silly, merciless, question-and-answer game that she used to play with her theatrical friends in London. What would you do if you caught your sister in bed with a blackie? How would you feel if you caught your best friend stealing from your purse? Would you ever sleep with an Old Wykehamist (Answer: No-oo-o -they invariably smell.)

Catriona was only provoking Rudyard Philips, the way that she and Nigel and Bunny Smythe had all provoked each other on those hungover Sunday mornings in Chelsea, mornings of gin slings and mah-jong and "Tiger Rag" on the gramophone.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to excuse me," said Rudyard Philips. "I have to do the rounds of all the cabin-class staterooms by noon. Welcome the paying customers aboard, that kind of thing."

Catriona stood up, and walked across the room trailing smoke behind her. Beneath her feet, the liner was already beginning to roll very slightly and the vase of orchids on the sideboard was vibrating with a hollow rattle. Some ocean liners vibrated so violently that their stewards could only fill the wine-glasses half-full, in case the wine jumped out on the table.

"Are you married, Mr. Philips?" Catriona asked him.

Rudyard Philips slowly raised his eyes. By instinct or by accident, Catriona had touched on his most sensitive emotional toothache. In a curiously congested voice, he said, "Yes. Well, yes."

"Couldn't your wife have come with you? Some of the officers" wives have."

"Yes, I—But, no, she couldn't. She has the two youngsters to look after. She's Chinese, you know. Well, you wouldn't have known that. I met her in Hong Kong, on shore leave from the old HMS Superb. She lives in Runcorn now, with my sister's family. Her real Chinese name is Surprise-Bloom Flower, but I usually call her Toy."

"Surprise-Bloom Flower? That's pretty."

Rudyard Philips gave an odd, brass-band sort of laugh. "Silly names, these Chinese."

Catriona said, "Are you happy, Mr Philips?"

He frowned at her, unsure of what she was actually asking him. But he found it difficult to hold her gaze for long. "I'm content with my commission, thank you," he said, rather stolidly. "I won't pretend that I wasn't disappointed that I didn't get the Arcadia for myself. But, well, she is the new company flagship, and I suppose it was only right that she should go to Sir Peregrine."

"You seem rather down, Mr Philips, that's all," said Catriona.

Rudyard Philips" face betrayed a fleeting wince, a jumbled expression of something overwhelmingly painful; but then he managed a smile, and said, "Everything's very well, thank you, Miss Keys. And I really must be going. Perhaps you'd care for a guided tour of the ship after luncheon? You really ought to see what a fine oceangoing lady you've inherited from your father."

"I'd like that," said Catriona, and then, "Mr. Philips?"

Rudyard Philips by now had already collected his cap and was backing out of the stateroom. "Miss Keys?"

She was trying to say that she was sorry, that she hadn't meant to upset him, but the words remained unspoken in her mouth like tough half-chewed beef that couldn't be swallowed. Instead, she said, "Half past two would be perfect."

Alice, coming out of the bathroom with an emerald-green Turkish towel, said "I've drawn your bath, Miss Keys."

Catriona stood where she was, finishing her cigarette, while Alice waited. She felt really quite rotten for what she had said to Rudyard Philips, although she wasn't exactly sure why. She had upset him, of that she was certain; but whether it was because of the impertinent question that she had asked him, or whether it was because the very mention of Sir Peregrine was enough to make him feel as if his uniform was crowded with itching powder, or whether it was because he was going through a difficult time at home, she just couldn't be sure. Did she really care? Well, perhaps not. He was only a ship's officer, after all, and although Trimmer had said tint on his own ships he was very popular with the ladies, especially the Americans, he seemed to Catriona to be pretty dull. The only trouble was, he had somehow made her feel guilty and cruel, and she didn't like feeling guilty and cruel one bit.

As she went into the bathroom and loosened her sash, she wondered if that was why Nigel hadn't come along with her—because she was too young and merciless. A tease. And yet she couldn't help herself. Teasing amused her, and more important, it was really the only way you could find out the truth about people. It didn't mean that she didn't love people, either.

Stepping into the bath, she caught the aroma of this morning's love making between her thighs. Surreptitiously, like a shoplifter, while Alice was busy setting out the soap and the loofah, she cupped her hand down there, and then lifted her fingers to her nostrils so that she could breath in that mingled musky smell of Nigel. She found it ridiculously arousing.

She closed her eyes while Alice soaped her with magnolia-scented soap—firm slippery fingers massaging her shoulders and her breasts. Then she stood up again, holding on to the art-deco handrail, while Alice meticulously washed away Nigel's last memory. The bathwater sloshed a little as the liner changed course across Liverpool Bay.

After the bath, she sat in the bedroom while Alice combed her hair, sipping at a very cold gin fizz and feeling that flat let-down feeling she always got when she nearly managed a climax but not quite. She wondered how she had ever grown up so outspoken and so unlovable.