Maiden Voyage

TWELVE

Rudyard Philips had gone straight to the officers" promenade deck on the port side of the boat deck next to the gymnasium, and lit up a cigarette, Wills Gold Flake. He had drawn the coarse tobacco smoke deep into his lungs, held it, and then exhaled it into the wind with all the fierceness of a fire-eater. He felt steadier now, although he was still trembling. His breakfast of sausages and fried eggs and grilled tomatoes was lying half-digested in the whisky he had drunk when he came off watch in the early hours of the morning. He felt like vomiting; but with several first-class passengers already strolling on the adjacent deck, that was the last thing he could allow himself to do. Contrary to company literature, ship's officers were quite often seasick, but never in front of the passengers.

The Arcadia was making her stately way across Liverpool Bay, leaving her home port behind her in the shining haze of a summer day, and sailing parallel to the north coast of Wales. In a little while she would be passing Prestatyn, and then skirting Anglesey on her route across the Irish Sea to Dublin. There were still crowds of yachts and steamboats and pleasure-craft all around her, their crews waving handkerchiefs and cheering and taking photographs with box Brownies, and the holiday mood was infecting everyone. From the Palm Court on the first-class promenade deck, where some of the mid-morning strollers had already paused for champagne, ham sandwiches, eight different varieties of English cheese, celery, olives and Bath Oliver biscuits, came the warbling of a jazz clarinet, and the strumming of a hot banjo; and the voices of the steerage could be heard against the breeze, singing that old American comic song "Under the Anheuser Bush."

The Arcadia's maiden voyage was to be a four-day party, and each night was to be crowned by balls and banquets. But for Rudyard a it was an ocean-going wake, a celebration of the death of his marriage. He had learned three days before the Arcadia was due to sail that his wife Toy had a lover, and that she was thinking of leaving him.

He couldn't blame her, he supposed. He was usually away for weeks on end, leaving her with the full responsibility of looking after Matthew and Janet. She was alone in a strange suburb, a delicate and educated Chinese girl in a terrace of English redbrick villas, with nobody to talk to but surly shopkeepers and Rudyard's sister, who I friendly, yes—friendly to the point of frenzy—but no company a all with her endless chatter about knitting patterns and coal prices and neighbourhood scandals for a girl who liked poetry and serene landscapes and flying kites.

There was no chance that Toy could have kept Laurence a secret for very long. Nobody had secrets in Warrington Avenue: especially when the secret was a vigorous, lean, long-haired university professor with a red Austin Chummy tourer and a multi-coloured scarf that must have been twenty feet long. Laurence had met Toy at a bus stop in Runcorn, one day when it was raining, and given her a ride. Then he had started taking her out at weekends, for drives to Chester and Ellesmere Port and once even to Mostyn. They had talked about Lao-tzu and Chuang-tzu and the silk paintings of the Sung dynasty. Then their conversation had turned to the erotic Tao novel Ch"Ing P"Ing Mei, and at last their conversation had turned to gasps and kisses in the professor's bed-sitting room in Birkenhead. Matthew and Janet were already calling him "Uncle Laurence" by the time Rudyard came home on leave before joining the Arcadia's maiden voyage. Toy had cried and asked Rudyard to forgive her. Rudyard, just like a British officer, just like a pompous self-righteous Boys" Own idiot, had punched her and bruised her cheek. He still went hot when he thought about it. To have punched Surprise-Bloom Flower had been nothing less than madness. Because here he was on the promenade deck of the Arcadia, forty-five minutes out of Liverpool, smoking a cigarette and feeling sick, with nobody to go home to.

Meeting Catriona had been just about the last straw. He had expected Stanley Keys" only daughter to be strong; but he had also expected her to be plain and practical, and to talk to him about bollards, and windlasses, and wear beige Fair Isle cardigans. Instead, she had turned out to be waspish and perfumed and slanty-eyed, and to have that intense femininity about her that had first attracted him to Surprise-Bloom Flower. Catriona Keys had both stimulated and humiliated him, and he wasn't sure whether he felt angrier with her than he did with himself; it was a close-run thing.

Just then, one of the stewards came out on the promenade deck, a gingery-haired fairy called McNulty. He shrieked against the wind, "Mr. Philips, sir! Mr. Philips, sir! Problems!"

Rudyard tossed his cigarette over the rail, and went back inside. McNulty was hot and excited and smelled of lavender-water, and he stood much closer to Rudyard than he needed to. "It's Mademoiselle Narron, sir. The opera-singer lady. She's locked herself in her stateroom and she's sobbing fit to bust. Mr. Willowby's worried she's going to do something drastic."

"You've got your pass-key, haven't you?" Rudyard demanded.

"Mademoiselle's jammed the lock somehow. Don't know how, sir. We've tried everything."

Rudyard hurried down the first-class staircase, beaming reassuringly to the passengers with whom he almost collided on the way. Then he was half-running down the long maroon-carpeted corridor, holding the peak of his cap to stop it falling off. On either side of him, in eurhythmic poses, naked girls cast out of stainless steel were holding up frosted-glass lamps, their eyes closed in 20th century ecstasy. Through half-open stateroom doors, he glimpsed mink coats laid out on beds; and tail-coats being shaken out for the evening. The whole length of this corridor was stuffy with French perfumes and expensive colognes, and with that inimitable aroma of real leather and real fur and real vicuna that always seems to accompany the very wealthy, a laconic haze of authenticity.

Mademoiselle Narron's stateroom was at the very end of the corridor, underneath the wheelhouse. Monty Willowby the purser was there, as well as Dick Charles the fourth officer, two stewards, and one of the first-class maids, Iris.

"Ah, Mr. Philips," said Monty Willowby. "Glad you could come so promtly. Seems like a case of the artistic hystericals, unless I'm mistaken. You wouldn't have remembered Mr. Caruso, on the Eximious, would you? Quite vocal, he got. Crying, and singing "Vesti la giubba'. We had to break down the door and give him cold tea with comfrey in it."

"We are not breaking down this door," said Rudyard. "Not if we can help it."

"I've t-t-tried p-p-pleading with her, s-s-sir," put in Dick Charles.

Rudyard tried to imagine Dick Charles pleading with anybody, even with Jesus, and didn't find the thought particularly inspiring. Not that Dick was lacking in any of the other qualities that made an excellent fourth officer. He was clever, confident, and responsible. He was good with children, especially first-class children. It was just that his interminable stutter tried everybody's patience to the utmost. In Monty Willowby's words, "You could drink fourpence-worth of Guinness and eat a sixpenny ham sandwich in between "w" and "would you like some luncheon?" "

Monty Willowby, of course, was a species unto himself. The purser on a huge luxury liner like the Arcadia was as near to being an emperor as it was possible to be without actually owning India. He was in charge of the entire corps of stewards and stewardesses, and of everything social, recreational, and financial. He sat on the summit of a busy pyramid of tips, back-handers, pourboires, bets, and out-and-out bribes. When a wealthy passenger gave him a sizeable gratuity to ensure special and prompt attention, Monty Willowby in turn would tip the bedroom-steward concerned, and the bedroom-steward in his turn would tip the chambermaids and the pantrymen, and the pantrymen would tip the chefs. In most good travel guides that year, 1924, it was suggested to first-class passengers on front-rank liners like the Arcadia and the Mauretania that they should calculate on spending a sum equal to at least five per cent of their total fare on tips. Bedroom-stewards should be tipped the most; dining-stewards sixpence less.

But whatever was paid out, whether it was a shilling for setting out deckchairs or threepence for carving an extra slice of rare roast beef, Monty Willowby would collect his tithe. He was stout, loud, and authoritative, with fiery red cheeks that looked hot to the touch, and a moustache like an explosion in a horsehair sofa. He had served as a sergeant-major at Ypres and Passchendaele, and shot eleven Bosch. He proudly claimed that his wife Violet had the fattest bottom in the North of England. "My Yorkshire mare," he called her. If he made less than 750 pounds in tips and bribes on a one-way trip to New York, he considered that times were thin. That was his pet phrase. "Times is thin, Mr. Philips. Times is very thin."

Now, however, with the greatest diva of the decade sobbing and locked irremovably in her stateroom, Monty Willowby's times were more awkward than thin. Shouting through the keyhole in a stentorian voice had brought no results; nor had the promise of complimentary champagne and free Floris chocolates. After bullying and bribery, Monty Willowby had nothing left in his diplomatic quiver except to call for an officer. That was why he had sent for Rudyard Philips. "Officers is paid to impress the passengers. That's what officers is paid for. It don't matter a shit if they can't sail a duck in a bathtub, as long as they impress."

"McNulty tells me you've tried the pass key," said Rudyard.

"Without avail, sir," nodded Monty Willowby. "I think as how she's crammed up the keyhole with pieces of writing-paper."

Rudyard listened at the door. When Monty Willowby tried to speak again, he raised his hand to silence him. From inside the stateroom, he could hear faint whimpers of anguish, interrupted by an occasional cough. He hoped to God that Mademoiselle Narron wasn't taking sleeping-tablets, or anything hysterical like that. But she certainly didn't sound as if she were gargling for the good of her vocal chords, or practising her Caruso sob.

"Go and break out a fire-axe," Rudyard told one of the stewards. "I don't want to smash down the door, but I may be obliged to."

Dick Charles said, "I p-p-peeped in through the pp-p-porthole, b-b-but she'd p-p-p—she'd p-p-p-p—she'd p-p-p-p—"

Everybody waited in high tension as Dick Charles stood staring at them, his tongue poised on the tip of his teeth, his whole being concentrated on pronouncing that one unutterable "p'. He was fourth officer, so none of the stewards could think of interrupting him, and Rudyard was far too sympathetic to finish his sentence.

"Pulled down the blind," said Dick Charles, quite suddenly, as if sentences like that rolled off his tongue all the time. Monty Willowby puffed out his cheeks in relief.

Rudyard knocked loudly at Mademoiselle Narron's door. "Mademoiselle Narron! Mademoiselle Narron! Can you hear me, Mademoiselle Narron?"

There were renewed sobs, immediately followed by a peculiar gag-ging sound.

"Mademoiselle Narron! It's Mr. Philips, the first officer! Are you in difficulty? Mademoiselle Narron!"

"Go away!" shrieked the diva. "I wish only to die!"

Rudyard looked at Monty Willowby and both of them pulled their mouths down. "What did I tell you?" said Monty. "The artistic hystericals, in full flight. There's always one of them. Last trip I did on the Excellent, we had an Italian juggler who threw himself into the sea with his pockets full of cutlery, to help him sink."

"That's enough, Mr Willowby," said Rudyard. He was on his knees in front of the door now with his Swiss Army penknife. With one of the thinner blades, he was poking at the lock, trying to extricate the crumpled-up pieces of paper which Mademoiselle Narron had forced into it.

"Go away!" called Mademoiselle Narron, even more histrionically. "I want to be alone with myself! I wish only death!"

McNulty was quite disappointed when Rudyard managed to push the paper out, and quickly thrust the key in the lock: he had been looking forward to swinging at Mademoiselle Narron's maple-veneered door with the fire-axe. Rudyard slammed the door wide and there on her chaise-longue was the celebrated dramatic soprano, frighteningly upright, far taller than any of them had expected, in an astonishing Wagnerian costume of silvered drapery. Her bare wrists were held out in front of her, and both of them were slashed, so that her dark blood was dripping on to the crimson lake carpet, red on red.

She stood up, her eyes wide and wild. She was nearly six feet tall, and on top of her red frizzy hair she wore a high silver headdress with silver-painted ferns and silver sleigh-bells on it, so that she appeared even taller. Her costume was the one she had worn as Freia in The Rhinegold, and she wore it now as she had worn it at the Metropolitan during the season of 1922, with one white gigantic breast exposed. That one breast alone, thought Rudyard, as he stood in front of the towering Mademoiselle Narron feeling absurdly short and intimidated, that one breast alone is bigger than my head.

It was then that Mademoiselle Narron swayed, her headdress jingling, and collapsed. Rudyard tried to catch her and support her, but she must have weighed 170 pounds, and she toppled him over as well.

"Mr. Willowby, go and find Dr. Fields!" Rudyard ordered, struggling under Mademoiselle Narron's weight. "McNulty, give me a hand here. Mr. Charles, tear up that tablecloth for bandages!"

Between them, they lifted the soprano on to the blood-spattered chaise-longue, and tied up her wrists with strips of Irish linen. The cuts were only superficial: Mademoiselle Narron hadn't succeeded in slicing into any of the larger veins. Rudyard picked up a gory Gillette razor-blade, and handed it to McNulty.

"Let's get her into bed," said Rudyard. "Iris, would you raise the blinds please? I'd like some light on the subject."

Mademoiselle Narron's suite was decorated to represent "Sweetness', with walls lined in pink moire silk, and pink marble furniture. Her bed was French, painted pink and white, with carved cupids and bows across the headboard. For a woman so large, the decor seemed incongruously fussy and pretty, and for a woman who had tried to slash her wrists, cupids and hearts seemed ironic. But when Iris had wrestled off her headdress, and they had managed between them to cover her up with her pink and white silk counterpane, Mademoiselle Narron lay there with her eyes closed and her red pre-Raphaelite hair spread out on the pink satin pillow, and Rudyard with surprise realised that she was an extremely handsome woman. She had a firm square opera-singer's jaw, but good cheekbones, and a long straight nose. Her lips, which she had painted the same pink as the walls, were curved and full.

Monty Willowby came back with Dr. Fields. A ship's doctor for Keys Shipping for over fifteen years, Dr. Fields still retained his Harley Street hauteur, and wore grey morning coats and grey silk him with gates ajar collars. He sat down on the edge of the diva's bed and examined her through his half-glasses as if he couldn't decide whether to take Mademoiselle's temperature or recite Charles Lamb on convalescence. He had been known to do either, or both. "Sickness enlarges the dimensions of one's self to oneself," he would say.

"She tried to kill herself," said Rudyard helpfully.

"Hmm," said Dr Fields. "Not very successfully, even by operatic standards. Opera singers make very poor suicides, you know. Did you know that? Similarly, trawlermen. Don't ask me why. Are you awake, my dear Mademoiselle Narron?"

Mademoiselle Narron's eyes flickered, and then opened. They were a pale translucent green, but very expressive and intense.

"I passed out," she said. "What happened?"

Dr. Field raised one of her bloody wrists so that she could see it. "I fear that you attempted to diminish your enjoyment of this voyage by cutting your wrists."

The diva nodded, slowly. "Yes," she said. "I wished for death. It was oblivion I wanted."

"Oblivion? Well," sniffed Dr Field. "If it was oblivion you wanted, I could have prescribed it for you. At least my kind of oblivion is only temporary. "And if I drink oblivion of a day, So shorten I the stature of my soul." George Meredith that was. Rotten writer. Couldn't stand the man. Would you like some pills to help you calm yourself down?"

"I don't think so," said Mademoiselle Narron. "I think—" she raised both her wrists and stared at them—"I think I will not try this again."

"Well, that's capital," said Dr. Fields. "I'll send up the nurse to tidy up your dressings. But just remember, if there's anything at all I can do, I'm always on call to assist. So is the ship's chaplain, Mr. Porrit. Strange chap, though, bit of a fundamentalist. If I were you, I'd give the hospital a call first, as a rule, before the chapel."

Rudyard stayed by Mademoiselle's bedside after everyone had left. Their only chaperone was Iris, who was doing her best to scrub the soprano's blood out of the carpet. Mademoiselle Narron closed her eyes for a while, as the sunlight moved gradually across the bedroom, and for a minute or two she slept. But then she opened her eyes again and Rudyard was still there.

"You can leave me now" she said softly. "I think I have learned my lesson. I was acting, you see, acting a part. But my suicide was only acting, too."

"You felt upset about something, though," said Rudyard.

Mademoiselle Narron smiled wanly.

"Someone you had to leave behind?" asked Rudyard.

She nodded.

Rudyard stood up and paced across the bedroom to the porthole. Outside, the sea was sparkling like smashed glass.

"I had to leave someone behind, too," he said, with his back to her. His throat felt unexpectedly dry.

"Someone you loved?" she asked him.

"That's right. Someone I loved. Someone I thought would always love me. But, well... that wasn't to be."

"You couldn't have stayed behind, to mend your love with her?"

"And miss this voyage? Not a chance. Besides, I don't think there's anything left to mend. You can't put a broken teapot back together again if you don't have the pieces, can you?"

Mademoiselle Narron said, "I'm sorry. Your heart must hurt like mine."

Rudyard looked down at his gold-braided cap. "I shouldn't have told you," he said. "You're here to enjoy yourself, not listen to problems. But if there's anything I can do—well, you know. I just want you to know that I understand."

"You're a sad man," said Mademoiselle Narron.

"Only when I'm off duty," Rudyard told her, attempting a smile.

"You know something," she said, "I had to leave behind in England a man I thought would stay with me forever. But, he went back to his wife and his children; and all of a sudden the dream that I thought was going to last for the rest of my life was vanished for ever. I wake up in the morning now and I fed pain. Do you know that pain? I never thought that you could suffer real physical pain from losing someone."

Rudyard checked his watch. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm very late already. If there's anything more you need, your bedroom steward will help you. But I'll come back later."

Mademoiselle Narron reached out her hand. "Why don't we help each other, you and I?" she said. "Just for the duration of this voyage, no longer. We are both sharing a ship, and sharing a heartache."

Rudyard hesitated for a moment, and then came across and took Mademoiselle Narron's hand. He squeezed it gently, and said, "All right. If that's what you wish. If you'll have me."

"It's what I wish," she said softly.

Iris was standing in the doorway, watching them. When Rudyard noticed that she was there, he put on his cap, saluted Mademoiselle Narron, and left the stateroom.

Mademoiselle Narron looked down at her freshly-bandaged wrists and sighed. Now she would be able to wear so few of her beautiful evening gowns. She thought of Raymond. Raymond's hawklike profile, with that stray piece of grey hair that fell over his forehead when he played his cello. She thought of Raymond's kisses, Raymond's musical lovemaking. But she thought, too, of that ugly a scene in his friend's rented flat in Kensington, and how he had deserted her, walked off, in spite of everything that he had promised.

She began to sing, very softly, the part of Elvira from I Puritani, and in the next room Iris raised her head like a curious starling to listen.