Maiden Voyage

EIGHTEEN

By seven o'clock, it had grown prematurely and spectacularly dark. A bank of thundery cumulus had risen from the south-western hills like the dust of an approaching multitude, and a few minutes before seven a sudden wind had sprung up, damp and warm and smelling of rain. The surface of Dublin Bay had grown grey and restless, and a few of the smaller craft which still bobbed around the sheer black walls of the Arcadia's sides had headed for Dun Laoghaire, or further to the north, to Howth Head.

"The great forces of nature, Mr Philips," Sir Peregrine said, with undisguised irritation. "Damn and blind them."

"Thundery showers were forecast, sir," said Rudyard, as the first fat drops of rain splattered on to the windows of the wheelhouse.

"Forecast? Forecast? Don't know what the devil that's got to do with it. Just because they were forecast doesn't mean I've got to like them, does it?"

"No, sir," said Rudyard, trying to be reasonable.

Sir Peregrine took out his watch and peered at it disapprovingly, as if he were in half a mind to throw it out of the wheelhouse window. There was a marine chronometer on the wheelhouse wall, accurate to within thousandths of a second, but Sir Peregrine would only trust his own watch. His papa had given it to him, on the first day he went to sea, from Harwich. He had never seen his papa again (Hodgkin's Disease), and that memory of his papa, standing on Parkeston Quay in his tall black hat, not smiling, not waving, was the only memory of him that Sir Peregrine had. Why hadn't papa waved? he sometimes thought. He could, at the very least, have waved.

"Are we ready to go, Mr Philips?" asked Sir Peregrine. "All passengers aboard, all lines clear? Got rid of all those Irish hooligans, have we?"

"We're ready to leave on time, sir," said Rudyard flatly. "Twenty-hundred hours precisely."

"Twenty-hundred hours," growled Sir Peregrine. "Another hour of lolly-gagging about, just to please those mad ginger-haired Fenians. I would rather hare anchored off Semarang, in the middle of the fever season. At least the bloody Javanese don't go mad on purpose."

"Yes, sir," said Rudyard, with considerable patience. He had knocked at Mademoiselle Narron's stateroom earlier on, but there had been no reply. Perhaps she had been shopping, or promenading, or taking tea, but whatever it was, he was now going to have to spend six or seven hours more in stifled uncertainty, before he would have the time or the opportunity to face her again.

The sky was now so thunderous that Sir Peregrine ordered all the ship's deck lights lit, as well as the decorative lights that outlined the masts and the funnels and the rigging. Somebody on shore must have taken this as a signal that the Arcadia was preparing to get under way, because almost instantly there was a distant crackling and popping, and a sparkling array of red and gold fireworks were set off on the shores of Dun Laoghaire.

"Damned fools," complained Sir Peregrine.

The banquet had been arranged for eight-thirty, half an hour after the Arcadia left Dublin Bay. In the first-class staterooms, men were already standing with pained expressions on their faces, their arms rigidly by their sides, while stewards with their tongues clenched between their teeth tried to tie their bow-ties for them. Enough hot water had been expended on bathing the first-class passengers alone to float a small fishing-boat with a draft of seven feet. The air was dense with Isabey perfume and Klida face powder and Petrole Hahn for those ladies who wanted l'ondulation in their hair. There was a feeling of excitement on every level of the entire nine-storey liner, a warmly muted hubbub as more than two thousand people prepared to celebrate their first night at sea together on the world's largest and most lavish ship. Now, it would be real sea, too, not just the narrow confines of the Irish Sea and St George's Channel. When the sun woke them tomorrow morning, after their night of dancing and eating and celebrating, they would be well out into the Atlantic, and the Arcadia would be cleaving through the waves at full speed on her way to New York.

Julius Fields, the celebrated American travel writer and bon viveur, wrote in the red alligator-skin notepad which Keys Shipping had supplied gratis to all first-class passengers that "the sibilant sound of 150 wealthy ladies simultaneously slipping their pate and perfumed thighs into 150 pairs of pure silk step-ins by Jeanne Lanvin must have been enough to set a mate grasshopper's teeth on edge."

In the Grand Lounge, the stewards were giving the tables a last polish, setting out clean chromium-plated ashtrays, and making sure that everyone would have fresh dishes of cashews, pecans, and pistachios. In the kitchens it was like Hades—noisier and steamier than ever, with Monsieur Vincent close to total explosion, and his chefs clattering away at their ovens with a sound like three hundred suits of armour being thrown down a flight of stairs. In the first-class dining saloon, fresh orchids, trembling with moisture, were being arrayed in silver art-deco vases on every table.

The dinners that were being arranged in the second- and third-class saloons were almost as elaborate. In second, there were sprays of summer flowers from English gardens, and the passengers would feed on oxtail soup, salad, ices, and a choice of roasted sucking-pig or beef Wellington. A small jazz band, called for the occasion the Arcadia Syncopated Jass Quintet, would play the latest hits while the second-class passengers dined, and then they would be entertained into the night by the Ted Bagtey Sextet. In third, there would be chicken, and roast beef, and, oddly, Christmas crackers. Business suits and day dresses would, of course, be acceptable in third class. The menu said "Dress, Informal'.

White Sir Peregrine fretted on the bridge, Catriona was in her stateroom getting ready. At seven o'clock on the very dot, Trimmer came in with a silver tray, on which were laid a selection of tiny appetisers, red and black caviar, macadamia nuts, and crisply-fried balls of breadcrumbs filled with chilled French cheeses. Trimmer then mixed Catriona a very cold shaker of gin-and-bitters, which he left on the sideboard for Alice to pour out. "I don't want to hoffend by dodging hin and hout," he explained. Catriona said, "That's hall right," and giggled. Trimmer seemed to take her teasing in good humour.

Catriona felt fizzy with anticipation, and couldn't stop talking. Tonight, she was going to wear a silver lace evening dress by Beer, scooped right down to the belt at the front and under the arms, and worn over a silver slip. The dress was sewn with hundreds of rhinestones, and fell to just above the ankles. She would wear silver lace-trimmed suppers with it, huge pearl and diamond hoop earrings, and a headdress of opals, diamonds, and pearls.

She had tried to pretend to herself that she wasn't interested in attracting Mark Beeney tonight—that she was doing nothing more than playing a glamorous and spectacular charade, for the benefit of the family and the Keys Shipping Line. But after two gin-and-bitters the pretence seemed silly. She had always been the most outspoken girl in her class, hadn't she? And her vitriolic directness had been the prime cause of most of her arguments with her father, not to mention those Sunday morning rows she used to have with Nigel, when (hung over, tired, and sexually satiated) she had told him exactly how effete he was, and how hopeless, and how he would never amount to anything in the West End, and especially not on Broadway. Surely she could be just as direct with herself, and admit that Mark Beeney was the most alluring and alarming man she had ever come across. His absurdly good looks were like a whirlpool, drawing her closer and closer, despite every sensible objection she could raise. Yes, he was dangerous. Yes, he was already accompanied by a pretty lady companion. Yes, he was rich, and probably a playboy of the worst kind. Yes, he was a show-off. But, my God, didn't he have presence! He gave off the scent of Dangerous Male as if it were a cologne. And no matter how much she protested to herself while she sat in front of her dressing-table and touched up the mascara on her eyelashes, she knew that it was not her sensible Little Miss Muffet intellect that was going to decide what she did tonight; it was her incendiary sense of romance, and her steeple-chasing pulse. Mark had excited her so much simply by kissing her that she had gone back to her stateroom after she had left him and urinated in fits and starts, thinking of nothing but him. She hated him already for making her feel so giddy and so uncontrolled, and that was the very best start that any affair could have.

Early diners were already promenading on the first-class deck and peering tentatively around the Grand Lounge for cocktails when Sir Peregrine, in the wheelhouse, received a message from the harbourmaster at Dublin that he could now depart. He was advised, however, to proceed at no more than four knots until he was three miles out from Dun Laoghaire, on account of the large numbers of sightseeing boats and small fishing smacks which were crowding the coastal waters. The harbourmaster added—in Morse code, of course—that he wished the Arcadia a calm sea, a glorious trip, and the protection of King Neptune. Sir Peregrine crumpled up the telegraph message and slapped it back into the hand of the wireless operator. "What the devil do they think this is?" he snapped. "Some kind of damned mythical Odyssey? The next thing we know, they'll be telling us to watch out for sirens, and to lash ourselves to the funnels with cotton-wool in our ears."

Rudyard Philips could see his own face reflected in the dark glass of the wheelhouse window, like a Shakespearian ghost. "Yes, sir," he could watch himself mouthing. He felt as if he wasn't himself at all.

"Well, then, weigh the anchors, and let's get going," said Sir Peregrine tetchily. "Slow ahead for one mile, Mr Philips, then full ahead. Let's show these Irish barbarians what a modern express liner can do."

"There is a small vessels warning, sir."

"Of course there is. But there won't be anything further than a mile out; and, besides, with all these damned lights on, they'll have to be stone blind not to see us coming. The sooner we get clear of Ireland and out into the open channel the better."

"But, with all respect, sir—"

"Don't argue, Mr Philips. I won't be argued with. On your own ship, you can make whatever mistakes you want. On this ship, you're my first officer, and I don't expect you to argue."

"Very good, sir."

"Very good yourself, Mr Philips. Now, carry on. I have to finish getting ready for dinner."

The wind was freckled with rain as the Arcadia's immense anchors were lifted from the seabed and hauled on board by electric winches. Slowly, with three majestic blasts on her foghorns, she moved away from her mooring, and began to sail south-eastwards into the metallic darkness, a sheer-sided palace of lights.

The effect, in that blackest of summer thunderstorms, was extraordinary, and many of those watching the Arcadia's departure from small dinghies and sailing-boats found it difficult to believe that what they were witnessing was real. "It was as if a whole seaside town had suddenly detached itself from the greater bulk of Ireland, and moved mysteriously off into the night," wrote the chief correspondent for the Dublin Examiner. Another reporter found scribbled in his rain-spotted note book the following morning, "If I had drunk three more Guinness than I actually had, I might well have piped my eye. If you're the kind of fellow who likes your moments momentous, and your grandeur grand, then the Arcadia's sailing was for you and no mistake."

And another correspondent, for the Dundalk Courier, said, "I have seen fairyland, and it works."

Rudyard Philips stood in the wheelhouse, looking out over the reaches of the night with his hands clasped resolutely behind his back.

As the Arcadia sailed clear of the shelter of Dun Laoghaire, and out into the Irish Sea once more, he could feel the deck begin the first exploratory dips and rolls of a long ocean voyage, like a young girl stepping out on her first dance. With her four well-balanced four-bladed screws, the Arcadia did not vibrate badly, but on the first leg of their journey Rudyard had already noticed a kind of musical hum, as the decks and the woodwork and the metal fittings all harmonised to the deeper note of the oil-fired turbines.

There were still a few small boats scattered around in the darkness, and one or two of them let off coloured flares, red and white, which sparkled and then died away. Rudyard ordered the helmsman to answer them with a quick whoop on the foghorn. The helmsman said, "One mile out, Mr Philips, sir."

Sir Peregrine was still in his cabin. Rudyard stared out of the window in front of him for a long while, saying nothing; but then he ordered firmly, "Steady as she goes. Four knots." There were still one or two tiny lights bobbing around them, and however speedily Sir Peregrine wanted to escape from Irish waters, Rudyard considered that the Dublin harbourmaster's warning should be taken seriously. He would wait until they were clear of Eire's territorial waters before he ordered full speed.

At that moment, however, the speaking-tube whistle blew, and Rudyard leaned forward to answer it.

"Mr Philips?" came Sir Peregrine's echoing voice. "I'd be obliged to see you in my quarters."

Rudyard said to the helmsman, "Hold her steady," and left the wheelhouse to walk along to Sir Peregrine's cabin. He knocked at the door, and waited until Sir Peregrine irascibly shouted, "Yes? Don't stand there all night!"

Sir Peregrine was dressed in full formal uniform, medals, gold epaulets, and white wing collar. His white hair was combed into shining furrows with brilliantine, and there was a small cut on his left cheekbone from shaving.

"Isn't it time we stopped dawdling, Mr Philips?" he wanted to know.

"We're not quite clear of the small craft yet, sir," said Rudyard.

Sir Peregrine went to the porthole and peered savagely out. "What small craft? Those? A couple of decrepit herring boats, that's all they are, and they must be three miles away if they're an inch."

"There are others, sir," insisted Rudyard. "They're difficult to see with the rain blowing athwart us like this."

"They might be difficult for us to see," replied Sir Peregrine, with ill-controlled ire, "but we, Mr Philips, are about as invisible as Harrods at Christmas. We'll have full ahead, please, as I instructed; and any more of this tomfoolery will result in my ordering you off my bridge for the remainder of the voyage, if I make myself clear. Where's Mr. Charles?"

"In the chart-room, sir."

"Very well. Have Mr. Charles take over and get yourself ready for dinner. If you can't sail a ship, at the very least you can make yourself pleasant to the passengers."

"Sir, I—"

Sir Peregrine lifted a bony, well-manicured hand. "Enough, thank you, Mr Philips. Desist."

Rudyard steadied himself with a deep breath. "Yes, sir. Very well, sir. Thank you, sir," he rattled off, as if he were reciting a series of Hail Marys for the forgiveness of his insubordination. Sir Peregrine nodded in lemony satisfaction, and then said, "Did they bring up my Evian water yet? It's very thirsty work, dressing for dinner."

Rudyard walked through the chart room to the corridor which led to his cabin. Dick Charles was in there, his feet up on the table,

reading a copy of Pictorial Weekly (twopence) and drinking tea. "The old man wants you," said Rudyard, shortly. Dick put his magazine down and brushed biscuit crumbs from his uniform. "I h-hope he doesn't w-want me to w-welcome the p—the p—the passengers," he said. "I'm terrified I'm going to run into that Lady Diana FitzP—FitzP—"

"I know who you mean," said Rudyard, tiredly. "But I shouldn't worry too much. She'll probably be snapped up by the time you get down to dinner."

At that very moment, though, Monty Willowby poked his head through the chartroom door and said, "Mr Charles? Mr Peel said you might be interested to know that Lady Diana FitzPerry has specifically requested to sit at your table tonight. Cocktails sharp at eight-thirty, please, gentlemen. Dinner sharp at nine."

Dick Charles stared at his mug of tea unhappily.

"I think the arrer of true love has stuck itself in your heart at last, Mr Charles," smiled Monty Willowby.

When he had gone, Rudyard said, "Yes, come on, Dick. There must be worse things than being fancied by the hottest go-er in Westminster."

"I suppose so," said Dick, without much enthusiasm.

"Think about it as a duty," Rudyard suggested. "Arduous but not unpleasant."

"Hunh!" Dick protested. "It's all r-right for y-you! You're m-married."

Rudyard looked at him quickly, and then, more slowly, down at the floor. "Yes," he said, in a small voice. "I suppose you might say that I am."

The awkward silence that followed was interrupted by Monty Willowby, who popped his head in again and said, "Begging your pardon, Mr Charles, but Mr Peel told me to say that he has heard how certain talents as practised by Lady Diana FitzPerry could be beneficial for speech impediments. If you see what he means, sir."

Rudyard couldn't help laughing. Dick threw his magazine at Monty Willowby with a loud flutter of pages. It fell open on the floor at a saucy photograph of Lois Byrd, of Mack Sennett comedy fame. "How's this for a bit to eat?" the caption read.

Rudyard went through to the wheelhouse, and passed on Sir Peregrine's instructions for full speed. Now the Arcadia's reciprocating engines began to build up power, with a deep and noticeable drumming sound that gradually awakened the passengers to the fact that they were really on their way, and that they would soon be sailing at more then twenty-six knots. Catriona asked Alice to open one of her portholes, so that she could hear the splashing of the liner's sharp bows as she cut into the choppy water of the Irish Sea. A smell of brine and fuel-oil and summer rain blew into the stateroom, and mingled with the perfume.

It would take three or four miles for the Arcadia to build up to her full cruising speed, just as it would take over a mile and a half to stop her dead, in case of emergency. Even though she was 960 feet long—longer than the Woolworth Building would have been if it were laid on its side—she could pass a given point when she was sailing at twenty knots, from her sharp-bladed bows to the flag on her overhanging stern counter, in a fraction over twenty-nine seconds.

Two miles out from the Irish coast, the Arcadia was making only eight or nine knots, but that was still fast for a vessel her size in coastal water. Sir Peregrine had left his cabin now, and descended to the Grand Lounge with Edgar Deacon, Percy Fearson, Ralph Peel, and the rest of his officers, where they began to greet the assembling passengers. The ship's orchestra was playing a mildly syncopated version of one of Chopin's mazurkas, while stewards balanced between the guests like jugglers with trays of champagne. The array of evening dresses was spectacular—so spectacular that it looked as if every diamond and ruby and emerald mine had been plundered simply for the decoration of tonight's gowns; and as if every species of exotic bird had been plucked of its plumage. There were stunning creations by Paquin, Doeuillet, Paul Poiret, and Worth, all of them in ravishing colours and fabrics that shimmered in the light from the chandeliers.

"I felt as if the rest of the world had been stripped of everything of value, regardless of how naked and shabby it might have been left, for no other reason than to make this banquet and ball the most dazzling concentration of human wealth and beauty that there had ever been," wrote Julius Briggs. "So, there was no gold left in South Africa? So, birds of Paradise were struggling to fly without their tail-feathers? So, a thousand civet cats had been tortured for their perfumed oils? So, art galleries had been stripped, leopards slaughtered, whole mountains demolished for their quartz? Who cared? Tonight, on this enchanted ship, we cared only for tonight."