Maiden Voyage

TWENTY-SEVEN

Catriona arrived in the Grand Lounge five minutes late for the fashion show. It was not that she actually felt sick: it was just that the cup of tea she had drunk after Alice had awakened her seemed to be tilting from side to side inside her with every roll the Arcadia rolled.

The decks were very lively now, and there was a waiting list of white-faced cabin-class passengers for Dammert treatment, oxygen and atropine, to settle the inner ear. Those who had fox-trotted and fornicated and drunk champagne until dawn were being punished the most severely, victims of what Second Officer Ralph Peel called "Atlantic justice'. The prettiest flappers and the smartest sheiks were now hanging over the basins in their cabins, their eyes like freshly-opened clams and their hair sticking up like Willy and Wally.

The stewards, of course, were courteous and soothing, and brought beef tea and stomach-settlers with expressions on their faces that could only be compared with 15th century Italian saints. When they met each other in the kitchens and the linen-stores, however, they passed on gleeful gossip about the discomfiture of their wealthy and celebrated charges; and the greatest mirth of all was aroused by the vivid description that Jack Dempsey's steward gave of the wonder boxer groaning out loud and promising God that he would never fight again. "Lord, Lord, I'll never t'row anudder punch, never!"

Catriona had never suffered badly from motion-sickness. She had ridden happily and hilariously on every helter-skelter and whirling caterpillar at the seaside fun fairs to which Nigel had taken her. But even so, the sky outside the Grand Lounge was now ominously stormy, and the Arcadia was making her way through the waves with a peculiar sideways dance, since the sea was running from the southwest and her helmsman was steering her on a northwesterly course.

And as Catriona crossed the floor of the lounge to be greeted by Edgar Deacon and by Monsieur Victor Detain, of the Gazette du Bon Ton, who was organising the fashion parade, she felt an extraordinary sensation of unreality as the deck tilted uphill, paused, and then tilted downhill again.

Just behind Edgar stood George Welterman. He watched Catriona trying to stagger as elegantly as she could towards them, but his expression remained strangely rubbery and unformed, like an empty hot-water bag. Only Percy Fearson stepped forward to give Catriona his hand and steady her.

"There aren't many people here yet," remarked Catriona, looking around. A long roll of maroon carpet had been laid down across the centre of the lounge, and it was lined on either side by two rows of little gilt chairs. But so far, fewer than a third of the chairs were occupied, and fewer than half of the ladies who occupied them were smiling. Every now and then, one of them would get up, carefully set down on her seat the tasselled notepad and silver pencil supplied by Keys Shipping, and hurry biliously away to the Ladies'.

"It is just my luck," said Monsieur Delain. "I organise the most splendid of fashion shows outside France, and what is my reward? A storm, and everybody sick. Even my best mannequin is sick."

"I suppose we'd better start," said Edgar, tiredly. The Arcadia's social director, a normally breezy man called Eric Coleman, was standing on the other side of the lounge with a faraway look, absentmindedly chewing the edge of his clipboard. "Eric!" called Edgar, and when he had caught the social director's attention, he mouthed the word "start'.

Catriona had been looking for Mark Beeney, or for Marcia, but there was no sign of them. Instead, George Welterman stepped forward and loomed close to her and said, "Would you do me the honour of sitting next to me?"

Catriona glanced at Edgar. Nobody else would have known what the blank look on Edgar's face was actually supposed to convey, but Catriona did. It meant, Be nice to George Welterman, if you please. It meant, Every thing's at risk; not just Keys Shipping itself but your family fortune, too, and all of your gorgeous salon dresses and your ritzy South African diamonds. It meant, I didn't make you Queen of the Atlantic for nothing.

"Of course, Mr. Welterman," said Catriona. "The honour is all mine."

"I did ask you to call me George."

Catriona smiled a bright, false smile. "Oh, of course. I'm so sorry. George it is, then."

George Welterman propelled her with the respectful tips of his fingers to one of the little gilt chairs.

"You don't suffer from seasickness?" she asked him, as she sat down.

He shook his head. "Seasickness is all in the imagination."

"And you don't have any imagination?"

He lowered his broad bottom on to the inadequate seat. "You're teasing me," he told her, with no sign of humour, but equably enough to show that he wasn't upset. "Well," he said, "you're a young girl."

"Does that give me a special dispensation to tease you?" Catriona asked him.

"No," he replied. "But it means that I can forgive you more quickly."

"What makes you think that I want to be forgiven?"

George Welterman reached into the cuff of his expensive grey morning suit and pulled out a cream-coloured handkerchief. He dabbed at the sides of his mouth, and then patted his forehead. "You really don't like me?" he asked.

"I didn't say that."

"You said nearly as much. If you don't think it's worth asking my forgiveness for teasing me, then you don't think much of me at all."

Catriona stared at him. Through the middle-aged ambiguity of his face, those disconcertingly youthful eyes stared back at her. He wanted something from her, but she couldn't decide what. Not affection. Not passion. Perhaps it was nothing more than approval. Yet why should such a wealthy and domineering man want the approval of a pretty flapper of twenty-one?

"You seem rather... heavy, that's all," said Catriona. "You don't seem to be the kind of man who likes to depend on people. Not for anything."

"You don't think I ever depended on Myrtle?"

"Myrtle? I don't know. How could I possibly judge?"

"Well, I'll tell you," said George Wetterman, crossing his legs, "I did depend on Myrtle. I depended on Myrtle for my future happiness. Of course it wasn't her fault that she let me down."

"She had muscular dystrophy and you accuse her of letting you down?"

George Welterman waved his big hand dismissively. "I didn't mean E like that. I loved her. As a matter of fact, she looked a whole lot like you do now. That day I first met her, out on the movie lot... she shone like the sun. You have that quality. That shine. You also have Myrtle's sharpness. She could be sharp, you know. She had a temper, too. I knew her so mad one evening that she ripped her evening gown apart'—he made a pulling-apart gesture with his fists—"a Chanel gown that cost me nearly a thousand dollars."

Catriona didn't say anything. Instead, she looked at George Welterman narrowly. He was bulky and strong, and you could tell as soon as you came close to him that he had influence. His shirt cuffs were so starched, and his gold cufflinks were so expensive and yet so hideous, and he smelled so distinctively of masculine sweat and old-fashioned barber-shop shaving lotions, that he couldn't have been anything else but a self-made business mogul. A Big Cheese par excellence.

It was their very ugliness, their very awkwardness, that made men like George Welterman attractive to women. Better-looking men could never understand how any woman could find them even remotely interesting; let alone put up with their brutishness and their ill-temper and their crude sentimental maunderings. But women understood. Women knew what it was about men like George Welterman that made them irresistible. It was their lumpy bodies, their demanding morality, and their knotted-up personalities. There was nothing a woman could find more intriguing than a man with a grudge, or a problem, or a psychological complex, especially when he wanted very little more from her than money, unconditional sympathy, and the occasional grunting bout in bed. Not that any woman, no matter how Intrigued she was, could ever unravel the complexities of George Welterman's mind. She could never understand his peevish day-to complaints, his blinded sense of right and wrong, or his inverted interpretation of human happiness. She would try, of course. Often passionately, usually desperately, but always unsuccessfully. Myrtle Greensleeves had tried, but she had failed, too. Because George Welterman believed that nobody in the world could ever be happy unless they lived the way he lived, and accepted capitalism without question, like he did. Yet he himself was never happy.

This was the paradox about George Welterman which Catriona was already finding interesting, and which compelled her to listen to what he had to say, even though her instincts were jangling warnings to her with every word that he spoke, and every suggestion that he came up with. Then there was his uncompromising ugliness, which stirred up extraordinary thoughts inside her, like: I wonder what he looks like naked. I wonder how it would feel to be assaulted by such a grotesque man. To be utterly sullied by someone so lumpish.

George Welterman said, "The next time I see Myrtle will be at her funeral. Can you imagine that? Well, I guess you can. You've just lost your father, haven't you?"

"Don't you ever write to her, or telephone her?" Catriona asked.

*I write to her every day."

"Does she write back?"

George Welterman glanced at her. "Why is it that women have such a knack for asking exactly the right question?"

"You mean she doesn't?"

George Welterman lowered his head. "No," he said. "Never."

"Do you tell her you love her?" asked Catriona.

"I tell her everything. Where I'm going, what I'm doing, what I'm thinking about. Myrtle is the only person in the whole world to whom I reveal myself completely, and she never answers."

Catriona said, "You don't seem embarrassed to tell people about it."

"Why should I be?"

"I don't know. It all seems rather personal to me, and yet it was almost the first thing you talked about when we were sitting down at dinner last night."

George Welterman shrugged, but didn't say anything.

"Do you want people to feel sorry for you?" asked Catriona.

"People?" queried George Welterman.

"Oh, I'm sorry if I misunderstood," said Catriona, with pursed lips. Do you want me to feel sorry for you?"

"You're a very exceptional young lady," said George Welterman. "You have the ability to understand people, as well as your beauty."

"It was something I inherited from my father. Our only blind spot was we could never understand each other."

George Welterman said, "Would you have cocktails with me later, in my cabin? You can bring your maid, of course, if you want a chaperone."

"Would I need to be chaperoned?"

'lt depends how much of a stickler you are for appearances."

"Oh, I'm always a stickler for appearances."

A string quintet from the ship's orchestra struck up with a cranky little piece by Debussy called "Le Chanson deBulitis', and the sparse audience began to applaud.

George Welterman said, "At six, then? Would that suit you?"

"Six-oh-three," said Catriona teasingly.

George Welterman stared at her for a moment, his eyes unreadable, and then nodded.

The far end of the Grand Lounge had been curtained off with scalloped gold curtains, which were illuminated in green and red, like the proscenium of an Eve Leo picture-palace. Eve Leo was the wife of Mr. Fox of Fox Pictures, and she had already set a worldwide trend by decorating her husband's movie theatres like princely palaces, with epic murals, gilded columns, glittering chandeliers—every imaginable architectural style and sumptuous sensation piled one on top of the other.

Monsieur Detain emerged from the curtains and clapped his hands for attention. "Lords, ladies, gentlemen. Today I was to have presented for you the latest and most secret Paris styles for the fall and for the winter, a preview of several famous collections. Alas, the ocean has not been kind to us, and three of my mannequins are suffering mal de mer." (At the very mention of seasickness, even in a foreign language, yet another lady rose from her little gilt chair and tilted off to the Ladies.) "But with the facilities I have left," continued Monsieur Delain, "I will do my best to please your eye, and to entertain you. The music, please."

It was the most extraordinary fashion show that Catriona had ever attended, although she hadn't attended many. Gorgeously gowned in daring new creations by the cream of Paris designers, five leggy and elegant girls attempted to parade up and down a floor that kept rising and falling and leaning from side to side. One minute they would be toiling up a one-in-six hill; the next they would be tottering on their tiny high-heeled suppers down a slope that was steep enough to launch lifeboats. As the Arcadia rolled, one girl lost her balance and sat down very hard in the lap of Dame Clara Butt, who promptly swallowed the mint imperial she had been surreptitiously sucking and almost choked.

The dresses, though, were fabulous, and could be bought for fabulous prices. Catriona adored a sleeveless dress by Doeuillet of black muslin printed with red and yellow flowers, with a wraparound front which swept all the way down to the very low waistline, where it was fastened in a scarf-like knot. She also made a note of a violet crepe day dress by Lelong, with a three-tiered skirt trimmed with scarlet ribbon, and a plaquet of red ribbon down the bodice. Neither gown would cost less than 700 pounds.

The most stunning dress of the show, though, was unquestionably a black lace evening dress by Doucet, exquisitely fragile, with an overdress with tight sleeves which flared out at the elbow like wilting convolvulus flowers. It was trimmed with diamonds, and its sash was fastened with a silver and garnet buckle.

"You like it?" asked Goerge Welterman, as Catriona applauded.

"It's exquisite," said Catriona. "I love it."

"Then it's yours," said George Welterman. He picked up his silver propelling pencil between his sausage-like fingers, and asked, "Who's the designer?"

"Doucet. But you can't possibly buy it for me."

George Welterman wrote down, "Doosay'. Then he looked at Catriona without smiling at all. "If you really hadn't wanted me to buy it for you, you wouldn't have told me the name of the designer before you refused it."

"So! You're just as hep to human nature as I am," said Catriona.

"I certainly am," nodded George Welterman. "And three times as experienced."

"I suppose, when you've bought it for me, you'll want to see me wearing it?"

"Of course."

Catriona made what she thought was her world-weary-femme-fatale face. Nigel had always thought that it made her look like someone at a party whose eyes had been caught half closed in a Kodak flash photograph. Sexy, but goofy. She said, "It just goes to show, doesn't it? No matter how sophisticated he is, every man comes out with the same old lines."

"So what?" said George Welterman quite roughly, "You have a special objection to lines?"

"Hoary old lines like "I want to see you wearing it", yes."

"Well," said George Welterman after a moment's thought, "how about a different kind of line?"

"Such as?"

"Such as, will you approve the selling-up of Keys Shipping to IMM?"

"Not that again. I've had enough of that to last me a lifetime. You all seem so frantic about it."

"Frantic?"

"Well, nobody ever seems to talk about anything else. It's really too dreary for words."

George Welterman said, "I apologise. We must all seem like very tedious old men to you. But, of course, the future of Keys Shipping is extremely important to very many people in the shipping business; a you, young lady, by an accident of hereditary and fate, have a a important part to play in its destiny."

"Edgar said I wasn't to meddle in business affairs," said Catriona. "Oh, look, look at that beautiful ottoman."

George Welterman had half-turned to look at the sleek black Martial et Armand three-piece before he realised that he wasn't really interested, and he turned back to Catriona.

"Do you know what I'm offering you for Keys?" he asked her.

"I think so."

"Well, whether you understand anything about shipping or not, you have to recognise that it's an excellent offer. More than excellent. It would solve all of your problems, not to mention a few of mine."

"You don't look like a man with problems, Mr. Welterman."

"George, please. But of course I have problems. Many White Star ships are growing elderly and need replacing. Many White Star routes I running at a loss. If I were able to buy up Keys, I would be able to modernize our fleet overnight, and also cut down on many of our more unprofitable routes, where Keys and White Star are running competitive services for too few passengers and too little freight. These are modern times, Miss Keys. We can no longer afford the luxuries of the Edwardian era, when liners used to sail with only twenty passengers aboard, and nearly two hundred staff to take care of them."

Catriona said, "Did you know my father?"

"Of course. Everybody in shipping knew your father."

"But did you know him well?"

George Weltennan eyed Catriona cautiously. "As well as anyone, I suppose. We once sailed up the Irrawaddy together."

"And do you think that he would have sold out everything to IMM, just because the company was finding things difficult?"

"I think you're misunderstanding the situation, Miss Keys. If your father had still been alive today, then the difficulties which you are facing would not have existed. Perhaps if your father had had a son, who could have taken over the company and rallied the confidence of the banks and the stockholders... But, sadly, the problem which Keys Shipping faces is that your father had only one child, and that child is a girl."

"You're trying to say that the company is going to have to be sold because of me?" Catriona felt empty, and shocked. It simply hadn't occurred to her before that Keys Shipping was in jeopardy because the company's creditors had no faith whatsoever in a young woman's ability to be able to keep the company going. And, in a way, she felt that she had let herself down, too, by acting so nonchalant and flippant and half-baked and forgetting that she could have shown Edgar and Percy Fearson and all of the company's creditors that she was seriously interested in keeping the family business running.

George Welterman tugged at his sharp white cuffs. "Your poor father's luck was always a little like that. And it was the same to the very end, wasn't it? He built this wonderful ship with every ounce of energy he could muster, not to mention credit. And he never even got to see it sail. He should be with us now, you know. Such a tragedy."

Catriona said, "I only want to do my best."

"Of course you do, my dear," smiled George Weltennan. "I know that."

"But I'm still not sure that selling out is the right thing to do. Philip Carter-Helm said that it could be possible to sell only the Arcadia—I mean, not that I want to sell her—but he said that she should raise enough money to keep the rest of the line going."

"Who's Philip Carter-Helm?" asked George Welterman suspiciously.

"Well, I don't know, really. But he's a friend of Mark Beeney."

"And he said that you could sell the Arcadia alone—I presume to Mark Beeney?"

"Oh, of course. I mean, he did make it clear that he was Mark Beeney's friend."

"He said that you could sell the Arcadia alone, and make sufficient profit to keep the rest of the fleet afloat?"

Catriona nodded.

George Welterman slowly shook his head. "No, no, my dear. You can see what he's trying to do, but it won't ever wash. I've been through the Keys accounts for the past five years, and believe me there isn't any way in which four million pounds could give the company sufficient working capital to revive its fortunes. Not without your father at the helm, that is. He did it once: when the Arcadia was first planned. He was very short of capital then, but he was able to drum up enough to lay down the keel, and every plate that was riveted into place afterwards gave the banks more confidence, and the stockholders more tolerance. An exceptional man, your father. But you won't see the like of him again. He was one of the old school."

He paused, picking his teeth with the edge of his fingernail. Then he asked, "By the way, what does he do, this Philip Carter-what'shis-name?"

"I don't really know," Catriona confessed. "I think he's in marine insurance."

"Probably a salesman, if you ask me," commented George Welterman. He had worried out the offending shred of meat, and now he was inspecting it closely on the end of his finger. "Some of them do nothing but sail continuously from one side of the Atlantic to the other, selling life insurance to passengers. Well, they have a captive audience, after all; and everybody feels a little vulnerable when they're at sea."

"He didn't seem like a salesman," Catriona remarked.

"They're the best kind," said George Welterman.

Catriona watched a mannequin hurrying down the steeply-angled runner in a tartan afternoon coat by Drecoll, but she hardly noticed the style or the cut. "My father cared so much for the people who worked for him," she said. "If you do buy Keys, you will look after them, won't you?"

George Welterman laid a hand on her arm and leaned so close that she could smell his Euthymol toothpaste. "I have already explained to Edgar Deacon that IMM would regard the acquisition of Keys as a sacred trust. A trust to preserve your father's dream of what this shipping line should always have been, and a trust to protect all the thousands of people who depend on Keys for their livelihood. We know what it would do to Liverpool and Formby if Keys were to close; and that's partly why we're making our offer. A collapse in the shipping business wouldn't do any of us any good."

"Then what would I have to do?" asked Catriona. "To show that I approved of the sale?"

George Welterman beamed like a man who has just taken a mouthful of gritty spinach. "All you have to do is tell Edgar. Edgar will know what to do."

"And you really think that there's no chance of Keys being able to survive on its own? Supposing we take the Blue Riband? Supposing the Arcadia is booked up all winter?"

George Welterman shook his head in what he intended to be a gesture of avuncular kindness. "I'm sorry. I've been through the accounts and I just don't see it."

The Arcadia was rolling very badly now, and there were scarcely any ladies left in the fashion show audience. A last lone mannequin struggled up and down the heaving floor, showing off a honeycomb-patterned Molyneuz cape, but then Monsieur Delain fought his way out of the curtains and announced that the parade was over. There was a smattering of applause, and the string quintet struck up a doleful version of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow."

Edgar came up and leaned over Catriona's chair. He gave her a tight humourless beam. "Fruitful, was it?" he asked her.

"Mostly banana oil, if that's what you mean," she retorted. "Banana oil" was a fashionable alternative to "bunk'.

George Welterman suddenly, unexpectedly, let out a loud laugh, and gripped Edgar by the wrist. Catriona could tell by the expression on Edgar's face that the grip actually hurt.