Maiden Voyage

SIXTY-THREE

Early the following day, Catriona sent three wireless messages; and by tea-time, when she was sitting out on deck with Mary Pickford and Mark, Willis the Wireless had brought her two replies.

Mark popped an olive into his mouth, and said, "You've been very mysterious today, my love."

"A woman's entitled to be mysterious," retorted Mary Pickford. "In fact, she's obliged to be mysterious."

"There's mysterious and there's mysterious,' put in Baroness Zawisza, who had eavesdropped on them as she was gliding past in a daring dress by Beer. "There's mysterious ignorant and mysterious knowledgeable." Her tongue lightly rapped the "k" of "knowledgeable" so that it sounded like a Polish translation.

Sabran, just behind her, sniffed the sea air insolently, as if it were vulgar even to breathe it.

Catriona read her messages and then folded them up again and tucked them into her purse.

"You'll have to forgive my outrageous curiosity," said Mark.

"I forgive it," smiled Catriona. "I'd be curious too, if I were you; particularly if the messages said what these messages say."

"You're teasing me."

"'No," said Catriona, in a voice which told him that she meant it, that he wasn't to ask any more. He shrugged and popped in another olive and looked out towards the sparkling ocean. America was only a day away now, and there was a restlessness on board the Arcadia, an impatience to arrive. With Sir Peregrine at the helm, the ship had been making tremendous time, and there was a rumour already rife in the smoking lounge that if they kept going at their present speed, they would finally take the Blue Riband away from the Mauritania, after thirteen years.

Mark said, "You're pleased? You're upset?"

"I don't know," said Catriona. "Will you excuse me for a while? I think the sunlight's bringing on my headache."

"You didn't tell me you had headaches."

"'Mark," insisted Catriona firmly; and Mark raised his hands in surrender and stood up to help her out between the deck chairs.

She went first to Philip Carter-Helm's stateroom; but it was locked, and there was no reply when she knocked. She went through to the smoking lounge and down to the library; but she found him at last sitting by himself by the swimming pool reading a copy of Babbitt. He was wearing half-glasses, and looked unusually boyish and vulnerable, especially after the testy way in which he had behaved when he had last spoken to her.

"Mr Carter-Helm," she said, quite softly.

He turned around. "Miss Keys," he replied. He folded over the edge of the page which he had been reading, and closed the book.

"Don't get up," she told him, although it was obvious that he hadn't been going to. He half lifted his bottom, in a belated attempt to correct his breach of etiquette, and then sat back again. Catriona drew across the next deck chair and sat quite close to him. The knees of her silk stockings shone in the sunlight.

"I've been wondering and wondering about you," she said.

"Yes? Why were you doing that?"

"Oh, you don't have to be so gruff," she told him. "I'm not being critical. I've been wondering about you because of what you said to me yesterday evening."

"I apologise if I was offhand. I wasn't feeling particularly well."

"Don't even think about it. I wasn't offended. I was more curious than offended."

"Curious?" he asked her. He took off his half-glasses and folded them.

"Well, you seemed to be showing such an interest in whether I should sell Keys Shipping or not, and to whom, and for how much. You seemed to have such a personal interest in the Arcadia. That's what made me wonder."

"I'm in shipping," said Philip, staring at her with that foxy-eyed look common to people who have just removed their spectacles. "Of course I'm interested. Everybody in shipping from London to Tokyo is interested in what happens to Keys."

"Not as personally as you."

"I'm not sure that I follow you."

Catriona reached across and touched Philip's arm. He looked slowly down at her hand and then back up at her face again, and she could see then that he realized the masquerade was over.

"The very best thing happened," she said. "Nobody gave you away but yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"Philip, I know who you are." She lifted up the radio messages which she had just received. "I've had confirmation from England. You can't deny it. And I'm pleased. Do you understand me? I'm delighted."

"Why should you be?" he asked her aggressively. "There's nothing for you to be delighted about."

Catriona tugged insistently at his sleeve. "It was the nursery rhyme that gave you away. I thought that I'd seen you somewhere before; there was something about you which struck a chord; and of course I'd seen you before. You look just like him; you look more like him than I do."

Philip let out a long, controlled breath. "I didn't really want you to know."

"I know you didn't. But the nursery rhyme. 'Where the fish swim free, child'. I don't know if ever he told you, but he made that up himself. Nobody else knows it but you and me. Until you recited it to me yesterday, I thought I was the only one."

Philip said, "It's a mess, isn't it?"

"Why is it a mess? How can you say that it's a mess?"

He covered his mouth with his hand for almost a minute, as if he didn't trust himself to speak. Then he said, "The Orange was the last straw."

"I don't understand."

"We'd argued and argued for more than a year about building the Arcadia. He was determined to do it. Determined! He had to challenge White Star and Cunard. Keys was going to be greater than both of them. He didn't seem to realise that he didn't have the assets, and he didn't have the backing. He didn't seem to understand that he lacked some essential talent when it came to running a shipping line. I don't know what it was, quite. He had genius, of a kind. Everybody said he was a genius. He knew how to get the best out of people, and pay them hardly anything in return. That was a talent in itself. He knew how to build ships, too. You only have to look at the Aurora; that's a beautiful ship. But he didn't have that gift of being able to attend to every detail at once, and so many sides of the company began to suffer from neglect, and overmanning, and sheer bad management. In 1919, when so many shipping companies were making a roaring profit, we were scarcely breaking even, and all because of top-heavy management and this lady, this bitch, the Arcadia. They say that she cost four million pounds, but believe me, she cost nearly twice as much as that, when you write in all the waste, and all the bad planning, and all the extravagance. Six first-class staterooms were fitted out, and then stripped again, right back to the bulkheads, because he didn't like the decoration. Can you imagine what that cost? And they had the engines in and out of the hull about fourteen times before he would pass them. He was a perfectionist, as most geniuses are. But he squandered so much time and so much money on achieving perfection; and when it came down to it, it wasn't even worth it. Have you noticed that the inlays in your cupboard doors are abura, and not mahogany?"

"But the Orange," said Catriona.

"Yes," said Philip, "the Orange. And not just the Orange, but the Hecate, and the Phyllis, and the Daphne, and the Equitable."

Catriona frowned. "You don't mean—?"

"All of them," Philip nodded, "all sunk. And all of them, except the Phyllis, which caught fire off Honduras about three years ago, all of them still afloat, in various guises."

"Oh, no," whispered Catriona.

"Oh, yes. Can you wonder that I argued with him, when he suggested the Orange? But we were running out of money, and he wanted the Arcadia's keel laid down; and he wouldn't take no for an answer. That's when I told him that I resigned; and that's when he cut me off without the proverbial penny."

"I can't believe it."

"Well, it's true; and in a way I'm glad you've found out. Perhaps someone can now put the record straight on the great and honest Stanley Keys. He was sinking his own ships and robbing his own warehouses and setting fire to his own wharfs, anything for extra money, anything to build this ridiculous floating fun palace."

Philip said this with such bitterness that Catriona scarcely knew what to say. He stared at her fiercely for a moment, and then he stood up and swung back his arm and threw his book as far out to sea as he possibly could, the pages fluttering in the afternoon breeze like a falling bird.

"Father was like Babbit in reverse," he said vehemently. "A man knew the value of everything and the price of nothing. But life wasn't like that any more; the grand Edwardian days are gone. He never understood that. He thought he was Brunel reborn. I don't know. I don't know what he thought he was. But he made sure that he ruined my career. He went ahead and sank the Orange, and as far as I was concerned, that was the end. He was stealing; and the Arcadia was built out of nothing but stolen and borrowed money. She doesn't belong to Keys Shipping; not one single bolt of her, not one plate, not one plank. And not much else of Keys Shipping belongs to us, either."

Catriona said, "That's why you wanted to sell her to American Trans-Atlantic?"

Philip nodded. "We have to pay some of this money back, Miss Keys. Or perhaps I should call you Catriona."

"You can call me Catriona."

He looked out to sea. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched. "Honour is a difficult animal, you know. Perhaps it's the privilege of the young to be able to handle it, or at least to believe that we can. But if you want to know the truth, I intended to persuade you as far as I could to support the selling of the Arcadia to Mark Beeney, so that at least she would have a good home. No matter how unethical her origins, she's a very fine ship, the finest in the world, and I think Father deserves at least that much of a memorial, for all his sins. But you may have realised that the proceeds from selling her would only delay the death of the rest of the Keys fleet. It would pay off a few creditors who honestly deserve to be paid, and then the fleet would have to be dismantled, and everybody else would have to scramble for what they could get."

"And where would that leave me, and my mother?" asked Catriona, keeping her voice controlled.

Philip twisted around and smiled at her. "I can't say that I care. I'm sorry. Sibling jealousy, I suppose. You never worked for him. You didn't spend five years of your life greasing propellor shafts and sorting out bills of lading, only to be disinherited and thrown out on your ear. You were always his darling favourite, weren't you? He talked about you all the time—how self-willed you were, how pretty you were. Well, he was right. But that didn't make it any easier for me to accept it. You were spoiled, in spite of your behaviour. The Flapper of the Seas, my God. And if you lose whatever he left you, it won't do you any harm at all. It didn't do me any harm, being disinherited; or if it did, it's too darned bad."

Catriona said, "What if I vote for selling out to IMM?"

Philip rocked with silent, over-exaggerated laughter. "Same thing, only worse! IMM will probably delay payment, almost indefinitely. George Welterman will think up some excuse; some contractual snag or other; or else he'll say that the Keys fleet was not up to the standard represented by you when you sold it to them. They'll prevent you from moving one single ship because they'll claim the transaction is under legal dispute, and then they'll sit back and gradually watch your ruination. They've done it before, and they'll do it again. In the end, you'll happily settle for a few million pounds, and that'll be the finish of it. All I can say is that at least if you do things my way the Arcadia will continue to cross the Atlantic, and most of our creditors will get a few pennies to remember Stanley Keys by; even if it's only two and six in the pound. That's something; and that's honour, if you can understand the meaning of the word."

"Mark Beeney doesn't know anything about this, does he?" asked Catriona. "I mean, he doesn't know why you're so keen to help him buy the Arcadia?"

Philip said nothing.

"I don't know why you bothered to intervene at all," said Catriona. "If George Welterman intends to ruin Keys anyway, why should it matter to you? You had your revenge when Father died. What more do you need?"

"I happen to own a few shares in Keys myself, and so do my friends. Nineteen per cent, altogether. I tried three years ago to take the company over, or at least have a powerful say in how it was managed. Well, that didn't really work out; but I don't intend to be utterly ruined when Keys collapses, and I don't want my friends ruined, either."

Catriona looked at him sceptically.

"Well, that's not the only reason," he said, less assertively. "I suppose the most important reason is that I don't want George Welterman to have the Arcadia."

"A ship built with stolen and borrowed money? Why should you care who has her?"

"You know as well as I do."

"Tell me." Catriona insisted.

Philip robbed his hand along the varnished rail. Standing as he was in the falling afternoon light, with his hair blowing in the breeze, he looked so much like his father that Catriona found herself attracted, and fascinated, as if this were all a peculiar dream. Even his voice, now that he was speaking so unselfconsciously, had the same cadence and bluntness.

"It's his ship, that's why; no matter how much I argued against him building it; no matter how much I disapproved of what he was doing with the Orange, and all those other ships. It's his ship, and she must run across the Atlantic, because if she doesn't, she'll die, and his whole life, the whole purpose of his whole life, will die right along beside her, inside her, with her. I don't believe in ghosts, Catriona; but the Arcadia is the ghost of Stanley Keys, if ever there was one. And his spirit, too."

He paused for a while, and then said, "It all sounds like rot, doesn't it? You probably think that I'm completely cuckoo."

"I don't think that," said Catriona passionately, 'I just don't understand what you want."

Philip said, "Your name's Keys, isn't it? For as long as you remain unmarried, anyway. Well, mine was never Keys, and it never can be. Father used to introduce me as the son of an old friend of his. Even Edgar Deacon never found out who I was. Father didn't want Doris to know, of course. I've never met her, but Father always used to tell me that she was very sensitive; and if she'd ever found out that Father had had an affair with Isabelle before they got married, not to mention an illegitimate son... Well, 'rocking the boat', that's what he used to call it. 'We'd better not rock the boat, old man'."

"Are you really so jealous of me?" Catriona asked him.

"I don't know. I don't think it's jealousy. It's just that I think that it's time for the name of Keys to be put to rest; at least as far as shipping's concerned. My name's Carter-Helm, Catriona. Carter, after the doctor who delivered me, and Helm after the helm of a ship. A proud name, don't you think?"

"Philip—" said Catriona.

"No," he said. "It's no damned use, is it? No damned use at all."

"Philip, listen. Supposing we don't sell out to IMM; supposing we don't sell the Arcadia to Mark Beeney, either; supposing we keep the company independent, and worked together to make it profitable, you and I, Philip. If she takes the Blue Riband, she'll be the most popular liner on the Atlantic. She's beautiful, anyway. You know that. Father must have believed there was a way to keep the company running. He must have, or else he wouldn't have invested so much money and so much time into the Arcadia."

Philip ran his hand through his hair. "You didn't even know him, did you? They should have called this ship the Megalomania, not the Arcadia. He didn't build it because he believed that the company could be saved by launching a huge new liner. It was nothing to do with economics. It was all to do with pride. And I think, in our different ways, we're both as proud as he was. Arrogant, too. My God, just listen to us."

Catriona said, "Philip, ever since I realised who you were I've been thinking this over and over. I want you to work with me, to make this company successful again. At least let's try it."

"In spite of what I was going to do to you?"

"You didn't know me then. Not face-to-face. You only knew me through Father. I can understand how you must have felt."

"Oh, can you?" said Philip, biting his lip. "Well, I don't really believe that you can. I'm sorry. Many regrets."

"Philip, if you don't help me, I'll have to sell Keys to IMM. I'll have to, whatever you say about them."

Philip said, "In that case, I'm very sorry."

"I have to think of the people who work for Keys, and Edgar said that at least they'll keep their jobs."

"If that's what you believe."

"Philip, don't be so bitter, please."

Philip turned towards her, and to Catriona's distress there were tears in his eyes. "You never got on with him, did you? Not that much. You scarcely knew him. Well, I did, or at least I thought I did. I worshipped the bloody man, if you'll excuse my French. I would have done anything for him. And then he wanted to build this bloody ship. It obsessed him; day and night he wouldn't talk about anything else. I think he would have murdered people to build this ship, and in the end I suppose he did in a way. He certainly murdered me. I hate this bloody ship; and yet I love her, too. I hate you, and I hate everything with the name Keys; and yet I feel pride when I see that flag flying with the cross keys on it. I wanted to persuade you to sell the Arcadia to Mark Beeney, just to save her; but, well, if you won't, then I think that's all there is to say."

Philip turned away, and began to walk quickly along the promenade deck towards the staircase.

Catriona nearly called after him; but then she didn't. He had probably had enough agony for one afternoon. She sat back in her deck chair and wondered what on earth she was going to say to Edgar Deacon.

She was frightened by what she had done, and yet excited, too. Perhaps the company would still collapse; perhaps George Welterman would still take it over. But at least it would have been done openly and bravely; and at least her father's misdeeds would have been confessed, so that they might be understood and forgiven.

She unfolded the two messages she had received from London. One was from Nigel, and it read: "Philip Carter-Helm is partner in Drago, Cox, & Carter-Helm, Shipping Insurers. Age twenty-nine or thirty as far as his secretary recalls. She thinks he was born Cheshire. Miss you madly. Love, N." The second message was from Millicent Furr, a girl she had known at school. It said, "Philip Stanley George Walmsley was born on February 2, 1895, at Winsford Nursing Home, Cheshire, and registered at Winsford by Isabella Mary Walmsley, spinster, and Stanley Everett Keys, marine engineer. Sounds intriguing! And when am I going to see you again and catch up on all the gossip? Hope the info's enough. Best, Millie."

She remembered her father saying, "Always such a tease, your Aunt Isabella," and wondering what he meant. Now she knew. She folded up the messages again, and then tore them into tiny pieces, and opened her hand so that the wind could blow them out over the Atlantic.