The Ocean Liner

Southampton

The discussion between Rosemary and her mother about Cubby Hubbard was not going well.

‘You never used to be a liar, Rosemary,’ Mrs Kennedy said, her voice rising sharply. ‘The Devil has got into you.’

‘I’m not lying,’ Rosemary said sullenly.

‘If you’re not lying, then Nurse Hennessey is. And I know which of the two of you I believe. Look at me, Rosemary. She says she woke up at two in the morning to find you coming back into the room. Where had you been?’

Rosemary refused to meet her mother’s eyes. ‘I didn’t go anywhere.’

‘You went to Mr Hubbard’s room, didn’t you?’

For a moment, it seemed as though Rosemary was going to deny it again. Then her face, which had been set in a scowl, crumpled. ‘I love him.’

Mrs Kennedy groaned, turning away from her daughter with a mixture of pity and disgust. ‘You poor fool. Don’t you understand what you’ve done?’

‘I haven’t done anything bad.’ Rosemary’s cheeks were red, her eyes shining with tears.

‘Of course you’ve done something bad. I don’t expect you to understand difficult things, but this isn’t difficult. Going to that man’s bed is a mortal sin.’

‘It’s not a sin if we get married.’

‘Is that what he tells you? That’s nothing but a wicked lie. He only wants one thing.’

‘We’re going to get married and have a house. And a baby.’

‘A baby! You can’t even look after yourself. How could you look after a baby, you poor fool?’

‘I’m not a fool.’ Rosemary had been sitting on the bed, still huddled in her dressing gown. She rose to her feet now. She was considerably taller and bigger than her mother, and with her swollen face and wild hair, she was intimidating. Mrs Kennedy took a step back despite herself. ‘Don’t call me a fool!’

‘You’re worse than a fool. You’re in deadly sin.’

‘Why am I different from everyone else? Why do you treat me differently? It’s not fair!’

‘I treat you as you deserve to be treated.’

‘You don’t love me.’

‘Of course I don’t love you when the Devil is in you.’

‘He’s not. He’s in you.’

‘How dare you challenge me, Rosemary? Say the Act of Contrition right now.’

‘You spoil everything. Everything.’

‘Get on your knees and say it.’

‘I can have a baby. I can get married. I will. I’m not retarded. I’m not bad.’

‘Look at yourself,’ her mother retorted. ‘How could you possibly be trusted with a helpless infant? If you had a baby, you’d kill it in a week.’

Rosemary could feel herself slipping into chaos. ‘I would not kill my baby.’

‘That man is degrading you for his own filthy lust, twisting you round his finger. You will never see him again. Say the Act of Contrition right now. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest—’

‘I won’t say it. I will see him!’

‘I forbid it. The thing is finished, Rosemary.’

Rosemary ran to the bathroom and slammed the door.

Mrs Kennedy found she was trembling. Her stomach ached. She’d always been able to reduce Rosemary to obedience, or at least wretchedness, but it was getting harder and harder. The child had her father’s strength, her father’s will.

She went to the window and looked out on Lime Street. The cars were moving slowly in a steady drizzle. Most had already been fitted with the odd little hoods on their headlamps that were supposed to make them invisible to German bombers during the blackout. Every day brought the war closer. And the Manhattan, inexplicably, was stuck in France.

What was she going to do about Rosemary? It had happened without her being aware of it. The child had been shut away for so long in convents and special schools, while she got on with the other eight children. She’d done her best, nobody could have done more, but she’d had to give her time to the ones who were—

The ones who were right in the head.

She was her father’s daughter. She had that in her which also drove her husband, that lust. That refusal to understand that carnal desires were shameful and sinful. She saw Joe in Rosemary’s face, that sexually confident grin. She heard Joe in Rosemary’s laugh, in the way her voice coarsened when she was thwarted. She smelled Joe in Rosemary’s shameless appetite for life.

Hadn’t Joe flaunted his mistresses in front of them all for years? He’d had the pick of them, film stars, starlets, chorus girls, the famous and the infamous, he’d had them all. He was with the latest one, a buxom secretary, right now. What example was that for a child? And if she reproached him – for his brazenness, because God knew she never reproached him for his sin – he laughed in her face.

From such a father came such a daughter.

She’d subordinated her life to Joe’s ambition, his pursuit of power and wealth. He’d given her much in return, but the pain he had inflicted over the years was incalculable, though she could never speak of it to anyone. The thought of coping with Rosemary’s lust from now on was horrible. How would she manage her? Nobody could manage her.

By the time the nuns had told her what the girl had been up to, it was too late. Rosemary’s virginity was gone. Her innocence was gone. She had become corrupted. So beautiful to look at, but rotten inside, rotten before she was ripe. Sneaking out to rut with strangers. Drinking and smoking. And with her limited mental capacities, she couldn’t even understand what she had done wrong. Any more than a bitch in heat could understand that it was wrong to run after—

And now here there was this cheap nobody filling her head with absurd ideas of wedlock and motherhood. As though Rosemary could even say her Hail Marys or recite her ABCs. She was no more ready for marriage than she was to fly to the moon. Ten to one he was in it for the money. That kind of man always was. He was looking to be paid off.

Jack had gotten nowhere with him. As for Joe, it was beneath his dignity to deal with a boy who played the guitar in a nightclub. Hadn’t it always been Mother who’d administered punishments, with a hanger out of the closet? While Dad just grinned? She would have to speak to Cubby Hubbard herself.

Mrs Kennedy went to the bathroom door and banged on it with her fist. ‘Rosemary, come out.’

‘I won’t!’ came the tearful reply.

Mrs Kennedy tried the handle. The child was too simple to even lock the door. It opened, revealing Rosemary huddled on the floor next to the sink, crying bitterly. Mrs Kennedy felt that visceral wrench of mingled revulsion and pity again. ‘Get up,’ she said quietly. Slowly, Rosemary pulled herself to her feet. Her face was blotchy, her eyes swollen almost shut with crying. ‘Wash your face,’ Mrs Kennedy commanded. ‘You’re coming to church with me. You’ll make a full confession to the priest. You’ll take Communion with me. And then I am going to speak to Mr Hubbard. I’m going to put a stop to this.’

‘No, Mother!’

‘Wash your face and get dressed.’

‘Please don’t do this.’ Rosemary clutched at her mother. ‘Please, Mother. Please don’t. Please don’t.’

‘You leave me no choice,’ Mrs Kennedy said coldly. ‘Let me go, Rosemary.’

But Rosemary was sliding towards her, her face turned blindly up to her mother. ‘I’m begging you, begging you, begging you. Please don’t. Please, Mother.’

‘Get up off your knees.’ She tried to prise her daughter’s fingers from her clothes, but Rosemary was strong, and the flimsy material ripped. ‘Look what you’ve done!’

Rosemary’s fists pounded into Mrs Kennedy’s thigh, sending her staggering back. The girl was no longer articulate. A scream of rage was swelling from her throat, piercing and inhuman. Her eyes had rolled back in her head. Her limbs flailed, legs kicking out, fists pounding at anything near her. Mrs Kennedy backed away. These frenzies had been common during Rosemary’s childhood, when she’d been frustrated in a cherished desire, but she’d hoped they were over. In a child they had been bad enough. In an adult woman they were frightening. ‘You can scream your head off,’ she said breathlessly, ‘it’s not going to make any difference.’

She went to call Luella Hennessey, leaving Rosemary to thrash on the floor.

Cubby Hubbard’s thoughts were with Rosemary. He was remembering the first time he had seen her, at her sister’s party in London. He’d glimpsed her across the room, so pretty and yet looking overwhelmed by it all. Her eyes were beautiful, but somehow blind. And when he’d asked her to dance, she’d seemed astonished. Later, she’d told him that men never asked her to dance, at least not a second time. They seemed frightened of her. Sometimes they laughed and said cruel things behind her back.

He’d been astounded by her, once he’d got close to her; by her beauty, her innocence, her vulnerability. He’d been filled with a powerful need to protect her. He could think of little else from then on.

She didn’t just need protecting from the world, from the predatory men he’d soon learned about; but from her family, too – those arrogant Kennedys, to whom she was an embarrassment, to be hidden away. With all the boys heading for Washington, a crazy sister was not an advantage. So they kept her locked up like something shameful. What did they think was going to happen to her? Did they think she’d be happy to rot in an ivory tower the rest of her life?

He sat at his breakfast table now, staring at the starched white linen in front of him. Getting Rosemary away from the Kennedys would not be an easy task. She was like some princess in a fairy tale, protected by dragons. But once they were married, she would be his, his alone. There would be nothing anyone could do to come between them or take her away from him.

‘Mr Hubbard?’

He looked up. Mrs Joseph P. Kennedy was standing at his table, wearing a severe grey wool suit. Her face was stony. He rose to his feet. ‘Good morning, Mrs Kennedy.’

‘Come with me, please.’

He had just ordered his breakfast, but he didn’t think fit to mention that. ‘Sure.’ He followed her out into the street. It was a wet morning, and the doorman gave them a large umbrella. He opened this and held it over Mrs Kennedy’s head as they walked along. She was a thin, brusque woman, and she walked fast. He had no idea where they were going.

‘I understand my daughter visited you in the night,’ she said.

Hubbard felt his face flush. ‘I’m not going to lie about that.’

She could see the bite on his neck, inflicted by her daughter’s teeth in the throes of copulation. She felt nauseated. ‘You realise that I could go to the nearest policeman and have you arrested?’

There was, in fact, a large policeman standing on the street corner, majestic in a shiny cape. ‘Look, I’m glad of the chance to talk to you about Rosemary. I care about her very deeply.’

‘My daughter is at present suffering a violent seizure on the bathroom floor. That is what your “caring very deeply” has done for her.’

‘You mean that you’ve driven her half crazy,’ he retorted angrily. ‘Have you called a doctor?’

‘Don’t presume to instruct me in what I should or should not do with my own daughter.’ Her face tightened. ‘What will it take to get you to leave Rosemary alone?’

‘What are you talking about?’

She didn’t look at him, but kept her face averted, even though he was hurrying close beside her with the umbrella. ‘How much?’

‘How much what?’

‘How much money, if you force me to be crude.’

He was astonished. ‘I don’t want your money.’

‘Everybody wants money. You’re an itinerant musician – which would never allow you to give Rosemary the kind of life she’s accustomed to, let alone the nursing care she will require all her life.’

‘I do okay. But I believe that Rosemary only wants one thing in life, and that is love.’

‘A very pretty speech. If you’re not in this for the money, then you’re a fool as well as a knave.’

‘You can insult me as much as you please,’ Cubby replied. ‘It won’t make any difference to my feelings for Rosemary. I’ve already told you that I love her. I told your son the same thing. I would rather have your blessing.’

‘You will never have that.’

‘Then I’ll do without it.’

He was a little out of breath. Mrs Kennedy was a good walker. They had been making brisk progress up the hill, and had now reached a church, which was (to Hubbard’s eyes) a hideous Victorian structure of blackened brick. Workmen were boarding up the stained-glass windows against German bombs, and laying sandbags around the foundations. She turned to him, her eyes the same colour as the autumn sky. ‘And that is your last word?’

‘It is.’

‘Then we part as enemies, Mr Hubbard.’ She reached out her gloved hand. He thought she wanted to shake hands for a moment, but she only wanted the umbrella. He gave it to her. She turned without another word and went quickly into the church. He made his way back to the hotel, turning up the collar of his leather jacket against the rain. Her last, ominous words rang in his ears.