by Peter Rimmer
“Meet him? I wish he were dead.”
They watched her go.
“You still think I’m wrong, Harry? She’ll think through all this and want to see him.”
“I told Jim Bowman to tell Larry to do one of his bush trips. Where no one can find him.”
“Maybe he’ll spruce himself up and not run away. All men are vain… Thanks for the bastard bit, Harry. She won’t believe it, of course. Life really isn’t what it was made out to be… The bar is open. Will you buy me a drink?”
“Sure… She’ll be all right.”
“She’s young, yes. At that age, they are mostly resilient. I remember trying to be damn resilient… You’d better watch that Tina Pringle. She wants to eat you alive.”
“There are times I wouldn’t mind… I told myself for days to mind my own business. And still, I thought I knew better. I’m sorry, Felicity.”
Harry put both hands on the ship’s rail and took a deep breath of the salt air. They were at the back of the first-class deck which looked down over to third class. A man with a full face of facial hair was looking up at them from the lower deck. The man raised a hand to them, almost ironically. Harry waved back thinking he had been recognised as the owner of the ship, even at a distance. The man was still staring at them when Harry turned his back. The man had paid his passage and had every right to wave. Harry was glad he had waved back.
A few steps away from the rail on their way to the first-class bar Harry looked back. The man was still staring. The man waved again. This time Harry did not wave back.
When they reached the small bar under an awning next to the swimming pool, Tina Pringle was already seated at the bar.
“Come and join me, Harry. Hello, Mrs Voss. Madeira is a bit of a bore. You can see most of it from the ship, anyway. From right here at the bar.”
She was wearing a flowered sundress that took in all her curves. Felicity Voss thought Tina Pringle might as well have been wearing nothing at all. After one drink she left them at the bar.
“You silly old bitch,” Mrs Voss told herself. “You’re jealous.”
When she reached her cabin, Justine had locked the door. She could hear her daughter’s sobbing. She shook the handle to no avail.
“This is going to be quite some voyage.”
Back on deck she found herself a deckchair and got herself down. Lying almost horizontally to the wooden deck she fell asleep. She dreamed of a man with a full beard who waved at her time and time again.
When she woke, the ship was still anchored off the island of Madeira. Boats, some being rowed, were going to and from the shore.
When she went down to the cabin, there was a note on her bed.
“Sorry. Gone ashore. Maybe with my feet on land, everything will be real again.”
Felicity Voss sat on her bunk and had a good cry. Later she felt better. She changed for dinner. By now she thought all the passengers would be back on the ship. Among the last was Justine.
With Justine looking for all the world the same as she always had been, they joined the ship’s captain for dinner. They could feel the throb of the ship’s engine coming up through the floor. The ship was underway.
When they went up on deck after dinner, all they could see of Madeira were the distant lights of the houses climbing up the hills. Neither of them spoke of Larry Voss. Or Tina Pringle and Harry Brigandshaw.
They were comfortable with each other again.
A sharp breeze came up from the southeast. They went down to the cabin to read their books.
When Felicity slept that night she again dreamed of a man with a beard.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Harry had been watching the sea go by for half an hour, standing next to one of the lifeboats. There was little room on a ship. Unless he stayed in his cabin his company was anyone’s for the asking. Part of the shipboard romance.
“Brett Kentrich,” he said without looking round at Tina. There was no mistaking her voice.
“Do you love her?”
“No. I’ve never loved anyone in the way I think you ask. All-consuming. I never have. Anyone.”
“Not even your wife?”
“Lucinda and I grew comfortable with each other. I love them all, the St Clairs. Even Barnaby as a child. Madge and I were a family but not in the St Clair way. Lucinda wanted to be my wife. Since she was fifteen when we met. I wanted a family just like hers. Robert was like a brother to me. It was so terrible taking Lucinda so far away to Africa. Marriage was what she wanted. Often we do things for people because they want them so much. It’s said you can grow to love people. That slow-burning love lasts longer. More satisfying. We all confuse sex with the love. When we first look at someone, sex is the motivation. The clash of eyes is sexual, not that instant love people like to talk about. Primal. Nature wanting to renew itself… We would have been happy. Even a devoted couple. We’ll never know. Only when we all get to the end of our lives can we look back and say what happened. Why old people don’t smile so much. That’s from my Grandfather Manderville. He says all young people smile but they don’t know what they are smiling about.”
“I never talked to your grandfather that one trip with Benny Lightfoot. He was that American I brought to Elephant Walk. Or maybe he brought me.”
“I remember your visit to Elephant Walk.”
“During the war, I saw your picture in the paper. They said you were a war hero. I said to the photograph I wanted you. There was something about your look. Do you want me, Harry?”
“There are many ways to want someone.”
“Carnally, you idiot. In the biblical sense. What else is there?”
“Do you love Barnaby?”
“I want him. Oh yes. He is so bloody evil. He’ll come a mighty cropper one day. You can’t think only of yourself all your life and get away with it. The effect of charm will wear off with age. Then I will feel sorry for him. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Would you marry him?”
“At the drop of a hat and live in hell.”
“Why would you live in hell?”
“Because he’s evil, Harry. His name should have been Merlin. They got it wrong. God disguises evil with charm and perfect looks. Merlin is a softy and frightens the wits out of everyone with that one dark eye. Dogs and cats bolt from him. Barnaby, they purr and brush up against his legs. They don’t know Barnaby would break their necks if there was something in it for him… You haven’t answered my question. Do you want to take me to bed? Just for carnal pleasure. We’re stuck on this boat for weeks. Have fun when you can. Death hangs over all of us, even the young.”
“There’s something bad about a girl being so blunt.”
“There’s something good in it too. Mark my words, Harry Brigandshaw. We’re going to do it. It would be such a waste. My father says the worst thing in life is to look back with regrets. Not what you did. He says it’s far worse to regret what you didn’t do. Come on, Harry. Let’s be honest. We growl at each other every time we meet.”
“You’re dangerous for men, Tina.”
“Isn’t that the fun of it? If you get snared, that’s your problem. All I want is some fun. I found out the owner’s cabin has a double bed. Now isn’t that just great?”
“He’s not evil. Greedy. Insensitive. Not evil.”
“He’s evil, Harry. Like something from the past. The long-ago past carried down the generations. How do you think the St Clairs got where they are today? Rape and pillage. They did the rape and pillage. The likes of us Pringles were what they raped, however charming their manners are. Now Barnaby’s just perfected the art of hiding treachery. Of making people believe he thinks them wonderful when they have something he wants while all the time despises them. Anyway, I want a drink without people. I hate all the people staring at me in public. You must have a cocktail cabinet in that plush cabin of yours… Do you?”
“I do… I think you’re lying about the stares. Every woman likes being stared at. Even l
usted after. Gives them their power in life.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
“It’s only ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Harry, darling, I finished drinking at eleven o’clock last night. That’s eleven hours ago. We’re on holiday. Cooped up on a ship. Ten o’clock doesn’t make an excuse. Anyway, a ten o’clock drink in the owner’s cabin is the best drink of the day.”
The third-class passenger deputation to the second purser’s office took place while Tina Pringle was telling Harry Brigandshaw the edited version of her life. Instinctively she knew what she hoped looked like honesty was her best weapon. Having gained access to the owner’s cabin she was no longer in a hurry. The poor man couldn’t exactly run away from a ship on the high seas. Or take leave of the ship at the wrong port. With Harry as her captive audience, she was going to make the best of him. Test her skill. Anyway, she rationalised, the whisky was good. Tina never considered a hangover from a good cause a waste.
“None of us is goin’ to stay in that cabin with ’im. He’s got a gun in ’is case under ’is bed. Willie ’ere had a look. One minute he’s playing cockney then ’e’s a toff. Worse than mad, officer. Gives us the creeps. Always staring at you. Once he yelled at me ’e wasn’t a wet fish. Who is ’e anyway?”
“John Perry. A miner. Going out to a job on a gold mine. Has a job offer from Serendipity Mining and Explosives Company.”
“Never used a pick in ’is life, you ask me. Hands as soft as a woman. You know what he said yesterday, ‘Can you fly an aeroplane? I can. Shot down thirty bloody Germans, I like killing.’… Gives me the creeps. I’ll sleep on deck but not down there with ’im.”
“I’ll look into it.”
“You’d better.”
“You’re not the first to complain.”
“Now you tell us. You go to the captain and ’ave him lock ’im up, I say. Put ’im ashore at Cape Town and warn the police. What’s ’e doing with a bloody gun under his bed? Willie says it’s a service revolver. For officers. Now, where’d a miner get that legal like? We want ’im and ’is gun out of our cabin. Now. Before ’e kills someone.”
“Has he actually threatened anyone?”
“Not that I know.”
“We get all sorts going to the colonies.”
“We done our bit, officer. Now you do yours. Bloke’s bloody mad, you ask me.”
The purser was more interested in the logistics of the fancy dress ball that was taking place in the first-class lounge the next day than listening to the second purser.
“The captain can’t do anything, Findley, you know that. How about locking up everyone someone doesn’t like? They buy a cheap ticket and bear the consequence. I don’t want you worrying the captain. This Perry hasn’t done anything except try on a gentleman’s accent so far as I can see. That’s no crime. The way some people mince the English language maybe there should be a law. The law to make people speak properly.”
“What about the gun?”
“All we know is a second-hand report. Goodness, Findley, we can’t go rummaging in passengers’ suitcases. There’s a law against that.”
“But the gun, sir. I’m sure it’s there.”
“It probably is. There’s no maritime law against carrying a gun. Good Lord, we’re sailing to Africa. Everyone going on safari has an armoury on board, I’ll bet… This John Perry has to threaten someone with the gun or better still shoot at someone before I can do anything. If they want to sleep on deck so be it. Done it plenty of times myself in the tropics when I was young. In a lifeboat. With a girl. Why do you think I joined the merchant navy?… We don’t have enough Admiral Nelson outfits this trip. For some reason, half the male passengers want to run around with a sleeve hanging loose and a patch over one eye. Last trip I was on they wanted to be Arab sheikhs. It’s these newfangled American moving pictures. Can you believe it? Some idiot made a bad film of the Battle of Trafalgar. You could see all the boats they filmed were miniatures wallowing in a fish tank of water… What you should do is get this Perry with his gun to shoot the man who made that film, ha, ha… It’s a joke, Findley. Push off and do something important.”
Fishy Braithwaite had seen Tina Pringle going to Harry Brigandshaw’s cabin at ten-fifteen that morning. A rage of jealousy surged through his body. The door had closed. Only Fishy Braithwaite’s imagination was left to torment him. The girl was even prettier than his fiancée, Sara Wentworth. Watching the closed door of the owner’s cabin from his vantage point the man who now said he was John Perry smiled. At least Sara could not torment his imagination any more. She was dead. Harry had stolen her. She had been standing next to Harry when he shot her with a similar gun to the one that lay hidden in his suitcase under his bunk.
From more than seventy yards he had been able to devour every detail of the girl’s body as she stood waiting for Harry to open the door to the cabin. For a moment he thought she had seen him. His eyes were by far better than most people’s. Pilot’s eyes. What had made him a great killer in the air… Saliva drooled at the thought of death. He had liked it best when they went down in flames screaming all the way to the ground. Now he was going to kill another girl. He stood riveted to his small part of the deck wishing the cabin door to open. He hoped she would look satiated. Dishevelled. It would make his rage scream harder at his torment. A satiating rage.
Len Merryl passed twice in the course of his duties and both times acknowledged the bearded man standing on the same spot on the third-class deck. The man did not seem to see him. On the third time just before noon, the man was still staring at the same spot ahead. Len stood ten yards behind the man and followed the fixed gaze. The line of sight was directly at the owner’s cabin door.
Everyone on board knew Harry Brigandshaw by sight. He was a man who found time to talk to everyone in the company. He had not spoken to Len Merryl but Ben Willard had had a brief conversation. About the fag ends passengers left on the deck instead of the ashtrays. It had surprised both of them that the owner had taken any notice of cigarettes thrown on the ship’s deck. Len had seen Harry once while sweeping the deck the first night out. The owner had closed his own cabin window onto the deck and the sea. It was one of the few cabin windows. The rest were portholes with only the top line of portholes able to open onto the sea. Len had ducked out of sight the moment he recognised Harry Brigandshaw. He did not think the man had seen him. The man was something of a legend to the crew.
Len shook his head. It was none of his business. Anyone could look where they wanted.
On his fourth time around the deck to pick up empty glasses the passengers left beside their deckchairs, Len subconsciously looked at the owner’s cabin. A steward was standing outside with a trolley. The owner himself opened the cabin door. The lunch trolley was wheeled inside. Instinctively, Len looked from the cabin door to the spot on the deck where he had seen the bearded man staring. The man was still there. Rooted to the spot. Staring at the man in the doorway with rabid hatred. To Len’s understanding, there was no way the man did not know Harry Brigandshaw. The man was drooling down both sides of his beard. Such venom came from personal animosity.
“Excuse me? Do you know Mr Brigandshaw?”
“Mind your own damn business and get on with your work.”
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“You.”
The eyes that turned on him cut through him. Full of contempt. Full of superiority. Disdain.
“What’s your problem, mate?” said Len, bridling.
“You at the moment… How dare you speak to an officer like that? You are dismissed.”
“If I ever see you on shore, you won’t speak to me like that.”
“If I ever see you on shore, I’ll shoot you like the rest. Now bugger off.”
Len stood back and deliberately and silently counted to ten, not taking his eyes off the scruffy individual daring him to take a swing. There were times in life he told himself where saving pride was a w
aste of time. He did not even know the man. With the small pay from the half voyage to Beira and after paying the train fare to Salisbury he would arrive on his sister’s doorstep with close to the seven pounds with which he had signed off the Runnymede. Mrs Steadham had not been expensive. For a moment he heard her voice in his mind. He knew she was thinking of him like she thought of the swallows.
Looking to make sure he was not going to be attacked when his back was turned, Len went on with his duties, searching for hidden glasses on the deck. There were more important things in his life than a passenger who made no sense.
Far enough away to be safe, Len shrugged his shoulders. He had enough worries of his own not to take on other people’s. If the owner did not know how to look after himself with a boatload of employees, what was a temporary deckhand to do? The master-at-arms would throw any third-class passenger off first class.
Len began talking to himself. “Your trouble, Len Merryl, is too vivid an imagination. If you hadn’t opened your stupid mouth none of that would have happened. Am I not always telling you to stay out of trouble? Even a toff with a fancy accent could fall on hard times. Why the man is going out to the colonies.”
He was still mumbling to himself as he bent down and picked up a tray full of empty glasses. When he stood up a steward was watching him at work.
“Isn’t this your job, mate?” he said with a smile.
“Thanks, Len… Did you see that freak with a beard? Been standing there all morning. Told me to bugger off when I asked him if he wanted a drink. Las Palmas tomorrow. Never been to the Canary Islands before.”
“Join the navy and see the world… Let’s hope he gets off in Cape Town.”
Willie had been watching John Perry for most of the morning. If the shipping line were going to do nothing he was going to do something himself. There were seven of them in the cabin. Enough for one man in a small space. Only the gun came between them.
The sun was due to go down at seven fifteen. He had watched the confrontation with Len Merryl and heard what was said. Without a word to anyone, he went downstairs to the eight-berth cabin they shared with John Perry.
