‘Good, good!’ He helped them on to the gang-plank in turn. ‘Welcome to the Kreya. I hope you will both enjoy your trip.’
Thorsen came out of the lounge as he showed them in. He was much shorter than Mouritzen, with dark curly hair, and features that were marred only by a heaviness of jaw. In repose his face was sullen, but he smiled often. He was conscious of his appearance as part of his stock-in-trade and, aware that his own seemingly natural charm was studied, not spontaneous, mistrusted naturalness in others. Suspicion of human motives came easily to him.
‘Ah,’ Mouritzen said, ‘this is our Chief Steward, Mr Thorsen. He will look after you. Jorgen, is the boy at hand? Mrs Cleary has two cases to be brought on.’
‘How do you do, Mrs Cleary?’ Thorsen said. He gave the child a quick smile. ‘I’ll show you to your cabin right away. Your cases will be here directly.’
From the deck the door gave on to a tiny lobby, with a steep flight of stairs on one side, a service door facing this and the main doors to the lounge directly in front. Thorsen opened the service door; the little room beyond it was a combination of bar and kitchenette, and a boy of fifteen was washing up plates at the sink. Thorsen spoke to him rapidly in Danish, and he nodded in reply. He was tall for his age, fair-haired, with a long face and rimless spectacles that gave him a studious look.
‘Then I will leave you in Mr Thorsen’s hands,’ Mouritzen said. ‘I shall see you later, Mrs Cleary. Good-bye till then.’
Thorsen gestured towards the stairs, and the woman and child climbed them. At their head there was a T-shaped corridor, with cabin doors ranged along the top of the T: a second flight of stairs led to the officers’ quarters. There were four cabins, and he led her to No. 1. It had a built-in settee, covered in grey leather, on one side, and two bunks on the other. Between, there was a small, asymmetrical dressing-table and writing-desk. This was of white wood, contrasting with the light mahogany of the bunks. The floor was covered, wall to wall, with pale blue carpeting.
Thorsen opened a door to the left of the settee.
‘This is the toilet – shower, wash-basin and so on.’
She looked round the cabin. ‘It’s very nice. More – more modern than I expected.’
‘The Kreya is only three years old,’ Thorsen told her. ‘Your bags are here now.’ He made a sign to the boy to set them down. ‘Is there anything else you require just now?’
‘I can’t think of anything.’
‘The Customs Officer will be coming on board in about an hour. Would you like me to take your passport for him?’
She said, a little quickly: ‘Can’t I keep it and show it to him myself?’
Thorsen nodded, smiling. ‘Of course. Some people prefer me to have the documents; then, sometimes, it is not necessary for them to be bothered.’
‘I’ll keep mine,’ she said.
‘Of course.’ He backed out of the cabin. ‘Dinner is served at seven o’clock.’
* * *
The Simanyi family came on board a few minutes before six, father and son carrying cameras and the mother carrying a shopping bag laden with fruit, biscuits and chocolate. The daughter, Nadya, carried only a small handbag, from which, as they stood on deck waiting for Thorsen, she took out compact and lipstick to make up her face. She was a fairly tall girl, with straight black hair, strong but good-looking features, and a curved and well-muscled figure. At close quarters she would attract a man who liked powerful women with a promise of temperament, perhaps to the point of violence. In her proper place – seen from a distance in the arc-light’s glare as she climbed the twisting ladder towards the trapezes, sequins gleaming against white flesh, she would be irresistible.
The mother was smaller, and had never been as handsome, but she had kept her figure well and still rode a horse in the Grand Parade and the Cowboys-and-Indians tableau; sometimes she featured in the knife- and hatchet-throwing acts when the usual girl was ill. She had an alert, smiling, heavily wrinkled face, fixed in a disposition of curiosity and expectancy towards an ever-changing world.
Josef Simanyi, the head of the family, was not tall either; measured against his daughter he might have had an advantage of half an inch, but no more. He was square in build, inclined to be squat, and although, at fifty-five, his shoulders were beginning to be bowed, he was exceptionally strong. In the ring, apart from bareback riding, he bent iron bars, tore up telephone books and otherwise demonstrated his strength. He had also, at one time, been a fire-eater and sword-swallower, but had more or less abandoned these practices.
His son, Stefan, shared the trapeze act with Nadya. He had a white face and thick black hair which he kept combed back in a hard, glossy shell. His appearance otherwise was nondescript. He had small, uneven teeth and a small moustache.
When Thorsen came out, Stefan and the parents greeted him with enthusiasm.
‘So we are back, you see!’ Josef said. ‘As promised. We said we come back on the Kreya. So here we are.’
‘Did you have a good summer?’ Thorsen asked.
He shook hands with them in turn until he came to Nadya. She nodded at him and smiled briefly, her hands still engaged with the compact.
‘Not bad,’ Josef said. ‘In this country there is more money hidden away than one thinks at first. And not much television.’
‘And Katerina? Is she well also?’
‘For a time, in the west country, she was ill. I think she ate something bad, you know. But she is fine right now. She comes aboard soon?’
‘I suppose so. That is not my job. Will I show you to your cabins?’
‘Tell us the numbers and we find them,’ Josef said. ‘We know the way, remember.’
‘All the same, I’ll show you.’
He made way for them to enter and climb the stairs. The women went first. Stefan, waiting at the bottom, clutched Thorsen’s arm.
‘The weather – it will be bad, eh?’
‘Not very bad, I think. The glass is rising again.’
Stefan nodded in resignation. ‘I will be sick.’
‘Perhaps not. Last week it was very bad but it is better now. Maybe you will not be sick.’
‘I am always sick,’ Stefan said.
Thorsen followed them along the corridor. ‘No. 2 and No. 4,’ he said. ‘This, and the one at the end.’
Mrs Simanyi turned to him in surprise and consternation. ‘But they are not together!’
‘The other two had been allotted when your booking came in,’ Thorsen explained. ‘But they are all separate cabins, you know. They do not connect together.’
‘We had cabins side by side in April,’ she said. ‘I could knock on the wall to Papa, and he knocked back to me. I am not happy if there is another cabin between us.’
Josef pointed to the door of No. 3. ‘This one is empty. Maybe they are not coming. It is past six o’clock.’
‘They are coming on early tomorrow morning at Fishguard. Perhaps they would change then.’ Thorsen shrugged. ‘But perhaps not. They are English.’
‘And the other cabin?’ Mrs Simanyi asked.
‘A mother and little girl. Would you like me to ask if they will change with you?’
‘Yes. No, I will ask myself. She is inside?’
Mary Cleary came to the door in answer to the knock. She had taken off her coat and was wearing a blue wool dress. Behind her Annabel was sitting on the top bunk, her legs swinging. Mrs Simanyi explained her request.
‘Of course,’ Mary said. ‘It makes no difference to us. We’ll move over now.’
Mrs Simanyi took her hand in both hers. ‘You are most kind,’ she said. ‘You know how it is that a woman wishes to feel her husband is close at hand.’
Mary looked at her steadily. ‘Yes.’
‘Stefan!’ Mrs Simanyi called. ‘Carry the lady’s cases to the other cabin. She is like you, your daughter. A beauty.’ She fished in her shopping bag. ‘Can she have chocolate?’
‘Thank you – but not before supper.’
‘
Then she will eat it after supper, or tomorrow, maybe.’
Annabel climbed down and came for the chocolate. Mrs Simanyi embraced her.
‘A beauty,’ she repeated. ‘Take an apple also. Eat the apple after the chocolate. That makes your teeth strong and white, eh?’
She went with Mary and Annabel to the No. 4 cabin, and looked round it appraisingly.
‘It is as good as the other, you think?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Mary said. ‘Just as good.’
‘I am glad. You travel also to Copenhagen?’
Mary shook her head. ‘No. Only as far as Amsterdam.’
‘You take a trip – just you and the little one?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your husband stays behind in Ireland?’
Mary said: ‘I’m a widow.’
‘I am sorry.’
The two women looked at one another, the older offering, the younger warily refusing.
‘You want to be alone now,’ said Mrs Simanyi.
* * *
The horses were brought up for loading about half past six. They were in lines of ten, loosely roped together, each attended by a groom. Mouritzen stood by the open forward hatch and watched them being slung over, two at a time, in the horse-box. One or two whinnied in anxiety as the box was lifted by the crane, but for the most part they were docile enough. The dock labourers, down in the hold, led them out and secured them in the wooden stalls which ran along either side.
Mary and the child had come on deck to watch. Mouritzen walked along and stood beside them.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘The horses are almost the end. Then we sail.’
Another row of ten moved forward from the darkness into the glow of lights.
‘Where are the horses going?’ she asked. ‘To Copenhagen?’
Mouritzen shook his head, grinning. ‘In Denmark, we do not eat horse.’
‘Eat?’
She bit her lip and looked quickly at Annabel, who had turned from watching the scene in the hold to stare at Mouritzen.
He said softly: ‘I am sorry.’ In a normal voice, he went on: ‘It is a saying. I mean, we do not use horses to work in the fields. We have tractors instead.’
She said gratefully: ‘Where will these horses be sent to work?’
‘Some will leave us at Dieppe, the rest at Amsterdam. You are not a country woman?’
‘No. Why do you say that?’
‘They are not young, these horses. Ten years old and more. We think all Irish people have a deep knowledge of horses.’
‘I’ve always lived in Dublin.’
‘And now you go far away – to Amsterdam?’
‘Yes.’
He waited for her to say something more, but she remained silent. He asked:
‘Is it your first visit?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope you will like it there.’
She made no comment. Annabel asked:
‘Do people eat horses?’
Mouritzen looked at Mary. She said after a moment:
‘In some countries they do.’
‘Will these horses be eaten?’
‘No. Not these.’
The next load went to the No. 2 hatch, and Annabel went along there to look. Mary moved to follow her.
Mouritzen said: ‘She is quite safe. You do not wish her to know – about the horses?’
‘Why should she?’
‘There is death in the world. It cannot be hidden.’
‘She will have time enough to find out.’
‘So you lie to her? Is that better?’
She looked at him, unsure whether to be angry or not. She had it in mind to tell him that she had not asked for his advice and that he had no right to offer it unasked. But in the seriousness of his face she read his innocence of any wish to give offence.
She said, smiling slightly: ‘You aren’t married, are you? Or if you are, you have no children.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you don’t understand that children are not the same as adults.’
‘So it is a good thing to lie to them?’
‘In Denmark,’ she asked him, ‘do you have Santa Claus?’
He nodded. ‘Saint Nicholas. That is different, I think.’
‘How different?’
‘A game, a fancy. But this – you seek to protect her, but there are things we must all learn, and it is better, I think, to learn them early and not later. In that way, one accepts them more easily.’
Annabel was still out of earshot, looking over the side of the hatch.
‘I think you’re wrong,’ she said. ‘A child has a right to be protected, a right to innocence.’
‘Innocence is tougher than you think. Do not confuse it with ignorance.’
She smiled again. ‘Do you always give this kind of advice to passengers?’
He smiled also. ‘Not always.’
They were silent for a time. The business of loading went on – the line of horses forward, a couple led into the box, the dizzy arc through the night air, the cries and commands as it was lowered into the hold, and then the empty box swinging back for the cycle to start again.
Mary said: ‘A life of hard work, and then to be shipped overseas to a foreign butcher. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?’
‘I have thought that, too,’ he said. ‘But a farmer cannot be sentimental.’
‘Can a sailor?’
‘More easily.’
‘Yourself?’
‘Sentimental? No, I am a realist.’
‘But you said that you have thought how unfair it was.’
‘One must be realistic about one’s emotions, too. Only an idealist thinks himself rational in all things.’
They were coming to the end; the last batch of horses was brought up. Among them a large dappled grey was restless, jerking its head against the rope. When it was brought forward to the box, it refused to enter; they heard the clatter of its hooves on the stone as it resisted the attempts to get it forward. Finally it was led to one side, and another horse brought up to share the box.
‘Will they let it stay?’ she asked.
‘No. It is just that it will be easier to take by itself.’
This was what happened; when the other horses had been loaded, the grey was urged once more towards the empty box. It made less resistance this time. As it was borne through the air towards them, they could see that it had striking light blue eyes.
‘He’s beautiful,’ Mary said.
‘Yes. Beauty does not help any more than courage.’
Annabel ran back to them. ‘Will there be any more horses?’ she asked.
‘No more.’ Mouritzen bent down to her. ‘But something else. Do you wish to see?’
She nodded, and he lifted her in his arms.
‘Look!’ he said. ‘Over there. Where the men are fastening the net to the iron bars.’
‘It’s just a box,’ Annabel said. ‘A big box, painted green.’
‘There is something inside. Guess!’
‘Another horse?’ she looked more dubiously at the crate. ‘A pony?’
‘No. Guess again.’
‘I can’t.’ The crane began to whir, and the crate lifted from the quay. ‘Tell me,’ she demanded.
‘A bear!’ Mouritzen said.
She looked at him, her lips compressed. ‘You’re joking.’
He wagged his head solemnly from side to side.
‘No joke. A bear, a real bear. Tomorrow you will be able to see her. She is called Katerina. She does tricks. She is a circus bear.’ In explanation to Mary, he added: ‘It belongs to a Polish circus family, who have been with a circus in Ireland. They are passengers, too.’
‘I’ve met them.’
The crate was set down on deck, between the hatch and the forecastle.
‘Can the bear get loose?’ Annabel asked.
‘No, no. There is a cage inside the crate, with thick iron bars. She will not get loose. I promise you that.’
>
The door from the passengers’ quarters opened. A woman’s figure was framed against the bright oblong of light. Mouritzen put Annabel down.
‘And now I must go back to the bridge,’ he said. ‘To my work. And it is almost time for you to go for your supper, and then to bed.’
‘Will you be at dinner?’ Mary asked.
‘Not tonight. We are late and there is much to do. Good-bye now.’
He bowed slightly to them and left. They saw him cross to the other side and climb the steps leading to the bridge.
* * *
There was light rain falling when the Kreya backed out into the main stream of the Liffey. Mouritzen stayed on the bridge, not so much because he was needed as to act as a buffer between Olsen and the Dublin pilot. Olsen resented all pilots, and this man in particular. It was his conviction that, after half a dozen entries and departures, he was capable of taking his ship, unaided, in and out of any port in Europe; and he had once been misguided enough to say something of this to Murray, the pilot in question. Murray, seeming at first, in his soft Dublin brogue, to agree with the thesis, had led Olsen on, step by step, until it became transparently clear that he was mocking him. Since then the terms between them had worsened at each encounter. Mouritzen was relieved that, this time, Olsen contented himself with brusque and icy acknowledgments of the pilot’s remarks, and that Murray did not seem disposed to object to this or to provoke anything beyond it.
The siren was sounded for the pilot’s cutter, and Mouritzen went down with him to the deck.
‘Better weather than when we came in this morning,’ he said.
They leaned over the side, watching for the cutter.
‘How do you live with him?’ Murray asked.
‘With whom?’
Murray jerked his thumb. ‘That one up there.’
‘He’s not so bad. You made a fool of him once. He does not like that.’
‘I’ve never taken kindly to little men, but there’s some worse than others.’
‘He’s not so bad,’ Mouritzen repeated. ‘He has a sense of humour, you know. You have seen the worst of him.’
‘I’d be as glad to see the last of him.’
‘He is a good captain. The best seaman I have sailed under.’
‘Is he now? All the same, I would choose to sail under a man with less pride. Pride’s before judgment with his kind.’
The White Voyage Page 2
