The Widow's Cruise

by Nicholas Blake

  “Yes. I see.” Primrose sounded excited: as well she might. “And I’m to tell you——”

  “Ssh! It’s got to be a deadly secret between us . . . I’ll tell you when I . . . no dropping hints in public when we meet. . . . anyone see your notebook. It’s a bargain, then? Good girl. Cut along, then . . . mustn’t be seen together too much.”

  Nigel moved smartly away. He was very thoughtful as he walked round beneath the bridge and descended the port-side ladder to the boat-deck. Ivor Bentinck-Jones’s game might be just a game—something to amuse the child and take her mind off psycho-analysis. But there were less innocuous possibilities. One thing was certain—Secret Service agents did not reveal their profession to young schoolgirls. The man might, of course, be one of those harmless if tiresome characters who need grandiose fantasies to support their egos. Perhaps this Secret Service nonsense was a game he played seriously with himself.

  Well, thought Nigel, time will show. Time did show, all too soon and all disastrously.

  V

  When Nigel returned to the after-deck where he had left Clare, he found the chairs beside her occupied by Mrs Blaydon and her sister. Clare introduced Nigel, and he sat down at her feet, saying,

  “Primrose Chalmers has just been enrolled in the Secret Service.”

  “Now what can you mean by that?” asked Clare, without any pressing curiosity.

  “It sounds like something in a game,” said Mrs Blaydon.

  “I hope it is.”

  Melissa Blaydon’s long lashes fluttered at Nigel. She was clearly puzzled by this unconventional opening, and a little piqued that Nigel did not enlarge upon it. Her sister, sprawling lumpishly in the deck chair, seemed at first to be preoccupied with some inner argument: her greeny-brown eyes, which had not met Nigel’s when they were introduced, stared at nothing in particular: her mouth twitched, and her fingers made little writhing movements in her lap. But, as the desultory conversation went on, Nigel began to get an impression that Ianthe Ambrose was not altogether bogged down in her own misery. Behind the collapsed façade, there was concealed an occupant both intelligent and attentive to what was going on. Once or twice she broke in with an incisive remark which showed her intelligence and had the effect of puncturing the subject. Her secret attentiveness, if it was not merely an effect of her inner tension, was more difficult to define; but Nigel presently got the feeling that it was directed against himself—that Ianthe Ambrose was playing the watch-dog over her sister, ready to snap at any man who approached Melissa too close. Ianthe could simply be a man-hater; or there might be some more subtle source of jealousy involved.

  Melissa herself he found rather a disappointment. Not that, at close quarters, her beauty was diminished: the curves and hollows of her animated face were exquisite, reminding him of Yeats’s lines, “Did quattrocento finger fashion it Hollow of cheek as though it drank the wind And took a mess of shadows for its meat?” Her hands, too, were thin and graceful, though they might grow claw-like with the years. But Melissa Blaydon had very little, it seemed, inside that beautiful head. Her animation was artificial, her conversation that of a woman who has had her thinking done for her by others. It consisted largely in name-dropping and an enumeration of the places she had lived in and visited. Did they know Cannes well? Were not the shops in Rome absolute heaven? Capri had been ruined since Farouk went there. Greece, for Mrs Blaydon, was chiefly distinguished as the birthplace of the Onassis brothers.

  On the face of it, Melissa was no more than a spoilt, silly, selfish woman of the world. Yet, thought Nigel, she has taken time off from her futile life to bring this unprepossessing sister to a country in which she herself can have little interest. Natural, sisterly affection? Guilt for past neglect? The latter, possibly; for it emerged in conversation that Mrs Blaydon had been living in various places abroad ever since her marriage fifteen years ago.

  “My sister has always wanted to visit Greece. She’s the clever one of the family, you know. Father passed on all his brains to her.”

  A spasm of pain distorted Ianthe’s face. She seemed about to blurt out something, but restrained herself.

  “Your father was E.K. Ambrose?” said Nigel.

  Melissa opened her eyes wide at him. “Oh, you knew him?”

  “Only by reputation.”

  “My sister is following in his footsteps. I don’t know why you haven’t been asked to give some lectures on board, Ianthe.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t compete with the great Jeremy Street.”

  “You don’t approve of him?” ventured Nigel.

  Ianthe’s lifeless face suddenly sprang into animation and for the first time Nigel saw that she and Melissa, as Clare had claimed, bore a close resemblance to each other beneath the surface.

  “Approve of him? My dear man, Street is an absolute charlatan. He picks other people’s brains and then makes a mess of them. He simply has no conception of scholarship whatsoever.”

  As if this outburst had exhausted her, Miss Ambrose relapsed into apathy.

  It was a few minutes later that Nigel observed approaching along the deck the blonde girl who had taken fright when Ianthe Ambrose and her sister came up the gangway. Her brother was with her. On seeing Miss Ambrose now, she stopped dead, gripped her brother’s arm, pulled him round, and began to walk away. A glance at Miss Ambrose told Nigel that she had not noticed this. The boy shook off his sister’s hand. She disappeared from view; but the boy leant with his back to the rail, fixedly gazing in the direction of Melissa and Ianthe. His face was in shadow. But Melissa Blaydon at once became conscious of his scrutiny.

  “I’m going to have trouble with that young man,” she announced in her deep, lazy voice.

  “What young man?” asked Ianthe sharply.

  “Over there. He keeps following me about and staring at me.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “His name is Peter,” said Nigel. “And he has a sister called Faith.”

  “Faith what? Is she on board, do you mean?” Ianthe said, in her most peremptory voice.

  “Yes. I don’t know their surname. A blonde girl, sixteen or seventeen. Rather pretty, but she has irregular teeth and a stoop.”

  As if aware that her last question had been extremely brusque, Ianthe spoke more forthcomingly. “Sounds as if it could be one of my ex-pupils. Faith Trubody. I seem to remember she has a twin brother. And why are you going to have trouble with him, Melissa?”

  “He makes eyes at me. I seem to attract the young. It’s becoming quite a nuisance, at my age. Perhaps I’m fated to be a cradle-snatcher.” She laughed, giving Nigel a rueful look. “You’ll have to rescue me from him. The young do bore me so.” There was a subtly caressive note in her voice, like a waft of some extremely delicate yet voluptuous perfume: and such was her sexual potency that, for a moment, the two other women sitting there might not have existed.

  “Yes, here we are.” Clare had consulted the passenger list. “Mr. Arthur Trubody, C.B.E., Peter Trubody, Faith Trubody. An ex-pupil, did you say she is?”

  “Faith was not a very satisfactory girl, I’m afraid,” Miss Ambrose replied, with a curious shake in her voice which was not lost on Nigel. “I’m very tired, Melissa. Are you going to stay up here all night?”

  “Oh, don’t let’s go to bed yet. The air is so lovely and cool now—I’m sure it’s good for us. You go if you like, though.”

  Ianthe Ambrose, however, made no move. Like a fog that had lifted only for a little, misery came down over her face again, shutting her out from the others.

  “What school do you teach at, Miss Ambrose?” Clare presently asked. There was a silence, and Melissa had to reply.

  “My sister was at Summerton till recently. She taught the top form classics. Just now, she’s having a long rest before——”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mel, cut out the soothing syrup,” her sister shockingly exclaimed. “I had a breakdown and they sacked me.”

  “I do think
it was absolutely iniquitous of them,” said Melissa. “After all, it wasn’t as if—” her voice trailed away helplessly, and she gave an ugly little shrug of the shoulders.

  “Well, ladies, everything to your liking, I hope? You care for a pillow, Mrs Blaydon?” Nikki had come up, radiating charm and good will, his broad shoulders blocking out a considerable segment of the night sky.

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Nikolaides,” said Melissa.

  “Ah now, I hope we shall not stand on ceremony. Everyone calls me Nikki. Say, you are all English, yes? I love particularly the English.”

  “All of them, Nikki?” Melissa Blaydon’s tone was decidedly flirtatious.

  “Sure thing! All of them. A great people. And the English women are the most beautiful in the world.” Nikki made an expansive gesture.

  “All of them?” Clare mischievously echoed.

  “Two especially. Now, ladies, do not be offended. We Greeks are a simple people. When we admire, we say so. When we hate—” his teeth flashed at them like a maneater’s.

  “But don’t the Greeks hate us over Cyprus?”

  “No, no, no, Mr. Strangeways. Your Government is not popular with us. But we do not confuse people, individuals, with their Government. We Greeks are great individualists.”

  The Menelaos came alive. Shouts were heard from the fo’c’s’le and the quay. Nikki held up his finger.

  “You hear? The engines are started. In a minute or two we are on our way.”

  “Mel, I’m not feeling good. I want to go below.”

  “Oh, Ianthe darling, wouldn’t you like just to watch us steaming out of harbour? It’s always so exciting.”

  Ianthe’s voice, which had been low and urgent, now rose to a kind of muffled shriek.

  “I can’t stand it when the siren goes!”

  “Darling, there’s no siren here.”

  “That thing on the funnel. The steam-whistle. We’re so near it. My nerves won’t stand it, I tell you! It’ll be going off any minute now! Please, please, pl——”

  “All right, dearest. Come along, then. Good night, everyone.”

  Melissa’s arm round Ianthe’s waist, the two sisters hurried away. Nikki stared after them, then sauntered off along the deck.

  “Well!” said Clare. “That poor thing ought to be in a nursing-home still. I do hope we’re not going to have trouble with her on the voyage.”

  “Anyway, she managed to detach Melissa from the magnetic Nikki.”

  “Oh, Nigel, you don’t think?—— ”

  “I think she’s going to be a proper ball-and-chain for Melissa, one way or another.”

  “I rather like Melissa.”

  “She’s a nitwit. But she seems to have a heart.”

  The steam-whistle gave a long, groaning bellow. Passengers, jumping up from their chairs, crowded to the rail. The screws began to thrash, and, almost imperceptibly at first, the Menelaos edged away from the quayside.

  Fraternisation

  * * *

  NIGEL STRANGEWAYS AWOKE early next morning, roused by the sunlight streaming through the port-hole on to the upper bunk, which he occupied. Lowering himself cautiously to the floor, so as not to disturb his cabin-companion, Dr Plunket, he put on bathing-trunks, took a towel, and sought the swimming-pool on the fo’c’s’le.

  It had been filled during the night, and sailors were now rigging an awning above it, which extended to shelter several feet of deck on either side of the pool itself. Walking to the bows, Nigel looked about him. Astern, just visible still, lay an island which, if the Menelaos had caught up with her schedule, should be Syros, the capital of the Cyclades. The sun, climbing on his left-hand, was already giving off enough heat to warm the deck beneath his bare feet. On the starboard beam a caïque rose and dipped on the waves, and two tawny-coloured sea birds, flying low, escorted the Menelaos, criss-crossing her bows. Dead ahead, a small low island, rising at one point to a hill, must be Delos, with Mount Kynthos crowning it. A bar of pure turquoise colour, some effect of sun and shallows, reached out from the island at a diagonal, contrasting with the royal-blue of the sea on this side and the pale green beyond.

  The sailors finished putting up the awning and retired, chattering amongst themselves like grasshoppers. Looking aft from the bows, Nigel saw, over the top of the awning, the windows of the forward lounge, and above them the bridge, on one wing of which stood a ship’s officer, and the wheelhouse.

  He plunged into the swimming-pool. The water was deliciously cold. There was only space to swim half a dozen strokes, but it had a good depth—with his toes on the bottom, the water came up to Nigel’s chin, and he was six feet tall.

  After thrashing round for a while, he was about to get out when Primrose Chalmers appeared. She was still wearing the blouse, the serge skirt and the sporran—indeed, they looked as if she had slept in them; but these were now topped by a Venetian gondolier’s straw hat with a green ribbon dangling down behind.

  “Is it deep?” the child asked.

  “About five foot, six inches. Can you swim?”

  “Yes. But I prefer the sea. Swimming-baths are full of bacilli.”

  Nigel shuddered and got out smartly, sitting down on the low parapet of the pool.

  “How’s the play-therapy going?” he asked.

  “Play-therapy? Isn’t that something the psychiatrists make you do?” Primrose uttered the word ‘psychiatrists’ with all the contempt of the Freudian analyst.

  “Your note-taking, I mean.”

  A secretive look came over the child’s flabby face, and her hand went unconsciously to the sporran. Glancing slantwise at Nigel, she said, “I’m going to give you an association test. I say a word, and you have to say the first word that comes into your head. You must——”

  “Yes, I know how it’s done.”

  Primrose drew the notebook from her sporran, opened a page, held her fountain pen poised, and began.

  “Summer.”

  “Fields,” responded Nigel.

  “Love.”

  “Hate.”

  “Beetle.”

  “Dung.”

  “British.”

  “Hypocrisy.”

  “Salt.”

  “Lord Dunsany.”

  “What?” Primrose paused in the task of writing down Nigel’s answers. “Lord who?”

  “Dunsany. He was very fastidious about what kind of salt he ate. As far as I remember, rock salt was the only——”

  “Oh, all right. Next word—Loin.”

  “Pork.”

  “Drown.”

  “Griefs.”

  “Ice-cream.”

  “Hot chocolate sauce.”

  “Makarios.”

  There was a noticeably longer pause before Nigel replied,

  “Beard.”

  Primrose asked him a few more: but only as a formality, or to lull the unmasked Eoka agent, Nigel Strangeways, into a false sense of security. That pause after ‘Makarios’ had given him away properly, judging by the veiled look of triumph on young Primrose’s face. And Nigel had not made it deliberately; he could kick himself now, for as a result of that involuntary pause the child would be trailing him everywhere—yes, and anyone he talked to, since Bentinck-Jones had told her there were two Eoka agents on board. Damn the man for his fatuous games!

  Ten minutes later, Nigel sat down in the saloon for breakfast. It was only five past seven, and the other occupants of the table had not yet arrived. Nigel ordered orange juice and coffee, and started in on the plate of buns before him, buttering them heavily. He noticed at other tables Jeremy Street, his head buried in a book, and Primrose Chalmers with a man and a woman—her parents, no doubt—who had the mildly lunatic look not uncommon among psycho-analysts, lay or otherwise.

  When Clare turned up, she laid before him a copy of The Journal of Classical Studies and gave him a warm kiss. Nigel leafed through the magazine till he found what he was looking for. It was a long review of Jeremy Street’s last translation—the Medea: it t
ook that work to pieces with a chilly, relentless hostility, a derisive contempt and a wealth of scholarship, which made Nigel positively blush for the unfortunate translator. The review was signed with the initials ‘I.A.’ No wonder Jeremy Street had bristled at the very mention of the name ‘Ambrose’, and removed the Journal from the reading-room. And, if Ianthe Ambrose treated her pupils’ efforts in this devastating manner, it was small wonder that Faith Trubody should have blenched to see her coming on board.

  There was a sharp rap on the table, and Nigel looked up. Clare had taken a piece of bread from the basket in front of her and nearly broken her teeth on it.

  “What is this?” she asked, bashing it on the table again. “Pumice-stone?”

  “It’s Greek bread. The Greeks are a tough people. Try a bun instead.”

  “You’ve eaten them all.”

  “So I have. Never mind. Just listen to this.” In a low voice Nigel read out the last two paragraphs of I.A.’s review:—

  From any translator we have the right to demand two minimum qualifications—an intimate knowledge of the language of the original, and a refined feeling for his own. If Mr Street merely showed himself ignorant of modern textual recensions of his author, it would be deplorable enough. But when carelessness is added to ignorance, when a translation is defaced by solecisms, wild guess-work and even by schoolboy howlers, when unjustifiable liberties are taken with the text, then no protest can be sufficiently strong. As for Mr Street’s command of his own language, we can only say that it is negligible. A version which, mixing stale colloquialisms with the most tawdry trappings of romanticism, substitutes vulgarity for grandeur, hysteria for tragedy, and has the effect of turning Medea into a suburban delinquent, may titillate the unlettered public but must degrade its original. In his preface, Mr Street makes great play with his dislike for the ‘pedantry’ of scholars. It is possible, however, that Euripides would prefer the strait-jacket of scholarship to the poisonous shirt in which Mr Street has clothed him.

  We have had occasion before now to censure Mr Street in these columns. To popularise the classics is one thing, to pervert them is another. The standards of translation are low enough to-day, in all conscience. A person of Mr Street’s influence, putting out work so shoddy and so slovenly as his Medea, is lowering the standards to a nadir hitherto unconceived. We can but repeat what Blake said of Sir Joshua Reynolds—‘this man is hired to depress art’.