Feeling virtuous I rejoined Melchett and spent a very dull half-hour indeed reading in the library. Or rather Charlie read. Every book I dipped into seemed to carry some sentence or other that reminded me of the night before. I had the steward scurrying up and down the library steps like a squirrel hastening to gather nuts before winter set in.
Finally I told Charlie I was in need of exercise and emerged on deck in time to hear the mighty hooting of the ship’s whistles, which, in accordance with company rules, required testing in mid-voyage. Sextants in hand, the ship’s officers crowded along the wing of the navigating deck, shooting the sun and calculating our position in the ocean. They wore their greatcoats for it was noticeable how far the temperature had dropped since yesterday. The sea was as black as coal, the white avenue in our wake pointing its arrow-head at the pale horizon. I was about to return indoors to fetch my own coat when Thomas Andrews, hatless and wearing a beautifully cut suit of dark blue serge, caught up with me and asked if he could have a quiet word. Oblivious of the cold and the continuing boom of the whistles he said he and his team had been monitoring the use of the writing room and were convinced that though it was extremely popular with the ladies it was over-large. It would be no more than commercial common-sense to reduce its size and convert the extra space into first class accommodation. Bearing in mind my satisfactory work as a draughtsman and knowing that my uncle wanted me to have more settled employment, he wondered if I would be interested in drawing up plans for such a project. It would afford both of us the opportunity to find out what I was capable of, though, of course, he couldn’t promise that any finished design would be used. He didn’t want me to answer yes or no at this moment. Would I come to his suite at two o’clock precisely?
I really did think God had taken a hand in my affairs. Overjoyed, I hastened to collect measuring tape, pencil and paper and raced to the writing room. I had forgotten all about Wallis, or rather the ticklish situation existing between us, so much so that when I saw her sitting there, alone, I waved my hand quite naturally and smiled. She smiled back. She looked pale and I noticed the uneven texture of her complexion. It would be going too far to call her skin blotchy, yet nevertheless it was not as smooth as I remembered. When she spoke I was struck by the thinness of her lips and the peg-like appearance of her teeth. It was as though always before I had glimpsed her through a mist, which had now cleared, revealing imperfections.
‘You look happy,’ she said.
‘I am,’ I replied, and busied myself taking measurements. Shortly after, she gathered up her things and left.
The writing room was certainly spacious enough to be reduced in size, but I was worried by the extent of the alterations necessary, bearing in mind plumbing and electrical considerations. One half of the room had an almost perfect reproduction of a Georgian ceiling with the most exquisite carving and moulding which would either have to be sliced in two and modified or else taken down altogether. Mrs Brown of Denver was at an alcove table, playing Patience. Observing me stalking about the room she asked if I was thinking of buying the place. We both laughed.
It was wonderful to feel in such high spirits, to know in what direction my life was going. I would never drink again, or at least not to excess, nor waste my time with the likes of Hopper or George Dodge. Even dear old Charlie, being far too indolent, would have to be left behind. I was going to become a naval architect or an interior designer, possibly both. After all, Andrews had managed this double feat. One day I would stride round some great Atlantic liner, a team of draughtsmen trotting at my heels, carefully jotting down my every suggestion.
I was brought back to earth by Ginsberg, who poked his head round the door and announced that the noon to noon speed had just been posted up in the smoke-room and it was the best day’s run yet, 546 miles. ‘Are you prepared to place a bet?’ he asked, to which I loftily replied that I was not a gambling man. ‘You surprise me,’ he retorted. ‘You definitely were last night. You’d have lost your shirt if Melchett hadn’t stepped in.’
At two o’clock on the dot I knocked at the door of Andrews’ suite. His sitting room resembled an office with plans of various sections of the ship pinned to the oak panelling of the walls. The table and chairs had been pushed back to accommodate an enormous drawing desk, behind which he sat with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He waved me to sit. Propped on the mantel above the fireplace stood a framed square of writing with the last line underscored in ink. He kept me waiting a good five minutes before looking up from his work.
He didn’t ask for my decision; I reckon he knew that I would jump at the chance. Instead he told me how his own career had begun at Harland and Wolff. His first three months were spent in the joiners’ shop, the month after with the cabinet-makers, the one following working in ships. Then a further three months in the main store; five with the shipwrights, two in the moulding loft, two with the painters, eight with the iron shipwrights, six with the fitters, three with the pattern-makers, eight with the smiths. A spell of eighteen months in the drawing sheds completed his five years as an apprentice.
I must admit my heart sank at this litany of hard labour. There was worse to come. He had undergone a rigorous course of night studies in order to gain a knowledge of machine and freehand drawing, applied mechanics and the theory of naval architecture. He had read until his eyeballs seemed to have been rolled in sand. Soon after his twentieth birthday he was given the supervision of construction work on the Mystic, represented the firm at the trials of the Gothic, went to Liverpool to report on the damage done to the Lycia and helped in the renovation of the Germanic. ‘If you wish to succeed, Morgan,’ he said, ‘you must think while others sleep, read while others play.’
‘I will,’ I said. ‘I will. I want to. I’ve already thought of a way of converting part of the writing room while conserving certain features. It should be possible to—’ but before I could explain fully we were interrupted by an urgent knocking.
He went out into the vestibule and opened the door to Bruce Ismay. I couldn’t hear every word they said. Ismay seemed to be complaining that the ship wasn’t going fast enough. Smith had apparently had the ship’s course altered earlier that morning. We were now slightly to the south and west of the normal course which would result in further delay.
I got up to read that framed writing on the mantel-shelf. If it was a prayer it was pretty self-congratulatory.
Of all who live, I am the one by whom
This work can best be done in my own way.
Then shall I see it not too great nor small,
To suit my spirit and to prove my powers.
Then shall I cheerfully greet the labouring hours,
And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall
At eventide, to play, and love, and rest,
Because I know for me my work is best.
It was the last four words that had been underlined.
I heard Andrews say, ‘You yourself showed me a wireless message from the Greek steamer Athenai reporting large quantities of field ice in latitude 41° 51 north and longitude 52° west.’
‘There’s always ice at this time of year,’ Ismay said. ‘Damn it all, this is a maiden voyage,’ and then both voices grew heated. I gathered they were arguing about the importance of arriving Tuesday rather than Wednesday.
‘Take it up with Smith,’ Andrews shouted. ‘He’s in command,’ and with that there was a muffled grunt from Ismay and the door banged shut behind him.
Andrews returned looking irritated. He sat down at his desk and took up his pencil. He appeared to have forgotten I was there.
‘The writing room—’ I began.
‘You’ll find the relevant plans on the sideboard in the vestibule,’ he said. ‘I imagine you’ll find it convenient to work in situ,’ and with that I was dismissed.
I surprised myself with the quantity of work I managed to get done before tea-time. I had in mind a structure similar to a stage set, rooms within an existing room, comp
lete with false ceilings. In this way it would not be necessary to tear down the main ceiling or damage the splendid panels inlaid with mother of pearl that graced the writing room. The scheme had the added advantage of being relatively simple to dismantle should the time come when the original space needed to be restored. I felt this might well come about sooner than expected; according to the steward the ship was already a quarter empty of first class passengers.
At five o’clock I went in search of Scurra and Rosenfelder. I wanted to tell them what I’d been doing. Scurra, in particular, would surely be pleased at my new-found sense of purpose. In the event, only Rosenfelder was in the smoke-room and he was too selfishly pre-occupied, on account of Adele wearing his gown that evening, to listen. He did, however, inform me that I’d tried to scramble out of the porthole last night when he’d escorted me to my room. ‘That’s all in the past,’ I said, ‘because I know for me my work is best.’ I proved it by drinking nothing but a glass of lemonade. The mood I was in it tasted like champagne.
I did meet Scurra before dinner, on A deck, where I’d gone in hopes of seeing Riley. For some unfathomable reason I needed to make my peace with the young seaman; it irked that he held me in contempt. On Rosenfelder’s behalf, Scurra had been below to visit Adele. ‘He’s anxious to make sure,’ he said, ‘that she intends to keep her promise.’
‘And does she?’
‘Without a doubt. Not a word to Rosenfelder, but I’ve crossed her palm with silver.’ He asked if the steward had returned the painting to me. I thanked him, then blurted out, ‘Mr Andrews wants me to design something for the ship. It’s to do with the writing room. There’s no guarantee that my work will be used, but it’s a start, isn’t it?’
‘It is indeed,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I’m delighted for you. And if you succeed, which I don’t doubt, you will have killed two birds with one stone.’
‘In what way?’
‘An honest day’s wage for an honest day’s work. You can build your hospitals and schools with untainted money. There is a difference, don’t you agree, when it comes to profit, between Commerce and Art?’ I think he was being sincere.
‘Rosenfelder has equally bright hopes for the future,’ I said. ‘That’s good too, isn’t it?’ It was important he should think I was interested in someone other than myself. He agreed and mentioned that Wallis and her sister Ida had arranged for Adele to change for dinner in their room. Before I could stop myself, I asked, ‘Are you in love with Wallis Ellery?’
He turned to me in astonishment, black eyebrows raised above his spectacles. ‘Love?’ he barked. ‘Good heavens! Love is what women feel.’
Molly Dodge had forgiven Ginsberg; George and he had shaken hands on it. That was the hot news in the lounge before dinner. Kitty Webb told me. Apparently it was only half an apology, because though he’d declared he was sorry for insulting the memory of Molly’s mother, he refused to withdraw one word in regard to the Germans. In fact he’d referred to them as beasts all over again. ‘One has to admire his pig-headedness,’ Kitty said. ‘After all, he’s of German stock himself.’
She asked how I was feeling. Had I got myself together? She didn’t care what people thought about my friends . . . they were just a load of dead beats, but it mattered that I was getting quite a reputation.
‘A reputation for what?’
‘For acting wild. I know you weren’t involved in that scuffle in the dining saloon, but old man Straus was blowing steam over you knocking Mrs Straus down the stairs.’
‘I did no such thing,’ I protested. ‘I merely jogged her arm.’
‘Of course, but these things get worse in the telling. And last night Benny claims you caused such a rumpus in the smoke-room you had to be removed.’
‘I was upset,’ I muttered. ‘Something happened earlier—’
‘It sure did,’ she said. ‘You assaulted Wallis Ellery.’ I was about to sulk when she flashed the smile of an angel and tapped my knee gleefully with her blunt little nails. ‘Serves her right,’ she crowed. ‘I’ve never understood what you boys see in her. She’s flat-chested and she’s a prude.’
‘You’re possibly right,’ I said, though I was only speaking of Wallis’s chest.
‘You’d be far better off making a play for Molly, or even Ida. But then, I shouldn’t think you want to get married.’
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘Do you?’
‘Not yet,’ she replied evenly, ‘but I will one day . . . when Benny’s wife tells him it’s time to stop.’
She was very frank. She said it was much better being the mistress of a rich man than a poor one, and it had nothing to do with money. Well, obviously it had . . . what she meant was that if Guggenheim had been earning a few dollars a week and living in a cold water apartment, his having a girl on the side would be darn selfish.
‘And unlikely,’ I said. ‘Unless it was true love.’
‘Jesus,’ she exclaimed. ‘There’s nothing true about love.’ My expression must have conveyed dismay, for she again playfully tapped my knee. ‘Take my word for it, Morgan, there wouldn’t be any joy in it, not after the first flush . . . all those meetings on street corners . . . all that petting in dark doorways with the rain pelting down. The wife would soon cotton on and give him hell . . . make him feel like a rat—’
‘It’s a dismal picture,’ I said.
‘If you’re rich, nobody gets hurt. Who can accuse Benny of neglecting his family?’ There were other advantages too. For instance, if a man was next to broke his woman was called a floozie; if well-heeled, a secretary.
‘Or a gold-digger,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but not to their face.’
We both watched the snail-like progress of Mr and Mrs Straus through the doorway. As usual, they were arm in arm. The way they leaned together it seemed that if either one let go the other would lose balance. I couldn’t be sure whether I found this touching or disturbing. Such dependence was surely dangerous. If one of them got detached, what then?
Ginsberg arrived shortly after with Hopper. They’d been messing about in the gymnasium. They had intended to jog round the deck but the cold was enough to freeze them in their tracks. There wasn’t a breath of wind, the sea like glass, and the stars – ‘I’ve never seen such a starry sky,’ Hopper enthused, ‘not even in the desert.’
Ginsberg congratulated me on becoming a protégé of Thomas Andrews. He sounded genuinely delighted, which threw me. I noticed Hopper kept quiet. Ginsberg had heard the news from Rosenfelder, though in the telling I’d turned into the designer of a new ship of the White Star line, one possibly larger than the Titanic.
‘It’s just a few drawings,’ I corrected. ‘And there’s not the remotest chance of their being used. I guess it’s a sort of examination.’ Hopper looked relieved. Ginsberg insisted on drinks all round, by way of celebration. Thinking it churlish to refuse, I was careful to take small sips. By the time the bugle blew for dinner Hopper and he were on their second bottle.
Wallis came late to our table. She’d been helping Adele get dressed; Ida was still engaged in the titivating. Wallis sat next to me. I didn’t turn a hair, nor did I need to call up the giant’s foot, not even when she took out her handkerchief and I caught the scent of lavender. What had happened was no more than a photograph snapped long ago, in another country, its chemical impression now fading. I even had the composure to apologise for my behaviour in the foyer, though it was somewhat tongue in cheek. ‘You must have been very frightened,’ I said. ‘It was the action of a brute.’
‘I’ve forgotten it,’ she answered graciously. ‘As must you. By the way, your dressing-gown is being laundered. You shall have it tomorrow.’
The soup was being served when Rosenfelder’s moment came. Several times I’d glimpsed his tubby countenance at the glass, anxiously peering to see if the dining room was full. He’d obviously squared it with the orchestra and arranged some kind of signal, for suddenly the waltz song from The Merry Widow petered o
ut and the pianist thumped a cadenza. Conversation straggled to a halt. Lady Duff Gordon rose to her feet and pointed with her fan towards the doors, at which the violinist raised his bow and the haunting opening notes of ‘One Fine Day’ stole through the hushed saloon. Adele entered on the arm of Rosenfelder.
It doesn’t matter that I’m not qualified to judge what she wore or that I couldn’t even describe it adequately – none of us men could, beyond it was shaped like an hour-glass and made of some kind of silk that picked up points of dancing light – for Adele and the dress were one, and as she advanced, the splendid column of her neck circled with borrowed diamonds, those pearl-pale eyes with their strange expression of exaltation fixed straight ahead, we held our breath in the presence of a goddess. For a fleeting instant I saw her as Joan of Arc prepared for battle, the bodice of her generous bosom sheathed in silver. A little flood of material swished behind her as she marched; flipping it expertly to one side she rounded the Duff Gordons’ table and stood waiting to be seated. It was Mr Harris, not Rosenfelder, who pulled out her chair.
I was pleased for the tailor; he was not just a flash in the pan. Nor was Adele. The two would rise together. There were some, Hopper for one, who thought the whole caboodle smacked of vulgarity. Nor could he think what we saw in Adele. She was pretty enough, but far too tall for a woman. And where the devil did she go to after her spectacular appearances?
‘No, she wouldn’t do for you,’ drawled Wallis. ‘But then, you’re on the small side, aren’t you?’
The dinner dragged on. If anything, not drinking was having an hallucinatory effect on me. I had the curious impression I was part of a group seen from without. I had to go on eating because if I looked up I might see faces pressed to the window, hands clawing the glass. The noise too was outside, a dull intermingle of shrieking voices and clattering china. And there was another sound, a high-pitched whistle such as the sand at Singing Beach gave off when stepped upon. I turned, opened my mouth to tell Molly Dodge I thought of the North Shore near her home, but she wasn’t there. Ginsberg was slicing a peach in two, preparing to gouge out the stone with his knife. He glanced up and the reflection of the candles leapt in his eyes. The table tilted. The next thing I remember I was in the outer room, crouched on a wicker chair, Hopper pushing my head down between my knees, a lump of ice melting on the back of my neck.
Every Man for Himself Page 13
