by Rose Donovan
“Even if we weren’t important enough to spy on, I’ve heard whisperings that Ian’s theatre producer career might not be as genuine as it seems,” said Ruby, quietly. “I’m not so much upset that we have someone spying on us, but rather that it is he – and the implications of it. He must be working for the British government, a business, or some British government agency in the Bahamas.”
“No!” said Fina, firmly. “I simply cannot believe it. You know I am a good judge of character—”
“One of the many reasons why I appreciate you so much, dear friend,” interjected Ruby with a flicker of a smile.
Fina returned the grin and continued. “And I think Ian is a good one to his core. I cannot believe he’d spy on us.”
“I agree with you, but it may be that Ian was forced into doing it,” said Ruby. “We’ve known of cases where the British government forces good people to work for them, threatening them or their families if they do not. What makes it worse is that we actually are on a mission this time.”
3
Fina lifted herself halfway off the bed to look Ruby in the eye. “What exactly is our mission?” Ruby didn’t answer. She stared at the curtains, even though they were pulled closed.
“Ruby?”
Her eyes darted quickly from side to side, as if she were waking up. “Sorry. I’m still thinking about – or I should say worrying – about Ian.”
“How about this? Let’s not jump to conclusions about Ian – but we will be sufficiently wary. Agreed? You know I say that as your friend.”
Nodding in agreement, Ruby pulled a crisp blue envelope out of her handbag with a flourish. She slid it toward Fina on the bed.
“I present you with our mission. A letter from my brother.”
Fina scrutinised the envelope. The postmark read St Kitts. She was looking forward to meeting Ruby’s brother again after their first encounter in Oxford. On their return trip from Trinidad, Ruby and Fina were planning a short stop in St Kitts to see Ruby’s family.
Glancing at the letter, however, Fina raised her eyebrow. It was addressed to a “Miss Emerald Byrdcroft”. Must be Ruby’s code name. She opened the envelope, fell back onto the cool counterpane, and began to read.
Dear Emerald:
I write you aboard the SS Sanguine, bound for Port of Spain. Thus far, I have had an uneventful journey. It took me the first day to adjust to the rocking and bobbing of the ship. Once I emerged from my lair, however, I felt much revived. The crew have been delightful. The food has been unexpectedly delicious and the company only slightly less so. The twelve passengers, counting myself, get on reasonably well. You know how it is – a ship brings people together quite quickly. They confess secrets that they’d never even tell their closest friends. Or family. Of course, I haven’t solicited these secrets, but they’ve been forthcoming nonetheless. Most of these secrets have been from white Britishers, who feel that my role must be one of confidant. I play up to them, mostly out of amusement but also because I’m genuinely interested. There is one person in particular who interests me.
But enough of my ramblings. I trust you are well and that you’ll write me with any news you have forthwith.
With love and affection,
Delwyn
Fina stuffed the letter back into its envelope and sat up with a sudden movement. “Clever code names,” she smiled. “What does it all mean?” She giggled. “I’m at sea!”
“Quite funny, Feens. Sometimes I think Wendell is too clever for his own good. All I know is that the letter is supposed to indicate by whom and when we’ll be contacted.”
“Contacted for what? I’ve been waiting for you to tell me since we sailed from Southampton!”
“You know about the labour unrest that’s building across the Caribbean. It’s at a fever pitch in Trinidad and Tobago right now, which is partially why I leaped at the chance to go with Gustave to Port of Spain. Our organisation has certain information about three owners of very large companies that are the most abusive to workers.”
“What kind of information – or can’t you tell me what it is?”
“What I know I can tell you. The information is about illegal financial activities. If local governments were to find out, they’d have to do something. The idea is that this would temporarily give the workers’ movements some leverage, or at least more time to mobilise.”
Ruby took a long sip of water and continued. “We are supposed to be contacted by someone on this ship. You know this is an international organisation, so nationality won’t help us narrow anything down this time. They are supposed to impart a message, item or something – I don’t know what – to us, which I am to deliver to a contact in Port of Spain. I do not know exactly what it is about, or the identity of the person who will deliver it.”
“Do you know the contact in Port of Spain?” asked Fina.
“I don’t know that either. I suppose that information will be entrusted to us when this person gets in touch with us aboard the ship.”
“Crikey. Wendell must think we’re awfully clever.”
Ruby leaned back on her bed. “Sometimes I think this is his way of getting revenge for me being the older sibling. When we were little I could be rather, well, strict with him.”
“Never! Not you,” said Fina, throwing a small bed pillow at Ruby in jest.
There was a knock at the door.
Fina opened the door to a compact, neat man whose eyes bulged. It seemed to be a permanent rather than a temporary state, thought Fina. He wore a maroon suit, which elevated his rather obviously quiet personality. His cropped, tidy hair framed a baby face, though Fina guessed he must be in his late forties. He took a long drag on a tiny black cigarette.
“I’m Gustave Marchand, here to see Miss Dove,” he said, holding out his hand. Fina took it and shook it rather perfunctorily. This was not how she had pictured the famous new designer. The maroon suit, yes, but not the rest of the man.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr Marchand. Do come in. I’m Fina Aubrey-Havelock. I’m so grateful to you for helping to arrange for my passage to Trinidad. The two of us were just chatting and unpacking,” said Fina, striding toward her suitcase as if to prove that was indeed what she had been doing.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Aubrey-Havelock. So glad you could join us.”
Fina’s throat closed and her chest tightened. Here it came: the inevitable inquisitive reaction to the announcement of her last name. But Gustave Marchand remained impassive, devoid of curiosity. No questions about her father’s murder were forthcoming.
She was powerless to stop the flood of memories again. For months, the townsfolk back in Tavistock had whispered behind her back, and sometimes to her face, about Connor. Most of them believed her brother had murdered their father – a crime for which he had been hanged. Those were the people she could still not look in the eye.
This time, however, as she watched Marchand cast an assessing eye over the clothes laid out on the bed, she noticed a little twinge in her stomach. It was the kind of twinge she experienced when she had doubt. Doubt about what?
Perhaps he hadn’t heard about the case in Paris – although that was hard to believe, given the relentless newspaper coverage, thought Fina. In any case, it was a relief. She let out a little puff of air that ruffled the fringe on her forehead. Maybe was just being kind.
Ruby smoothed her hair and dress and arose from her reclined position on the bed. She directed Gustave toward a chair in the corner. He waved it away. “Ruby, my dear, exciting news. I’ve come to inform you that Dolores Dominguez is on our voyage!” He practically squeaked these words, though his face remained stony. It was as if his words had been spoken by a ventriloquist.
“What?!” exclaimed Ruby. “But I adore her. I’ll never forget her in Blue Hyacinths.”
Gustave’s lips, still frozen along with the rest of his facial muscles, said, “I know, dear Ruby. Her cabin is located next to mine, and we’ve just had a marvellous chat about her films. We al
so talked about my clothes. She is looking for some new designs, so we have a grand opportunity. Come – let us discuss!”
Ruby positively glowed. She looked at Fina.
“Please, please, Ruby. Do go on! I must find Victor soon, in any case. We will have a whole five days to talk before we reach Port of Spain.”
And with that, Ruby scooped up her scarlet clutch and floated out of the room.
Thud. Thud.
Fina squinted at the ceiling fixture, which had begun to swing, to and fro, like a child on a swing.
4
“Fi-na, Fi-na, Fi-na!” came the muffled cadence from the adjoining cabin.
Must be dear Victor, she thought. The pounding stopped, but she had her summons. Sighing at her as-yet-unpacked suitcase, she locked the cabin and made her way to the adjoining cabin. Sadie opened the door.
The room, a mirror image of her own, looked as if a small band of sprites had sprung open bags of clothes and toys at strategic intervals throughout the room. Gauzy crimson and tangerine scarves had escaped the confines of luggage, adorning a picture here and a chair there. Overlooking it all were a carved wooden turtle and a sandstone parrot, twins to the ones in her own cabin.
Sadie nestled into a small armchair, apparently unperturbed by this state of affairs. One of her crossed legs swung languidly. She sipped from a glass with beads of condensation from the clash of hot air and cold liquid. Fina cast a jealous eye over her sea green voile dressing gown.
Victor glanced up from the small wooden horse he was holding in intense concentration. He bounded over to Fina. “Fi-na! Fi-na! Can we play now?”
His mother, ignoring Victor’s enquiry, said, “Dear Fina. I apologise for the awful racket. Victor began pounding while I was getting ready for the bath.”
“No trouble at all, Sadie. How often would you like me to see after Victor? Or perhaps a better question is how much time would you like me to spend on lessons?”
“Lessons…” said Sadie vaguely. “The thing is, I don’t want Victor picking up my American accent and all of my Americanisms. I want him to grow up to be a real English gentleman,” she said, waving her hands enthusiastically.
Fina groaned inwardly. So-called real English gentlemen were the scourge of her world.
As if on cue, Victor squeaked, “Stick ’em up, you broad!”
“Victor!” squealed his mother, craning her neck in the direction of her son. “Behave yourself. Otherwise Fina will make you stay inside learning proper English pronunciation for the whole trip. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
Victor’s little eyebrows shot up in horror. “Yes, I mean no, Mama.”
“You really should call me ‘mummy’ or ‘mother’, Victor. ‘Mama’ isn’t proper.”
Sadie twisted her neck back toward Fina. “I think three hours a day for elocution should be enough. And if you can watch over him, as needed – I’ll let you know. Otherwise you’re free to do as you please.”
She took a compact from the side table and began to powder her nose.
“That’s splendid, Sadie. Thank you,” said Fina. “There seems to be another younger boy on board – is it all right if they play together?” Her request was more tentative than she would have liked, but she feared there was every chance Sadie would object. After all, from what she had seen, that family was hardly in the same class as the family of the late Lord Winchcombe-Twisleton.
Sadie, however, didn’t bother to put down her compact. “Oh, I suppose so,” she said airily. “The little English boy, with those darling flannel shorts? As long as they stay out of trouble.”
Fina crouched down on the floor to talk to Victor, moving a herd of toy horses out of the way.
“Come along, Victor. I’m sure your mother wants to unpack more,” Fina said before she could stop herself. The implication was that she must want to tidy up the room since it was obvious that the suitcases had already unpacked themselves.
If Sadie were offended, she didn’t show it. Fina suspected that underneath all that silk and gloss lurked a woman of granite.
“Actually, all I crave right now is a lukewarm bath after this terrible heat,” Sadie said, gently flapping the passenger manifest in front of her face. She rose and plucked another dressing gown – this time in chartreuse silk – from the bedpost. Then she sauntered into the bathroom.
Preparing to explore the ship, Fina hunted about for a few children’s books, in case they found a cosy place to read. As she lifted them up from the bed, a slip of paper fluttered to the floor. She glanced at the bathroom door. It was shut. She could hear bathwater running and gentle humming.
Victor snuffled as his toy hedgehog ambled across the carpet.
Fina couldn’t help herself. She unfolded the paper.
Though it was written on letter paper, it contained only two rather spidery lines without a salutation or closing: “flour 20 grams, potatoes 20 grams, rice 20 grams”.
Must be a note about a slimming regime, thought Fina. Sadie was thin as a wafer. Fina grudgingly admired her own curves in the mirror fastened to the door. Or could it be some sort of code?
She turned to Victor, who was engrossed in playing with a giraffe which had seen better days. He made small meowing noises which Fina heard as the cries of the giraffe to be left in peace.
“Victor, are you prepared to explore the ship? I certainly am. Perhaps we can find something to nibble on while we’re out and about.”
Victor stood up and removed a small rectangular object encased in shiny wrapping from his pocket. He proffered it to Fina like it was a special discovery. “You can share my Mars bar,” he said, proudly. “It’s scrumptious.”
Fina peered at the crumpled wrapper, smeared with chocolate on the outside. She suspected it had been melted and reformed at least a dozen times. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she said, “My, that is generous of you. I will take it and put it in my bag for later.” She took the item and carefully wrapped it in a handkerchief and then slipped it into her bag.
Offering her hand, she said, “I saw another child on the ship – let’s find him!” Hand in hand, they set off on their adventure.
5
“Mooooo.” The ship’s mournful horn sounded. A moment later, a great jolt nearly catapulted Victor through the railing onto the lower deck. Fina grabbed his shirt before he slid off into oblivion.
“Whoa!” he yelled with delight. “That was fun.”
Never wanting to miss a good moment for a lesson, Fina gasped, “You could say, ‘That was delightful!’ or ‘Smashing!’.” He grinned up at her and scampered down the deck toward the bow of the ship.
As she caught up with him, she held out the passenger manifest and map of the boat. “Let’s play a game, Victor. I have the map of the ship here. I wonder how many rooms you can identify by what is inside. I’ll tell you your options and you try to guess.”
“Right-o. Here is the first room!”
After they passed cabin 3 – Fina noted this belonged to a Patricia Burbage and Emeline Caulk – they turned left into a half-octagonal room encased with floor-to-ceiling windows.
A wall of scent assaulted Fina’s olfactory glands as they entered. Even though she had always been sensitive to odours, this peculiarity always surprised her when it happened. The heavy, earthy scent of roses would be pleasant if it were a bit subtler.
Gripping the door handle, she collapsed into an overstuffed chair near an open window at the front. She gulped the salty breeze. A newspaper lay on the side table, and she picked it up, desperate for a distraction. It was dated 3rd May 1935. Three weeks old! Well, it was better than nothing. Feeling less queasy, she watched Victor skip in little circles round the room.
“Victor!” she hissed, waving him over to the chair. “Come here! Don’t disturb those guests.”
Victor complied, bouncing over to an adjacent chair. He wiggled himself up onto the seat – and then continued to wiggle.
“Jolly ship!” he said, thumping his arms on the cha
ir as if he were a man of more advanced years. He leaned in toward Fina. “Those people in the corner are whispering.”
Fina nodded and surreptitiously glanced at the two passengers ensconced in high-back chairs across from one another. One of them must be the source of the perfume. The first one wore a simple yet expensively tailored blue linen frock. The boat-neck line revealed a graceful neck and shoulders, interrupted only by long glass bead earrings. Her body was bent a hairbreadth’s distance toward the other figure, clad in an orange linen shirt and white trousers. His rather long but exquisitely coiffed hair just brushed the jawline of his chiselled face.
Realising that she was staring, she purposely turned to Victor. “So what room do you think this is, young Victor? I’ll tell you your choices: the reading room, the kitchen—”
“Ha, this isn’t the kitchen!” he said in a fit of giggles.
“The kitchen,” she repeated with a grin, “the dining room, the lounge, the bar, the green room or the crew’s quarters?”
“Hmm,” he said, while his little head scanned the room like a searchlight. Despite the perfume, the room had a calming effect on Fina. It was lined with shelves on the far wall holding various knick-knacks, and colourful chairs and tables were scattered about the room.
“Is it the reading room?” enquired Victor.
“Why do you say that?”
“There are some books on that far wall.”
“Excellent guess, but this is the lounge, not the reading room. Let’s move on to our next station,” said Fina promptly rising from the chair. The pair weaved in and out of the tables and chairs to exit through the far door. Fina endeavoured to look nonchalant as they passed the two conversationalists.
She and Victor could have been two ghostly apparitions floating by, unnoticed.
