by Annie Murray
James smiled bashfully, thrusting his hands into his pockets. ‘There’s something about this kind of news. Makes you want to tell someone. I know some women are superstitious about it – in case, you know, but I can’t think of anyone better to tell than you, Mercy.’
‘No – well I’ll be the babby’s nanny, I mean—’ – it was her turn to blush – ‘that’s if you think . . .?’
He looked deep into her eyes. ‘Of course I think.’
On impulse he took up her spare hand and pressed it to his lips. She felt them, warm on the back of her hand, and the slight prickle of his moustache. She was touched, but very embarrassed. What was he doing! She had no idea what to say.
He was also overcome by confusion again, dropped her hand and became abrupt all of a sudden. ‘Come this way,’ he said, striding off along the corridor. ‘I’ll show you where Stevie can be fed.’
*
He knew when he left Mercy that he should go and see how Margaret was, but he was too agitated, full of a restless desire to walk, to be out on the promenade deck in the fresh air. He returned to A-deck, nodding to a few other passengers on the way, but walking briskly to avoid any attempts at conversation. A coastline was still visible, the green and chalk white of the Isle of Wight, like a hazy mirage in the distance.
‘Help me, oh Lord, to do what’s right.’ He leant looking out, his lips moving in a childlike chant. ‘Help, oh Lord . . .’
What in heaven had he kissed her hand for like that? She must have thought him so peculiar, unbalanced even. Yet he wanted so much more of her! And hadn’t he seen an answering warmth in her eyes – surely that was what it was?
At home his feelings had seemed monstrous. It was unthinkable that he should harbour such intentions, such a force of desire for anyone but his wife, and towards a servant at that . . . Away from home, even now so freshly cut loose from the coast, he felt altered, freer. As if, even with his wife and son on board he was – could be – a different man. Images he had for so long tried to keep at bay flooded through him. Mercy’s parted lips moving to meet his, her eyes languid with need of him, his hands removing her clothes, peeling open to reveal what he had until now only imagined, her shy, eager, wanting . . . His fancy drove him on to caress her white thighs, the wet, silky opening between them parting for him . . .
He put his hands over his face, afraid that anyone passing should read in his expression the content of his thoughts.
I will ask her, he resolved, to dine with me tonight. The boy would be asleep by then and could be left. With us – quickly he corrected himself – with us. For surely Margaret would be recovered by then? This fact came to him like a chill shower of rain.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘Hello again.’
Mercy turned, closing the door of her room very quietly. She had finally lulled Stevie to sleep. The ship had left Cherbourg and was picking up speed, and she had to brace her legs so as not to lurch across the corridor.
For a moment she didn’t recognize him. A tall man stood in front of her in working-man’s overalls smeared with grease, and his hands and face were blacked with it too. But the smile was familiar, and the voice.
‘I – er – your hat, on the gangway. Remember?’
‘Oh yes!’ Mercy laughed. ‘I didn’t know you for a minute. Whatever’s happened to you?’
He joined in her laughter, ruefully. She saw him keep looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming. Most people were already at dinner.
‘I shouldn’t be seen up here in this state, of course. We’re supposed to clean up down there but I forgot to take a set of clothes to change into. I haven’t got into the swing of it all yet.’ He held his hand out. ‘Paul Louth – oh!’ He withdrew the hand. ‘You can’t really shake that, can you?’
‘I’m Mercy Hanley.’ The ship rolled and she found herself lurching towards him. Paul instinctively put a hand out to steady her, catching her by the wrist and leaving a black oil smudge on her sleeve.
‘Oh my goodness, I am sorry!’ He looked perturbed. ‘How ridiculous of me.’
‘No – you’re awright.’ Mercy smiled. ‘It ain’t – isn’t – the end of the world, is it? The pattern hides it and it’ll wash out.’ She held her hands behind her back as if to give him permission to stop worrying about it. ‘How did you get in that state then?’
‘I’m a student, in London – Imperial College. Well, I’ve nearly finished there actually. Engineering. I was lucky enough to get the position – experience the working of a real ship. So I’m spending a lot of the time seeing her in action, learning on the job.’ As he spoke his eyes flickered towards her and away repeatedly, his expression serious, earnest. He rubbed nervously at the oil on his hands.
‘There’s another student – from Cambridge.’ Paul’s expression suddenly became wry and he lowered his voice. ‘He’s travelling first class. Not really my scene. The silly thing is, I actually come from Cambridge and his people live in London. Quite daft when you think of it.’ He looked nervously up and down the corridor. ‘Look, someone’s bound to come along. I shouldn’t really stick around here.’
But he still didn’t move away, and stood bracing his legs in a relaxed way against the sea’s motion. Mercy was learning to do the same. She was flattered that he seemed to want to talk to her.
‘Was that your little boy I saw you with?’
‘Oh, no, I’m not married! I just look after him for Mr and Mrs Adair. They’re upstairs.’
‘In first? Now, where’re you from? No – let me guess. Birmingham, by any chance?’
She smiled. ‘Right first time. Am I that broad?’
‘No more than anyone else. That’s what a stint in the army does for you – you learn to pick out all sorts of accents. Great city, Birmingham. An engineer’s paradise. Is this your first voyage?’
‘Never been out of Brum before.’
‘Oh well, in that case I could show you around,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘She’s a great vessel. I could show you parts of her that no one else would . . .’ He looked stricken all of a sudden. ‘I’m sorry, Mercy – I mean only if you’d like, and you’re able?’
‘I’d love it. Would you really – are you allowed?’
Paul looked surprised at this notion. ‘I’ve really no idea! Don’t see why not. Would you like to tomorrow – if it’s convenient?’ He seemed reluctant to let her go. ‘In fact I’ll be dining soon, alone, unless you’d like to join me?’
‘Oh, no, I can’t. I’ve got to go up and have my – and dine – with Mr and Mrs Adair.’ Mercy rolled her eyes comically as if it was all a bit of a trial eating in first class. At that moment it did rather feel so. It was nice to talk to someone of her own age. ‘But I’ll see you tomorrow?’
‘That’d be very nice. ‘ He sounded surprised she’d agreed. ‘I should be free soon after five-thirty tomorrow. Where shall I find you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ She had no routine yet, barely knew where anything was. ‘Shall I meet you here? Quarter to six?’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’ Paul slowly backed away. ‘Better go down and make myself look respectable now!’
Margaret Adair was sufficiently well by the evening to dress for dinner. She wore an elaborate gown stitched in panels of eggshell blue and café creme silk with a low waist and floating panels of the same materials falling from waist to ankle. Her feet were squeezed into elegant blue shoes. James had refrained from mentioning that the subtle pastel colours made her already pale skin look even more washed out.
‘You look delightful, my dear,’ he told her, adjusting his collar. ‘I’m so glad you’re well enough to come down. I’ve invited Mercy to eat with us – just for tonight.’
‘Oh good,’ Margaret said, dabbing a last-minute touch of powder on her nose and cheeks.
‘Yes – I thought it’d be an experience for her, first class.’
Mercy felt quite overpowered walking into the first-class dining room. It was the most
sumptuous, luxurious room she had ever seen. She followed the Adairs as they walked with extra sedateness between the comfortable swivel chairs to their table, past a glittering array of evening clothes.
Thanks to the grease mark on her best dress she had changed into a soft woollen frock patterned with pretty blue flowers which she liked very much normally but in here it felt very plain and run of the mill. She had twisted her hair into a rather elegant knot, but even that felt rough and childish now. She sank down thankfully into the chair James Adair indicated for her. He looked very smart in a new, crisply pressed evening suit. At the far end of the room a group of musicians was playing soft, but cheerful music.
‘Well this is something, isn’t it?’ James looked round the room, lined from floor to ceiling with beautifully carved wooden panels. ‘They say it’s in the style of Francois I – King of France in the sixteenth century.’
‘No two panels the same,’ Margaret said. She sounded rather weak and quiet.
Mercy looked about her at all the wood and the beautiful ceiling, elegant furniture. She felt all lumps and bumps, awkward under the eyes of the stewards in their starched jackets and very conscious of the posh voices and extravagantly dressed people around her. Talk about fish out of water! Many of them in their jewels and lace and fur made James and Margaret Adair look very staid.
‘Don’t worry, Mercy,’ Margaret leant closer, seeing her alarm at the amount of cutlery. ‘Just start outside and work inwards. Then you can’t go wrong.’ Mercy saw she was nervous as well.
A steward handed them menus printed on thick, good quality paper. Seeing him eyeing Mercy a little askance, James Adair said rather sternly, ‘Miss Hanley is our guest for this evening.’
‘Yes, sir, of course. Quite so.’ The steward seemed offended that he felt it necessary to justify himself. James smiled across at her reassuringly, but Mercy rather began to wish he’d thrown her out so she could go back to second class, third even, where she’d be far more comfortable. It was too hot and she wished she could roll her sleeves up.
James Adair selected from the menu for her.
‘No swede here, don’t worry!’ he joked. He seemed to take delight in choosing for her a bewildering array of food. She sat nodding solemnly, clenching and unclenching her sticky hands on her lap. He kept looking at her and smiling. Even when she was talking to Margaret she could feel his eyes on her, so intensely that his gaze almost seemed to burn her skin. She wondered if he was watching to see if she behaved properly. It made her even more uncomfortable.
They ate oysters, poached sole, capons, a delicate selection of vegetables: asparagus (what’s this? she wondered), glazed carrots shining with butter, parsley potatoes, slim green beans dressed with lemon which squeaked a little against her teeth.
‘Let’s order some wine,’ James said, and a bottle of chilled white wine was brought to their table in a starched white cloth.
‘Not for me, thank you,’ Margaret said. She was struggling with the food.
‘You’ll try some, Mercy?’ He filled her glass.
Mercy sipped the wine curiously. It was strong and fruity. She thought it tasted like cough medicine and decided a few mouthfuls would be enough. But she smiled back dutifully at James Adair as he raised his glass to her, beaming. If only he’d stop watching her all the time she might be able to relax a bit.
‘Good health to you both. We’re in for a marvellous voyage and a great adventure!’
Drinking more than he was accustomed to, James Adair grew red in the face, his forehead beaded with perspiration, and he was very talkative. He went on and on about the ship as if it were necessary to fill every second with words, despite the violins playing softly in the background.
‘She was at Gallipolli you know,’ he said rather loudly. ‘Hospital ship – picking up the wounded. Quite a thought, Mercy, isn’t it, that this very room was probably full of hammocks containing injured fighting men. Imagine that!’
Mercy felt she’d rather not imagine it. The thought made her stomach turn. Long before they reached the cheeses and the orange and lemon soufflé she was already full and longing for the second-class dining room where she could enjoy something like a chop with spuds and carrots and have done with it.
‘I’m sorry about this afternoon,’ Margaret Adair said when she could get a word in. She was only picking at her food and had refused the roasted capon altogether. ‘I gather James has told you . . .?’
‘Yes, he did.’ Mercy touched Margaret’s hand for a moment. ‘I’m so pleased for you. And Stevie’ll love having a babby to play with.’
‘I feel so foolish,’ Margaret said. As usual, strands of her soft hair were coming down and she kept trying to press them up with her fingers. ‘I’d begun to wonder – but I was showing no sign and I couldn’t be sure. But it was like this with Stevie, only rather less extreme. Perfectly well one day, and the next, bang! Sick as anything. But what a catastrophic time for it to happen!’
‘Maybe you’ll be all right tomorrow,’ Mercy said. ‘You never know.’
‘Never mind, darling.’ James was in a very genial mood tonight. ‘You’ll still be able to experience the voyage and we’ll take good care of you, won’t we, Mercy?’
‘’Course we will. Oh!’ Mercy remembered suddenly. ‘I met someone ever so interesting tonight. He’s a student, working down with the ship’s engines and that. He said he’d show me round the ship and all sorts.’
James frowned. ‘Well, who is he? We can’t have you – and Stevie for that matter – just knocking about with any old person.’
‘He’s not just any old person, by the sound of it,’ Margaret pointed out gently. ‘Mercy said he’s a student and I expect he’s far too busy to be thinking about a small child.’
‘He’s from Cambridge,’ Mercy said, eager to prove Paul’s respectability. ‘And some college in London – I forget now. He talks ever so nice.’
‘Which is more than can be said for some people,’ James retorted. ‘Sure he’s not a bit above you?’
‘James!’ Margaret was incensed. ‘What on earth has got into you?’
‘Well, we don’t know the first thing about him, do we? We can’t have her going off with just anyone.’ He put his dessert spoon down petulantly.
‘Honestly, darling, I’ve never heard you talk such nonsense,’ Margaret said quietly, but with the firmness she occasionally mustered. ‘It’s not as if he can actually take her anywhere far, is it? We’re on a ship. And I’d say it’d be nice for Mercy to make a friend – he sounds very kind. In case you’ve forgotten, James, Mercy is really rather a good judge of character . . .’
Mercy watched the two of them in alarm. Mr Adair seemed to be getting so angry all of a sudden and she didn’t understand why. How had she offended him?
He took another mouthful of wine and looked across at her. After a moment, more calmly, he said, ‘Just be careful. It’s Stevie I’m concerned for. Don’t want him associating with the wrong people.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of letting him come to any harm.’ Her feelings of hurt were plain in her voice.
‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ Margaret said. ‘Now don’t you worry. When I was expecting Stevie I wasn’t much company for a few weeks and it may well be the same this time. So if you meet a nice friend your own age, dear, then I’m pleased for you and so will James be when he stops this old fuddy-duddy mood he’s got into. You spend far too much time with us old things as it is. Well it’s true, James,’ she added, seeing her husband’s disgruntled expression. ‘Mercy may be in our employ but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve to have some life of her own.’
The steward loomed over James’s shoulder. ‘Shall you require the cheeseboard, sir?’
James looked round the table. Both women shook their heads emphatically.
‘I feel like a stuffed chicken,’ Mercy said, before realizing that the first-class dining room was probably not the place to admit such a thing.
But Margaret laughed. �
��Quite a meal, wasn’t it? We shall all have more flesh on us when we reach New York.’
As the diners finished their meal the musicians struck up dance tunes and the stewards began to shift the empty chairs and tables back, creating a dance floor.
‘It’s no good,’ Margaret said. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I’m not up to any more tonight. I must retire to bed.’ She looked pale still, unusually fragile. James stood up courteously when his wife did. Mercy stood up as well.
‘There’s no need to come,’ Margaret said. ‘I know my way. Goodnight, Mercy.’ Suddenly she leant over and her soft lips touched Mercy’s cheek. ‘See you in a little while, darling,’ she said to James. Then she was gone.
Mercy felt James’s hand on her back, its heat. She stiffened, wanting to step away. She was already too hot, and could see how he was sweating.
‘How would you like to dance, Mercy?’
‘Me? I can’t dance!’ She tried to laugh off the suggestion.
‘Oh, you’d pick it up in no time.’ He caught her hand. ‘Let me teach you, my dear.’
No, she thought. Please. She was even more uncertain of him after his harshness earlier. But she sensed he was trying to make it up. His eyes were pleading.
‘I should go and see if Stevie’s all right.’
‘He’ll be perfectly all right.’ He still clasped her hand. ‘Sleeps like a log once he’s off, the little fellow, doesn’t he? Just one dance – for me. Please?’
A few couples were already on the floor, their feet moving expertly to a waltz.
James took her in his arms, his right hand pressing her close at the waist. She could only shuffle and stumble after him when she knew he longed for her to whirl, to match his expertise. All the time she had to look down at her feet.
‘One, two, three; one, two three,’ he counted. If she glanced up his eyes were always fixed on her face. It made her feel uncomfortable. She felt he wanted something from her and she didn’t know what it was.
