“I don’t know why we make decisions like that. We just do. It might be pride, or a feeling that the old must give way to the new.”
“New! They’re all over a hundred years old in there!” Angel exclaimed, with more derision than she intended, but it was hard to break with the habits of a lifetime. Immediately she regretted it and apologised, to receive another of Gabrielle’s famous smiles.
“No need, my dear. Yes, they’re old, I’m old, and yes, there’s no new blood to take our places when we’ve gone, and I think that when we’re dead all the dances will die too, but that may not be such a bad thing. They belonged to the land, to the life which the Hope is meant to be leaving behind, and to return to them would be going back in a circle, getting nowhere.”
And then Angel made a request she had been meaning to make for a couple of hours now: “Teach me.”
As she said that, she considered what her friends would say if they found out, how they would think her some kind of deviant pervert, and she had a foreboding of the pains of withdrawal to come, and she glimpsed for the last time her old life like a dirty rag at the bottom of a bucket, and she remembered Push – had she blinded him? – and she understood that the desire had been there all along and had to be voiced, just as Gabrielle’s answer had to be: “Yes.”
Days come and go in pain as the hunger burrows its way out of her system and Gabrielle cradles her when she needs it and makes her laugh when she needs it. When the worst is over, she begins trying to persuade Angel that the dancing is not for her and she really should go back to her home and people her own age, but the effort is half-hearted, nobody can pretend otherwise, and only makes Angel keener to learn.
So the lessons start. Gabrielle has the knack of a good teacher, although she would never have suspected she did, and knows the right times to push or tease or coax or cajole or scold or congratulate her pupil. For her part, Angel is a good learner and, while she will never have Gabrielle’s innate grace, she finds a dignity within herself which she never believed existed, she has been keeping it under sedation for such a long time.
The lessons are long and Angel is exhausted at the end of every day. Gabrielle says this is because Angel is putting in too much effort and not enough precision. Angel complains occasionally, throws a tantrum, screams she will never get this right, and Gabrielle weathers out the storms, before drawing Angel close and telling her to behave and kissing her. Lucius follows all this with half-closed, knowing green eyes.
Angel has never been happier.
It will be in the middle of the fourth dance of the evening. A few people will see the woman of smiles entering the ballroom with a companion. The woman of smiles has not attended the dances for a while, her absence has been noted with genuine concern, and there are rumours she has died, but she will walk into the room as if she is waltzing, with a young and frightened girl on her arm. When the dance ends, more and more people will take notice of the pair of them standing in the doorway and the conversation will become hushed and excited. The girl is beautiful, a little pale perhaps, but with dark and shining hair tied up and brilliant eyes and hands gripped tightly over her stomach and a nervous tilt in her posture, a slight hunch of the shoulders. Her dress is old and ill-fitting, one of the woman’s castoffs. She does not belong here and yet she cannot be more welcome.
The handsome man with the grey temples who held the door for Gabrielle several months ago will turn to Gabrielle and Gabrielle will nod with approval and the man will lead Angel to the centre of the floor. The orchestra will strike up.
But nobody else is dancing. They will watch the couple, they will watch her, and Angel is both thrilled and terrified. Her shoes are pinching, a pin at the back of the dress is threatening to come loose, and she fears she will forget everything. Then they are away, the man leading, and Angel will feel dizzy and dislocated, just as she felt when she first arrived at the upper deck and she saw the ballroom. But the learning and the lessons will take over. The music will rise and swell and fall and rise again. The audience will sigh as they observe her first unsteady steps and her blossoming confidence, and something like hope will find its way into their old quick-beating hearts.
Gabrielle, the woman of smiles, will smile.
FAITH, HOPE, CHARITY
The Reverend Chartreuse was a great man, a greater preacher.
“‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal…’ What was Saint Paul telling us? What? I’ve lain awake many a night, listening to the people passing to and fro, and felt the engines of this … great … ship, and I have asked myself that very question. Have not we all? What is charity? Some people have interpreted it as meaning love. What nonsense! Charity is simply charity, the giving to the less fortunate.
“So I pray to God and I say, ‘Look, Lord, I have given money to the poor of this ship, to the homeless, the stoppers, the disenfranchised children – the children, Lord – and I have done your works and been guided by your mighty hand, slow to chide. And what of it? What of this charity, Lord? Does it profit me?’
“And you, good people, you place your offerings in our collection boxes at the end of the service, don’t you? From the love in your hearts and your love for the Lord of Hosts, you do, and expect no return, bless you. But does it profit your souls? Does it profit … your … souls? Paul would have us believe that throwing off all worldly goods, all the trappings of earthly life, is not charity! He says, ‘And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, I profiteth me nothing.’
“Good people, Paul is misled, Paul is confused, Paul is wrong.
“But he lived in primitive, less enlightened times. We have seen supreme acts of charity in our day. I’m thinking of the Philanthropist who built this … great … ship, a man who loved his dream even unto death. I can tell you, I have it on good authority that his soul is in hell right now, even as I speak, in Satan’s parlour where all suicides are destined to go. Charity profited that man’s soul? I say no.
“And so we must not take the Bible at face value. We must shift its focus to suit our times. Man should ever seek the truth, the truth between the lines. I take it upon myself to enlarge upon Paul’s words, to see them in the way of the Hope.
“For we have set forth on a voyage, a long voyage, as the Pilgrim Fathers did many, many years ago, with no certainty that any of us here this morning will live to see the other shore, no consolation that we are anything but links in a chain of generations stretching across the ocean to the promised land of better things, milk and honey. It is a role that we do not cherish but one that we can accept in Christ and the Lord, if Christ and the Lord so wish it. We need faith in the Lord, good people, and I know that we have faith in the Lord. Your presence here, at the Lord’s altar, in my chapel, proves to me your faith. But more than faith, we must live in hope, hope for that promised land, hope for those better things!
“I leave you, then, with this: ‘And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these … is … hope.’
“We will now sing, ‘Eternal Father, strong to save, Whose arm doth bind the restless wave’.”
Arthur Wade the organist was so entranced by the Reverend’s sermon that he began pounding out the wrong tune.
When the service was over the congregation filed out of the double doors, which were made of brass decorated with ornate curlicues and bas-relief iconography, on one side a hard-edged Christ with streams of spun metal radiating from his head and on the other a crude Mary, more like a man than a woman. The brass had a clumsy, pitted texture, but perhaps that was deliberate on the artist’s part.
Arthur closed up the keyboard and locked the lid. Chartreuse shook every member of his congregation warmly by the hand, giving each a slight nod and a smile. Old Charlie and a couple of lads from the engine room stopped to chat for a moment and Chartreuse and those in the queue behind them got restl
ess almost immediately, but soon everyone was out and Chartreuse was threading his way through the pews towards Arthur.
“Well?” he said, and it occurred to Arthur for the umpteenth time that Chartreuse was able to convey hideous implications of fire and brimstone in a single, quiet word. Then again, it was only fitting for a priest to have that kind of power.
“I’m sorry,” was all Arthur could find to say. He could not tell the priest of the spell cast by his sermons, how they banished mortal fears and doubts and unworthiness and replaced them with an overwhelming love of God, because spells, he knew, were the tools of the Devil and of unbelievers.
“Can I do the Lord’s work properly if there is … incompetence undermining my efforts? Can I?”
“No, you can’t,” Arthur replied lamely.
“No. But I can only forgive you, as the Lord would wish me to. We all make mistakes, do we not?”
Arthur was a crumb, a speck, a seagull dropping.
“So, Arthur,” Chartreuse continued, “check the music before you begin playing. I know, I know, you were listening to me and I appreciate that, but you are doing the Lord’s work too…”
The Lord’s work! Arthur quivered inside.
“… and the Lord loves you for that and for what you are. Just pay attention. Carelessness is sloth and sloth, as we know, is a deadly sin.” Chartreuse paused. “That’s all. Off you go and I’ll see you at Evensong.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Thank you, Reverend Chartreuse. Thank you.”
Arthur set off with a determined stride. This evening would be faultless, he vowed, even if he had to practise all afternoon.
Walter was lurking in the shadows below the pulpit. He gazed at Arthur, his dumb, cow-like eyes overhung by the thick lobes of his forehead and a stringy fringe of hair. He made Arthur shudder. A halfwit stopper, Chartreuse had found Walter outside his cabin one night, so the story went, and had taken him in and instructed him in the basics of reading and writing and taught him about the Lord and calmed his pathological heart with the balm of Holy Truth, but Arthur doubted the Reverend had done the job properly because Walter seemed perpetually on the point of raising one of his cracked and scabbed hands and bashing everyone’s brains out. Arthur averted his eyes and hurried through the double doors.
“Walter,” said the priest softly, and Walter sidled up to him like a whip-scared dog.
Agnes had not waited for him. She had gone straight to the cabin after the service. Arthur feared her recriminations almost as much as he feared Chartreuse’s, Agnes not having the Lord’s authority weighing behind her tongue but possessing to a near miraculous degree the art of cutting Arthur with the precision of a surgeon. She had put Sunday lunch – two small herrings each and some insipid vegetables – on the table as if nothing was amiss and Arthur sat down opposite her and examined his hands. She had assumed an armour of silence.
Halfway through lunch Arthur chose the most innocuous topic he could think of, knowing full well that whatever he said would bring her anger to the boil but it was best to get these things over and done with as quickly as possible.
“Good fish, dear.”
Agnes stared at the tangled bones of her fish, pursed her lips so that they resembled a cat’s anus, and said nothing.
“Very good fish,” said Arthur Wade to his wife.
“You’re lucky to get anything.”
Inwardly, Arthur sighed and prepared himself.
“I was so embarrassed,” she went on, absentmindedly picking her teeth with a fishbone. “I started singing and everyone laughed at me. I know they did. Maureen winked at me, the insolent woman, and afterwards Jean cut me – cut me. I hope William gave you a right seeing to.”
William. She used the Reverend Chartreuse’s Christian name as if he was her son or something.
“He did,” sighed Arthur, “and I promise I’ll get it right tonight.”
“You’d better. Someone in my position simply cannot afford to be made to look foolish, particularly in front of her friends, can she?”
“Of course not, Aggie. You are leader of the choir.” There was no such position as leader of the choir and no choir to speak of. It was just that Agnes Wade had the loudest, if not the most tuneful, singing voice.
“Of course not. Of course not. You know Arthur, sometimes I think you do it on purpose.”
Arthur had seized the opportunity to stuff some potato into his mouth so he could only mumble, “Do what?”
“You know what I mean. Make a fool of me. And don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“No, I don’t,” said Arthur, swallowing hard.
Agnes raised her hands, palms facing her husband, seemingly to push him away. “We’ll leave it there, Arthur. There’s no point in having an argument because some of us” – she glared at him – “tend to fly off the handle when they get into arguments, do they not?”
Arthur finished his lunch, washed the dishes, went to the chapel, and practised at the organ until his fingers bled.
When Evensong was over, Arthur having performed perhaps his best ever, notably the introductory bars to “Jerusalem”, the congregation, which was made up of most of this morning’s handful back for a repeat performance, plus a few old folk who did not get out of bed early enough and the odd stopper hoping for a handout, filed out past the Reverend. Agnes was amongst them. She had barely acknowledged Arthur’s existence for the duration of the service.
When the ritual handshakes were over, Chartreuse called him into the vestry. He told him to sit down while he changed, then pulled off his robes and hung them on a hook alongside a row of unused cassocks and surplices. He unbuttoned his dog-collar and the stud pinged to the floor and rolled through a grating. This prompted Chartreuse to say, “Damnation!” under his breath. He was a slender man with auburn hair growing back from his head dramatically, like flames. As he put on an ordinary shirt, Arthur glimpsed the ridges of his stomach muscles and felt quite conscious of the roll of gut nudging out over his own belt.
Chartreuse slipped on a white jacket and looked to Arthur rather elegant.
“Arthur”
“Yes?” said Arthur, eager now the silence had been broken, hopeful for a word, a single syllable of congratulation for his fine organ playing.
“You’re a good man, Arthur.” Chartreuse laid a hand on his shoulder. At that moment, Arthur would willingly have crucified himself for the Reverend. As it was, he felt as if he had been raised from the dead. “I love you as a friend and I cherish you as a Christian and a committed churchgoer. I’d like you to run a little errand for me.”
Chartreuse went to the far end of the vestry and opened a large box which had been shoved into one corner, next to a door Arthur had never seen unlocked. Taking out a package about the size of a biscuit tin, wrapped in brown paper, he handed it to Arthur.
“Would you take this to the side and throw it overboard?”
“Of course,” said Arthur.
“The contents needn’t concern you. Some paraphernalia I don’t want any more. All right?”
“All right, Reverend Chartreuse. Thank you. I’ll do it right away.”
“God bless you, Arthur.”
“Thank you, Reverend Chartreuse.” On the point of closing the door, Arthur added, “Marvellous sermon today.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” said Chartreuse, sounding genuinely grateful.
It took Arthur the best part of an hour to reach the starboard side of the outer rim. The sun had sunk into the ocean, leaving a dim pink stain behind. Arthur held on to the rust-rough railing and leaned over as much as he dared, for the sea was frighteningly far below. The drop made his head spin. The white horses below were no bigger than pins.
Arthur hefted up the package, hearing its contents clink secretly, and hurled it overboard. As it fell, the wrapping tore and he saw familiar metallic shapes, dozens of them, tumbling out and glittering and scattering. Crucifixes. Metal crucifixes the size of a hand. Soon the plummeting cluster of them grew too sm
all to see, a vanishing dot, gone. Arthur had never seen anything like them before. They were dull and discoloured, not pretty at all.
Supper would be on the table by the time he got back. Agnes was too much a creature of habit to allow her displeasure with Arthur to interfere with her running of his life and he knew he would be taking a risk going home by way of the chapel, but he thought he should ask the Reverend about the crucifixes. Had he really meant to throw them away? Might he have made a mistake? We all do, you know. In his heart of hearts, Arthur was also hoping for another blessing, one for a mission well-accomplished. He set off for the chapel.
The chapel took up three flights of deck. Its windows, lit from within, conformed to the standard shape of window on the upper decks but had the adornment of illustrations from biblical events. Abraham and Isaac, the Burning Bush, the Conversion of Saint Paul on the Road to Damascus, and others, were drawn with thick black outlines and coloured in bright primaries, crude and childlike. Arthur thought it was grand at night when these images were cast large on to the walls opposite, washes of colour spread like God’s word, so reassuring to Arthur’s most humble faith. The Passion, the Red Sea, Joshua fighting the Battle of Jericho…
The doors were open a crack – a good sign. The Reverend had not gone to bed yet. Arthur stepped into the bright chapel.
“Reverend Chartreuse?” he called, and suddenly realised how large the chapel was when empty and how this size deadened sounds. There was the organ, its pipes reaching up to the roof. There was the altar, clean and white with a glittering cross on it.
“Reverend Chartreuse?”
A scuffing sound came from the other end, from the vestry. Arthur walked down the aisle, its thin carpet swallowing his footfalls, his hand brushing his hair back nervously. He heard the scuffing sound again and heavy breathing that could not have come from the Reverend. He approached the vestry.
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