“Now, now! I’m quite sure that isn’t true. Are you enjoying the cruise?”
“Yes, on the whole. I like being on the sea and the meals are excellent.”
“What do you think of the other people on board?”
“I have not had very much to do with them. They seem pleasant enough.”
“Rather a lot of Jews, don’t you think?”
“They make livelier company than some of us do, perhaps.”
“Fancy that ridiculous woman making all that fuss over her rubies! It seems that they were not stolen after all. I daresay they are nothing but paste, anyway, were the truth but known. These people buy the right things, have them copied, and then sell the originals to make a hush-hush, no tax profit, passing off the copies as the real thing just for the snobbery value, you know, and, of course, to cheat the law.”
“Really? That is most interesting.”
“If you find it so, you would like my He Passed By Her Window. I explore the subject there in some depth. In the story, Sir Galienne le Touquet . . .”
“What a very charming name! I once knew a man named—that is, he called himself—Sir Rudri van Eek Lothair Hopkinson.”
“Really? What a fascinating name. Well, this man in my book . . .” said Chloe hastily.
“I mention Sir Rudri because, for some reason, the sight of you brings him to my mind.”
“What an extraordinary thing!”
“I went with him and his party to Greece once.”
“Ah, ‘the isles of Greece, the isles of Greece, where burning Sappho loved and sung.’ ”
“Those lines have always troubled me a little. Should it not have been ‘sang’?”
“Oh, you don’t allow for poet’s licence! In my novel Weary Gleaner I allow a young poet to use the most extravagant language with no grammar at all about it. It was my method of showing that he really is a poet, you see—that is to say, wildly, passionately independent of all our outworn shibboleths. Oh, there are tricks in my trade as much as in any other, only, of course, they are not tricks so much as pure technique.”
“It must be very difficult to depict any artist,” said Dame Beatrice, “particularly an artist in the use of words. It has always seemed to me that for a non-artist to attempt to describe the work of an artist is simply man making God in his own image, don’t you think? The long beard and the Victorian father persist, whatever even the most enlightened theologians can say.”
“But we are told that God is our Father,” protested Chloe, diverted, for the moment, from the subject of her books.
“Alas, yes! A comforting but strange philosophy, and akin to the instruction that we should cast our cares upon the Lord and, in another context, wait patiently for him.”
“Are you an atheist, Dame Beatrice?”
“I don’t care to label myself. And now, if I may turn your earlier question back on yourself, are you enjoying the cruise?”
“Only so-so, I am afraid. Unless one plays deck games, or swims, or knits . . .” she looked disparagingly at a nondescript length of knitting with which Dame Beatrice had been affecting to occupy herself . . . “there seems so little to do.”
“There are the bridge parties,” Dame Beatrice suggested.
“Oh, my dear! Have you seen the people who play? I have a long passage about them in my Mighty Fallen. It is positively scathing!”
“So long as it is not scurrilous! Reverting to Lord Byron, if he had written ‘sang’ he would have been obliged to rhyme it with ‘sprang’ and I really do think that ‘sprang’ is one of the ugliest words in our language. Bang. Fang. Gang. Hang. Pang. Rang. Sprang. Sang. Tang—I dislike the sound of them all. However, although ‘bang’ and ‘gang’ are still operative, I suppose ‘hang’ now only applies to such matters as Academy pictures and butchers’ meat. Perhaps that is just as well, if one deplores judicial murder.”
“ ‘Tang’ is a good word,” protested Chloe. “I often use it in my novels; ‘pang’ too. I consider both of them to be extremely poetic words. As a matter of fact—”
“And how is your niece enjoying the cruise?” asked Dame Beatrice, who was determined to avoid having the nice points of Chloe’s style and vocabulary rehearsed to her. “I am glad to see that she appears to have made a friend of young Mr. Suffolk, the boys’ tutor. He seems quite an estimable young man.”
“Yes, possibly, but I don’t encourage Mary to have friendships with young men. It would be a very great nuisance to me if she wanted to marry. I depend on her for all sorts of things connected with my work—only minor matters, of course, but anything which affects my inspiration is a serious disadvantage. After all, I write for posterity.”
“Mary may feel that she would like to found a dynasty for posterity, you know, and she may think that she ought to be married before she embarks upon so serious a project.”
“If that is meant as a joke I consider it not in the best of taste. In any case, I do not approve of early marriages. As for Mr. Suffolk, he seems to be without prospects and Mary has nothing at all except what I shall leave her, and the day for that is a long way off, I trust. She would be very foolish to marry and so destroy her chances of a fortune. Besides, Mary needs the guidance of a mature and experienced person and, to my mind, Mr. Suffolk is vapid and frivolous. I only hope that he will be prepared to shoulder his responsibilities tomorrow. I was told of the calm way he jettisoned them on the last shore excursion. I fear you were the sufferer.”
“Yes,” agreed Dame Beatrice. “I think he will have to take charge of young Roger tomorrow, since I myself shall not be taking the scheduled trip.”
“You are going to spend a quiet day on board? I don’t blame you. I shall go with the party, of course, to take charge of Mary, but I do not intend to be landed with that boy Roger. After all, I have my own responsibilities. I do not care for young Suffolk’s suddenly taking up with Mary. There’s something behind it.”
“I should have thought that Miss Cowie was old enough to take care of herself.”
“Old enough, yes, but she has lived an extremely sheltered life and, apart from young Suffolk, I do not trust Italians. This is Mary’s first experience of foreign travel. Her parents died, one after the other, about two years ago, and I was forced to take her on, but I was obliged to leave her at home last year while I lectured in America, so she has really seen nothing of the world and was brought up in a village. She has no resources at all, poor child.”
“Really? I thought she sang very well at the concert last night.”
“I suppose she is used to performing in the village hall.”
“What did you think of the others in our party?”
“Oh, that ventriloquist nonsense! Still, I suppose an entertainment, of however amateur a nature (as this certainly was), makes a change for the passengers. Not all of us want dancing and film shows every evening. Not that I thought the concert was worth attending. Still, a public figure like myself must show an interest.” To Dame Beatrice’s relief, on this exit line she took her departure.
The concert had been the brainwave (in his own and his wife’s estimation) of the Percival Dearwater whom Dame Beatrice had met at tea when the ship was still berthed at Southampton Docks. He, it seemed, was an amateur conjuror and, according to Mrs. Dearwater, was “on the fringe of the Magic Circle.” Apparently his first concern, at the beginning of the cruise, had been to scout for talent among the passengers and then, when he felt that he had received a sufficient number of promises, he had talked the Commander into sponsoring the concert programme.
He himself had made two appearances, the first as a solo performer as conjuror, using mostly handkerchiefs and playing cards, the second in company with volunteers from the audience. He had chosen Hero (which, in view of her striking good looks, was not surprising) and Roger, as the youngest passenger—or so he explained. Each of them was provided with a puppet. Hero’s was a rabbit, Roger’s a baby doll, while Dearwater himself used a toy duck. All had come from the
ship’s shop and were recognised by the audience with applause.
After some patter containing a few well-worn jokes, Dearwater announced a grand triple ventriloquist act in which all the performers and their dummies would speak in turn. Dame Beatrice, who had not thought that she would derive much enjoyment from the entertainment, had secured a chair at the back, intending to slip away when she felt she had had enough, and she had been about to leave when Roger and Hero were called up on to the stage.
The act which followed was either under-rehearsed or very carefully rehearsed indeed, for the dummies and their owners spoke out of turn and interrupted one another so much and so often that the audience began to applaud, mostly with ironic intent. In the end, their good nature won them over, however, and the whole performance was voted a great success.
Hero always took breakfast in her cabin. Mrs. Cowie and Mary were early-morning breakfasters so that Mrs. Cowie could get in her daily promenade before the deck for this purpose was over-populated. Julian was always last at table, so Dame Beatrice and Roger were usually the only ones of the party to be together at the first meal of the day.
“Well,” he said, on the morning following the concert, “what did you think of our bit of spoofery last night?”
“I thought it most amusing.”
“Yes, we got lots of clapping, didn’t we? Did you spot the one of us who was feeding the dummies?”
“No, but I was at the back of the lounge, away out of range.”
“I don’t think that made any difference. Heaps of people afterwards asked us which was the ventriloquist, so, of course, we told them it was all of us, that we could all do it. Rather a good jape, don’t you think?”
“And should I obtain the same answer if I asked the same question?”
“Well, we rather promised old Percy, you know, that we wouldn’t let on.”
“Mr. Dearwater?”
“Oh, it’s all right. He asked me to call him Percy.”
Following her conversation with Dame Beatrice, Chloe took it upon herself to waylay Julian and ask him point-blank whether he was prepared to take charge of Roger on the Sicilian excursion.
“Yes. Oh, yes, of course,” Julian assured her, eyeing her with extreme dislike, “although I don’t know why you’re interested.”
“I feel that the boy should not miss the opportunity of visiting Palermo,” explained Chloe earnestly. “Cruising ships usually call at Messina, so this may be the only opportunity for him to see the cathedral at Monreale and, should time permit, the unfinished but majestic Doric temple at Segesta.”
“You seem so well informed, Mrs. Cowie, that perhaps you yourself would like to show Roger around,” said Julian.
“Young man, you will no doubt be required to give an account of your stewardship when you meet Roger’s father in Athens, and I might as well tell you that I shall be perfectly able and willing to render my own account of it as well.”
“That,” said Julian, drawling out his words as usual, “sounds to me remarkably like a threat, Mrs. Cowie. If you mean to imply that by abandoning Roger I shall leave myself free to squire Mary, you are making the mistake of a life-time.” He swung round on an impenitent heel and went off to find Dame Beatrice. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry I dodged the column at Pompeii. I do hope you’ll forgive me for landing you with Roger. Are you taking the excursion this morning?”
“No,” Dame Beatrice replied. She cackled harshly, startling him. “As you are good enough to acknowledge, I did my bear-leading at Pompeii.”
“Don’t rub it in,” said Julian, with his twisted, attractive smile. “I’ve admitted mea culpa.” He saluted her and walked off, but was pounced upon again by Chloe, who collared him at the top of the companionway.
“I ought to add,” she said, “that I consider Dame Beatrice extremely frivolous. A woman of her age should know better than to allow Roger to look at rude, Pompeian frescoes and, what is more, explain them to him.”
“Did she do that?” asked Julian, laughing heartily. “Good for her! I bet the lad had the time of his young life.”
“She is a hedonist, an atheist, and a corrupter of the young,” said Chloe heatedly. “I neither like nor trust her.”
“Perhaps your feelings are reciprocated,” said Julian, “although, personally, I shouldn’t think she’d be bothered. I suppose you also looked at the frescoes aforesaid?—or were you too delicately-minded to penetrate the Hall of the Mysteries? That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it? I suppose you mean that flagellation scene. Personally, I’ve always held that to the pure most things are impure, but, of course, I may be wrong. Oh, but you didn’t risk Pompeii, did you?”
“You seem to forget that you are a paid employee,” said Chloe, in a loud and furious voice.
“But I don’t forget that Mary is an unpaid serf,” retorted Julian. “Why don’t you give the girl a decent allowance and her freedom?”
“Mind your own business, young man!”
“And you mind yours,” said Julian, under his breath. A little later, watching their departure from her vantage point on the promenade deck, Dame Beatrice had the felicity of seeing him, Chloe, Roger, Hero, and Mary all being loaded by the tours supervisor into one large car. She wondered how many of them would enjoy their trip. Just as she was toying with this thought, Hero stepped out of the car and began a return journey to the ship. She joined Dame Beatrice and together they watched the cavalcade of cars move away from the quay.
“You have changed your mind about the excursion?” asked Dame Beatrice.
“Yes. Julian sits beside Mary. I leave them together.”
“Oh, dear! Have you quarrelled with Julian? I perceived that he was in belligerent mood. He has just been having a passage-of-arms with Mrs. Cowie.”
“I do not quarrel. It is not in my nature. I am bored with his society, that is all. On shore in Naples do we have fun? No. It is so respectable. We go to a good restaurant, very select, have dinner, dance. Drink a little—but very little, because Julian does not like to spend his money . . .”
“I don’t think, you know, that he has very much money to spend.”
“And then makes himself very sulky and boorish because a handsome Italian officer picks me up and dances very often with me, and escorts me back to the ship.”
“Dear me! You mean you deserted poor Julian? Well, well!”
“Of course not. Julian trails along behind us, not speaking, and I have no more fun with my Italian officer; so now, today, I leave Julian to Mary. Much joy to both of them! From Athens I think I do not take the tour. Who wants to visit more temples? Who wants to see more ruins? I think I raise a rebellion and keep Simon with me in Athens. There is fun to be had with Simon, more than with that jealous, stupid Julian.”
“Would you upset all Mr. Dick’s arrangements?”
“Oh, no! Poor Papa Ronald! He is like a little boy with his Apollo temple playthings. Did Julian speak rudely to that Mrs. Cowie? Then I think I forgive him, but not yet, perhaps, otherwise he may like to think he has command over me, and that would be a disaster,” said Hero, smiling again.
Before the ship reached Piraeus there was a further port of call. This was Iraklion in Crete, and the excursion was to Knossos, to see the vast area covered by the excavated Palace of Minos.
Most of the party returned to the ship not very much wiser than when they had left it. Of Dame Beatrice’s group, she (who had taken the trouble to read up the subject before she left England) had gained the most from her visit, but it was Roger who seemed, in one sense, to have had the most remarkable time.
The tour of the palace had been exhausting, for the day was extremely warm and the area covered had been considerable, so that only the younger and hardier passengers spent the evening on the dance floor, and Dame Beatrice was not surprised to find that, of her party, except for herself (who minded heat no more than a lizard would), only Julian and Mary had elected to remain up for very long after dinner. She sat in the largest
lounge with a book from the well-stocked ship’s library and was joined by the other two at intervals when they decided to sit out a dance. The fact that they came into the lounge instead of occupying adjacent deck-chairs on the discreetly darkened promenade deck indicated that, from Julian’s point of view, the affair was making no progress, and Dame Beatrice inferred from this that, as soon as Hero was prepared to take him on again, Mary would be out of the picture.
All next day, as the ship set course northwards for Piraeus, she noticed that the boy Roger seemed pre-occupied and was even more silent than usual. She put this down to the fact that he had been knocked out in the semi-finals of the deck-tennis competition and so was without gainful occupation. He spent some of his time swimming and his appetite at meal times seemed unimpaired, but apart from this she concluded that he must be bored, for he displayed a disposition to avail himself of her society, although, even then, he was uncommunicative and appeared to be brooding darkly.
It was not until the evening that she was made aware of the reason for his silence, which he broke in a somewhat startling manner. He followed her to the rail of the promenade deck and said, after they had stood there for a minute or two,
“Could I speak to you in absolute private, do you think?”
“There’s my cabin,” she said, “but if it’s only that you want some money to spend at the ship’s shop, I’ll be pleased to give it you.”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. Perhaps if we go to the glassed-in bit at the forward end of this deck and pretend we’re just looking towards the way the ship is heading—lots of people do that, so it wouldn’t look suspicious . . .”
“Let us go there, then. Will you lead the way?” She wondered what kind of disclosure was about to be made. It could be almost anything from an attempt at arson to a secret love affair. A boy of Roger’s age was capable of either, and a myriad other mistakes, crimes, or peccadilloes, she reflected. He led the way and they stood in a kind of cross-corridor, glass-fronted to protect it from the wind. It enclosed a space between the forward end of the promenade deck and the forward bulkhead of the lounge. Apart from themselves, it was occupied only by a closely-linked couple at the far end who were whispering and laughing together, and were otherwise oblivious of life, the world, and time.
Lament for Leto (Mrs. Bradley) Page 5
