by Rachel Joyce
“Matches my hair!” She laughed.
“So it does!” He laughed back.
She then told him everything she knew about the gold beetle, which was obviously not much, though that didn’t put her off in any significant way. Marge was an explorer, she said, from the Natural History Museum. “I’m her assistant! We’re going on the adventure of our lives!”
“I could show you some adventures!”
“Now now, sailor! Don’t you be so saucy!”
And slowly they continued to tourist class, conversing entirely with exclamation marks, and bumping the luggage down so many stairs, they might as well have been descending to the bottom of the ocean. At last the steward stopped outside a cabin.
“This is it?” said Margery.
“Ooo! Ain’t it lovely!” sang Enid.
So the space they were to share for five weeks was small. Really small. It would have been a squeeze for a single person, but for a big one and her excitable, nonstop-talking assistant it was less a cabin, more a cupboard. It looked nothing like the berth in the pamphlet. And after the cold outside it was also suffocatingly hot. Within seconds, Margery had to undo her coat, and she seriously regretted the wool vest.
A set of bunk beds took up one side, and on the other, a rack for clothes, as well as a tiny cupboard, a tiny washbasin, a yellow chair and a tiny desk, a mirror and wall light. Above, a ceiling fan moved slowly, not exactly cooling the air but rather dolloping it from one half of the cabin to the other. Lavatory and shower facilities were at the end of the corridor, as was the laundry room. A sudden jolt from the ship sent all three flying sideways, and Enid landed in the arms of the steward. “Ow!” she went, as if he had pinched her. “Hands off, sailor!”
“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the steward. “I bet you know how to have fun!”
Once he’d gone, there was an awkwardness in the cabin, as if Enid had taken off something she shouldn’t. Margery hung up her three frocks and made a pile of her books on the desk. She informed Enid she would take the bottom bunk, but Enid was so busy testing the lock on the door, she failed to reply and Margery had to say it all over again. “I have used the left-hand side of the cupboard,” she continued, nudging her way past Enid’s suitcases. They looked even bigger now that they were in the cabin, more like coffins for baby dinosaurs. “You can use the right. Clearly space is an issue in here.”
“I think it’s really nice,” said Enid, apparently happy with security arrangements, vis-à-vis the door.
“This is going to be difficult. I suggest we establish some rules.”
“Beg pardon?”
“This will be my half.” Margery pointed at the left side of the cabin, which she had designated as her own. “That will be yours.” Technically this meant they had joint ownership of the cupboard and lamp in the middle and that Margery took the desk, while Enid got the mirror. “Obviously I will need to pass through your half of the cabin to reach the door. Another thing. My name is not Marge.”
“It isn’t?”
“No.”
“I see. Is that an alias?”
“An alias? No, of course it isn’t an alias. My name is Margery. Marge is a cheap butter substitute.”
“Beg pardon?”
“People call me Miss Benson.”
“Miss Benson?” Enid made a scowl face.
“Yes.”
“Okay, Marge. Well, I’ll just unpack, shall I?”
There was no time to argue because at this point Enid produced an abundance of small bottles and jars, and tossed them into the cupboard, without any order, and also on Margery’s side. It hurt just to watch. Margery had no idea how one woman could need so much. She had packed only a jar of Pond’s Cold Cream, and that could last a whole year. Then Enid began to empty her luggage. Another shock. There was not one single brown camouflage item anywhere. Everything she owned came in bright colors—skimpy frocks, a tiger-print bikini, a fur coat that seemed to shed hair even as she lifted it, flowery high-heeled slippers, more tiny hats, and a prawn-pink dressing gown. Clearly she’d rammed her entire life into her suitcases, and most of it was pretty patched and threadbare. The only one she failed to open was the red valise. Checking the lock, she shoved it beneath the chair. Then they changed for dinner at opposite ends of the cabin—which in effect rendered them side by side. Margery put on her best purple frock. Enid got into something abundantly flowery.
“Is your hair naturally curly?” Enid asked, pulling at her own as if she’d bought it from a shop.
“It is.”
“You don’t have to get a permanent?”
“I’ve never had a permanent. Would you like a hanger?”
“A what?”
“For your clothes?”
“I’ll just leave them on the floor. You’re so lucky with your hair. I have to do mine every week. Look how thin it is. And this color isn’t natural.”
“It isn’t?”
Sarcasm was lost on Enid because she laughed. “Oh, no, Marge. This comes from a bottle. Want me to do your makeup?”
“May I remind you, Mrs. Pretty, that the purpose of this expedition is to find a beetle?”
“No harm having fun, though.” Enid dabbed her face all over with orange powder and then sprayed herself in a scent that was so devastatingly powerful it made ethanol smell like a walk in the park.
“I assume your French is fluent?”
“Yup,” said Enid. “Bon shoor.”
“And on the subject of the beetle—”
“Oh, yes?”
“You need to stop telling people I’m from the Natural History Museum.”
“Why, Marge? You should be proud of your work.”
No time to put her straight. The ship’s bell sounded for dinner. Margery checked the ruffles were straight on her bodice and picked up her handbag. “Also, you need to stop talking about the beetle.”
But Enid’s attention was a dandelion clock. She had just spotted herself in the mirror and was now checking how she looked from an assortment of angles, mostly side-on. “Beg pardon?”
“We need it to keep it secret. There’s a black market.”
“In secrets?”
“In beetles, Enid. I’m talking about beetles.”
Enid shook her head. “People are nice on this ship. Trust me, I’ve met some types in my life and these are not like that. Don’t you worry, Marge. Your beetle’s safe.”
* * *
—
Margery wanted to question Enid about her passport over dinner, and practice some beginner’s French, but she hadn’t realized that tourist class meant sharing with other people. The dining room was low-ceilinged and vast, with shiny wooden paneling. It was lined with hundreds of tables that had bright yellow cloths and silver jugs of water; most seats were already taken, and the noise was deafening. At the sight of so many strangers, Margery seized up. She even wondered about going straight to bed. Meanwhile, Enid wiggled here, she wiggled there, greeting people as if she loved them dearly, until she found two free seats at a table of ten: “Over here, Marge! Over here!” There was no chance of a private conversation. Neither had Margery realized how much food would be served—after all the rationing, it was more than she’d eaten in years. She finished the oxtail soup, then the ham with pineapple, and when it came to trifle, she had to reach beneath her cardigan and loosen her zipper. Meanwhile, Enid spooned up every last scrap—she didn’t once use a fork, and neither did she close her mouth; she was the worst eater Margery had ever met—and laughed ecstatically when the waiters offered seconds.
Margery had begun to wonder if her assistant was an entirely stable person. Despite the clear warning, she told everyone that Margery was from the Natural History Museum, so now they were all asking questions. They were even asking what other expeditions she’d been on. There was a newlywed couple immigrat
ing to Australia on ten-pound tickets, a widower traveling the world, a missionary whose English was not so good, and two sisters on their way to Naples. All wanted to know what it was like to be a famous explorer.
The widower inquired if Enid had done any other job except insect work, but she was sketchy about her previous profession. She said she’d had a job in catering, but as for where she’d catered, Enid was vague. She was also vague when he asked how you went about collecting beetles.
“Oh, you just pick ’em up.”
“With a net?”
“Or with a spoon. Or just your hands.”
“You’re not afraid?”
“Of a beetle? Not me.”
“And is it valuable?”
“Yeah. Very. Well, it’s gold, you see. Everyone wants to find it.”
“Your husband must be sorry to see you go?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Your husband?”
Enid stared for a moment, like a stunned marsupial. “My husband is a solicitor,” she said, which was nice to know, but not the answer to the question. Then she asked who had seen the film Mrs. Miniver. It was her favorite film in the whole wide world.
Margery was hinting it was time to retire when a man called Taylor joined their table. Taylor recognized Enid and Margery as the two hilarious women who had almost missed the boat. He was a short man with shoulders like structural beams and a solid mustache that looked as if it would fall off if he moved too fast. He said there was a ballroom next door with a proper band and he just wondered if anyone fancied a dance.
“No, thank you,” said Margery.
“Now, wouldn’t that be smashing?” said Enid, springing up like a jack-in-the-box.
Margery excused herself and said she would take an early night. It had been a long day, what with nearly missing two major forms of transport and enduring a quite traumatic police investigation.
* * *
—
It was a relief to be in the cabin. It was a relief to be alone. She would never call herself vain, but—despite her fears—it had been something to have all those people briefly treat her like an important person. It would be something, too, to come home with three pairs of specimens, male and female, correctly pinned. To present them to the Natural History Museum, along with all the other rare beetles she’d found. There might be an offer of a job. Her name in the newspapers…
Margery must have fallen into a deep sleep because when she woke she had no clue where she was. The bed was narrow, it was hard, and, now that she thought about it, it was going up and down. She was on the ship, she remembered. And the joy she felt was instantly replaced with panic as she realized someone else was in the cabin. Enid Pretty. The dreadful woman who couldn’t stop talking. Light from the porthole cast a thin blue pallor; Enid was kneeling on the floor and had a suitcase wide open. Margery’s skin went cold. Enid was going through her things.
She tried to tell herself it couldn’t be possible but only because she didn’t want to have to deal with what would come next.
“Mrs. Pretty?”
Enid slammed down the lid. “Marge? I thought you were asleep.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. It’s fine.”
Clearly this was a lie. It wasn’t fine. Though Margery could see now that she’d been wrong. It wasn’t her suitcase: it was the red valise Enid had been at such pains to hide. Not only that, but she’d been crying. Her eyes were black flowers.
“Have you lost something?”
“Night, Marge. Sorry to wake you.”
Enid blew her nose and hid her valise back under the chair. She stripped off her clothes, dropping them not on her side of the cabin, but all over Margery’s, then shimmied up to her bunk, wearing a slip and nothing else. She was snoring within minutes—proper snoring as well.
But Margery couldn’t sleep. Clearly Enid Pretty was the last woman on the planet she should have hired as her assistant. And even though she hadn’t actually been stealing from Margery, the thought was a seed of doubt cracking and sprouting in her mind. Stealing seemed exactly the kind of thing Enid would do, given half a chance. The ship was due to make its first port of call in a week: she would have to go. Margery would get another assistant.
The liner tilted. Her stomach went in one direction while the rest of her went the other. She glared at the washbasin, which seemed to be heading sideways, as did the mirror and also the lamp. Suddenly all she could think of was trifle.
She realized—too late—that she was about to be sick.
It was easy.
He had got on the train to Tilbury, same as her. He didn’t see why she should think she could go to New Caledonia without him. Then he hung about on the quayside next to the RMS Orion, searching for the right kind of face. He noticed a steward helping a boy to catch a balloon. He waited until the steward was alone, and then he got talking with him and he said that his mother had always wanted to take a cruise. Could he have a look? The steward told him visiting was not possible, with all the passengers about to board. Mundic said yellow was his mum’s favorite color. She’d had yellow flowers at her funeral. She’d loved yellow so much.
The steward said it would have to be quick.
He had shown Mundic the berths in first-class. There were proper beds and windows, and young men polishing the woodwork with little dusters on sticks, like that was all there was to do in life. Before they’d even got to the stairs, the steward said, “Well, sir, I’m afraid that’s all we have time for. But you see what a fine vessel she is?” They were walking to the exit when Mundic elbowed a vase of flowers. It crashed to the floor, spilling water everywhere. The steward had to call for help, the dusting men dropped their sticks and found mops instead, and Mundic slipped free. He waited in the restroom until he heard the great noise of other passengers, then came out to join the crowd that was surging through the ship, like the sea itself, though he had to hold back when they came too close.
It got on his nerves. All those people calling and laughing and full of excitement, like the world was suddenly a good place. He had to put his hands on his ears to stop the noise.
Mundic made his way to the bottom of the ship and found a door that said NO ENTRY. That was where he went. Inside, it was all engines, and smelled of oil. He crept under a tarp in a corner, and he liked it because it was dark and hot. Then he saw a bit of rope, and he started to shake and get the sweats, thinking it was snakes but it wasn’t: it was just rope. He threw up, and after that he felt a bit better, and he told himself to sleep if he could. He told himself the rope wasn’t snakes, it was just rope. It was rope.
By the time he was freed from the POW camp, he hadn’t known himself. He’d got used to the other blokes with faces like skeletons and their rib cages all bulging out, their skin scarred with the beatings, but he hadn’t believed he looked as bad. He was so ill, he could barely remember the voyage home. There was supposed to be a welcome party at Liverpool docks with the mayor and a brass band, but the mayor didn’t turn up. A few blokes said they would change their names. Start a new life. Even immigrate to Australia. They could do what the hell they liked. He wanted never to see them again.
But he liked this. Being hidden down here, in the bowels of the ship, under a filthy old tarp, where no one could find him. He had his passport, so he was okay, and he had her map, with the cross she’d made to mark the spot. He had his notebook and pencil, the RMS Orion pamphlet, and the label from her tin of soup.
It looked like he was following her to New Caledonia.
“Help, Enid! I need the bucket again!”
Seventy-two hours at sea, and Margery had vomited her way through almost all of them. The red valise was forgotten, the missing passport was forgotten, and she still hadn’t said anything about sacking Enid.
In all her years of teaching, Margery had never missed a d
ay’s work. Once, during the war, she’d been caught out by an air raid and found herself trapped overnight in a public shelter, the bombs so close it felt as if they were exploding inside her. It was too much. She’d begun to shake, and once she started, she couldn’t stop. In the end, a woman opposite—Margery didn’t even know her—had reached out and held her tight. In the coldest tone she could muster, Margery had asked her to kindly remove her hands. People had looked at the woman after that as if she were trouble; she didn’t come back to the shelter. Later Margery had felt ashamed. She’d even wished she could have explained, though how she would have done that, she couldn’t imagine. But the point was, she wasn’t someone who gave in to weakness.
Now, trapped inside the tiny cabin, she could barely move her little finger. The ship rose. The ship fell. One minute she was flying up to the ceiling, the next she was crawling on the bottom of the sea. She had no idea how she would survive another four and a half weeks. Surely it would have been kinder to bash her on the head and leave her senseless. Meanwhile, cabin staff called by once a day, but flopped a mop and left in a hurry. It was Enid who fetched the bucket and emptied it. It was Enid who found remedies. She said she’d never seen so much vomit come out of one person. She actually sounded impressed. She set up card games, and when Margery refused to join in, she played Solitaire, though her relationship with the rules was loose to say the least and she thought nothing of cheating.
Enid was still anathema to Margery, like trying to read a map upside down. She rushed through life as if she were being chased. Even things whose whole point was slowness, like waking up, for instance, after a heavy night’s sleep, she took at a lick. “Well, that was nice!” she’d say, leaping down from her bunk. “Rise and shine, Marge!” She joined every on-deck club available, including knitting for beginners, three-legged racing, and country dancing. She was constantly seeking her own reflection, even in the back of a spoon, and still she talked. On and on. Half the time Margery wasn’t listening—she was just trying to keep the cabin in one place.