The Widow's Cruise

by Nicholas Blake

  “Tom-cat on the prowl,” said Clare lazily. “He’s after your glamorous brunette, bet you anything.”

  “She’s not my—what makes you think that?”

  “I espied them on the sun-deck after breakfast. Nikki was pointing out the landscape to Melissa. He was pointing away to the left of the harbour—the direction he’s walking in now.”

  “Oh well, good luck to him. But,” he added, echoing Clare’s own thought, “how will they ditch Ianthe?”

  “You’re looking very handsome, love,” said Clare. “In your dilapidated way.”

  Nigel gazed back at her. The black waterfall of hair pouring over her shoulders; the skin, white and lustrous as magnolia flowers, which the sun had hardly touched; the deep, dark, velvety eyes; the pale-rose-coloured mouth. He seemed to be seeing Clare for the first time. How many times she had made him see her for the first time!

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Yes.” She was breathing a little faster, and the blood faintly mantled her pale skin.

  “Shall we go back to the ship?’

  “No. I want the sun on me. You and the sun.”

  “Let’s explore the island, then.”

  “Let’s explore the island.”

  IV

  “What are you afraid of?” said Faith Trubody. She was trembling all over, herself.

  “You, my dear. And myself.” Jeremy Street cast an uneasy look around him. The hillside fell away at their feet, stony and empty. There was no wind off the sea. The pine-trees overhead did not even whisper. It was early afternoon.

  “Don’t you understand? I love you,” the girl said, intensely, almost angrily.

  “You’re very sweet, Faith. And very young.”

  “I’m seventeen.”

  “And I’m nearly three times your age.”

  “What does age matter?” The girl’s voice was fierce, and her irregular teeth showed.

  “You look like a fierce little snarling fox.”

  Faith shivered again. “When you talk to me, it makes me tremble, like the pedal-notes of an organ. I can’t help it.”

  An expression of weariness came over the man’s face. These yearning females and their pathetic, pseudo-literary talk.

  “Look, Faith, you’re a child still. Your father trusts me.”

  “Damn my father! And if you tell me I’m a child again, I’ll hit you. But I suppose you get dozens of women throwing themselves at your head.”

  “Good gracious, no! I’m a back number now.” For once there was a trace of real emotion in Jeremy Street’s voice—the emotion of self-pity.

  “You a back number! But everyone thinks you’re wonderful—your lectures, your books. Everyone,” she added, with the fatal honesty of youth, “everyone but the Bross.”

  The schoolgirl nickname irritated Jeremy. Another wave of depression, deadly as a nausea, swept through him. He thought of his expensive tastes, and his dwindling private income; the sales of his books declining; the slackening demand for his services as a lecturer. The slump had started, or so he had convinced himself, when Miss Ambrose began to attack him in the Journal of Classical Studies, three years ago.

  She was like a corrosive acid eating away at his pride and his pocket. His antipathy to this woman had been accumulating for a long time, poisoning his system all the more because his vanity prevented him from revealing to anyone how deeply she wounded him. All his fear of failure was now focused upon Ianthe Ambrose: resentment had deepened into hatred, and might soon become a monomania. The public humiliation she had inflicted on him after his last lecture kept nagging at him like a chronic heartburn.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Faith.

  “Miss Ambrose.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about her. She’s just a sour old Lesbian.”

  “I’m not worrying about her,” the man irritably replied. “But she’s a public nuisance.”

  “I hate her too, actually.”

  Jeremy looked down at the girl who lay beside him. His exasperation with Ianthe, and his unadmitted fear of her, were suddenly transferred to an easier prey. Dragging Faith into his lap, he began to kiss her violently, as if releasing on the girl a pent-up fury. She went rigid, her sharp teeth locked together in a kind of rictus: then, softening, she flung her arms round his neck.

  Presently, leaning back against Jeremy’s shoulder, she said,

  “So it’s like that.”

  “Like what?” he muttered.

  “Hard. Cruel. As if you hated me.”

  “I ought to hate myself for it.”

  Faith shook her blonde head impatiently. For all her infatuation, she could recognise insincerity now when she heard it.

  “Hate yourself? Just for kissing me? Don’t be silly.”

  The slight contempt in her voice pricked his vanity. He pushed her down, and had begun to go further than kissing when a flash of light along the hillside, a hundred yards away, caught his eye.

  “What’s that?”

  “Go on! Make love to me!” The girl’s eyes were shut.

  “I think someone may be watching us. Binoculars. I saw a flash.”

  “Oh, damn!”

  The childish crudity of it made him wince with distaste. He drew back from the flushed, tousled girl. But, if they had been observed, it would be all up with him. Mr Trubody was an influential man.

  “Your father would go up in smoke, wouldn’t he?”

  “Daddy? Why should he know about it?”

  “I mean, if I told him I wanted to marry you.”

  “Marry me?” Faith sat bolt upright, her face averted. Oh God, thought Jeremy, she’s going to say ‘Goody!’

  “Oh no, Jeremy. That’s quite different. I don’t want to marry you. I don’t want to marry anyone yet.”

  “Well, what the devil?——”

  “I’m mad about you, of course. But I want experience.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said, bitterly confounded. “I was to give an elementary course in sex? That was your idea? Well, you certainly seem to need one.”

  Faith smiled secretly. She was tasting for the first time her woman’s power, and she liked the taste. Her green eyes looked into his, not shyly now. “You do want me,” she said.

  “I don’t want that person with binoculars to go rushing off to your father and tell him I was trying to seduce you.”

  “Yes. That would be a bit awkward.”

  “Awkward!” Jeremy Street’s mind was a confusion of feelings; but soon they all slipped into the deep, familiar groove and went whirling round there. Ianthe Ambrose was responsible for this new predicament, too. If Ianthe’s hostility had not become an obsession with him, he would never have got into this false position with Faith. Somehow, Ianthe must be silenced. And there was Mr Trubody. Money and influence. Jeremy had been making up to the Trubodys during the cruise, with the plan of diverting some of the Trubody wealth into a cultural project from which he would himself largely benefit. He had harped on the theme of Big Business as patron of the arts, and laid himself out to impress Mr Trubody. But Ianthe’s performance at his last lecture must have undone all his good work. To marry Faith—and of course, he managed to persuade himself now, he had never intended it as a serious proposal—would have been a desperate expedient indeed. And to-night, before the dance, he had to lecture again: his last chance, maybe, to re-establish himself in Mr Trubody’s shrewd eyes as a worthy candidate for patronage. Yes, Ianthe Ambrose must be dealt with, and quickly.

  He looked at his watch, got to his feet abruptly, shouldered the haversack in which they had brought their picnic lunch.

  “I’ve got to be off,” he said, not looking at the girl. Even in his present state of mind, he was piqued because she made no attempt to detain him.

  He set off down the hillside. Faith lay back under the pines, a little, sharp smile on her face—a look, almost. of gloating. There was the same expression on the face of the man who now, unobserved by Faith, detached himself from behind the boul
der, a hundred yards away, and with his camera slung round his neck, followed Jeremy Street down towards the harbour.

  V

  Later that afternoon, Primrose Chalmers and her parents were plodding along the dusty track that led westwards from the port. They had visited a Venetian crstro in the hills during the morning, had a picnic and a siesta, and were now in search of a place to bathe.

  About a mile from the little town, the winding track turned to the right round an escarpment, and a deep cove was disclosed. On the far side of the cove there was a tumble of rocks, and above them the track disappeared round another escarpment. Amongst these rocks two women were sitting. The bright yellow bathing-cap of Melissa Blaydon showed like lichen against a grey-black boulder.

  The Chalmerses rounded the inlet, and from the road above hailed the two women.

  “Hallo! What a marvellous spot you’ve found for a bathe. May we share it with you?”

  “It’s no good,” called Ianthe Ambrose, who had got to her feet. “Absolutely black with sea-urchins. We’re just sun-bathing.”

  There was a safe beach, she added, half a mile further on.

  “That’s got rid of them,” she said to Melissa when the Chalmerses had padded off round the escarpment. “I couldn’t face an afternoon of that abominable child.”

  “Do you suppose there really are sea-urchins there?” the abominable child was saying to her parents. “Or does she want to hog it all for herself?”

  “Well, Nikki did warn us that we ought to go to one of the regular bathing-beaches.”

  “The water looked lovely and deep there. I bet Nikki told Mrs Blaydon about it privately, so she could wallow all by herself.”

  “Come now, Primrose. That’s not a very disinterested remark, is it?” said her mother mildly.

  “Nikki’s not a very disinterested man, where Mrs Blaydon is concerned,” the child replied in dogmatic tones.

  “It is unwise, Primrose,” her father stated, “to over-simplify any problem which stems from sexuality.” He developed his theme, Primrose trailing beside him, her lower lip stuck out, till the track brought them to a strip of concrete paving, a few abandoned huts, and a small, stony beach below them.

  It was not a very appetising spot for a bathe, but at least there were no rocks immediately visible and therefore no sea-urchins.

  Primrose splashed about for a little, in a preoccupied way, then put on her clothes again and left her parents, who were discussing Melanie Klein’s findings on the significance of the Inability to Mourn. She went half a mile back along the rough road, having researches of her own to pursue, and was presently peering round the escarpment which jutted out above the western side of the cove.

  Curiosity had brought her thus far, fear held her back from approaching any nearer. She wished to prove her theory that the cove was really a safe, an ideal place for bathing, but she had a healthy respect for Miss Ambrose’s tongue—the teachers at her own progressive school had never, even under the greatest provocation, spoken to her as Miss Ambrose did. It would be gratifying, reflected Primrose, to prove that Miss Ambrose had lied about the presence of sea-urchins.

  Unfortunately, the steep, bouldered slope between the track and the sea concealed from her, as she peered round the escarpment, the spot where the two sisters had been sun-bathing. She thought of climbing higher up the escarpment, so that she might overlook them. But at this moment her eye was caught by an object gradually floating out into view from under the overhang of the rocks. From its shape and colour, she deduced what this object must be—her sight was not good enough to descry it clearly. For a brief while. nothing more happened. Then there came a splashing sound, and the dark sleek head of a swimmer appeared: the swimmer retrieved the object which had floated out from shore, and swam back out of Primrose’s view again.

  The child left her point of vantage, and returning to the beach where her parents were still talking, took out the notebook and pen from her sporran. The pen, she discovered, had run dry. So she borrowed a pencil from her father, sat down at a little distance, and wrote up her recent observations. Her tongue stuck out at one side of her mouth as she made her notes. She felt pleased with herself. Miss Ambrose had lied. Lied, it was possible, not only about the sea-urchins, but . . .

  Primrose put away the notebook and began to think up a plan.

  Half an hour later the Chalmers family started back for the harbour. The sun was declining towards the west, so that the nearer side of the cove, as they approached it, was now in shadow. They rounded the promontory. Amongst the rocks on the cove’s opposite shore, in full sunlight, sat a woman wearing a bathrobe. She waved to them. As they came nearer and saw it was Melissa, she draped a towel round her head: the yellow bathing-cap, her bikini and her dress were spread out on a rock, the wicker case lay beside her.

  “Did you bathe after all, Mrs Blaydon?” said Mrs Chalmers.

  “Yes. It’s all right this side. I’m afraid my sister was fussing.”

  “Well, don’t be late. The Menelaos leaves in three-quarters of an hour, you know,” said Mr Chalmers, looking down at Melissa from the track.

  “I won’t.”

  “Where’s Miss Ambrose?” asked Primrose.

  “She went on ahead. You may catch up with her.”

  They did not, however, see Ianthe Ambrose on their way back to the harbour. At the quayside there was a group of passengers, waiting for the next boat to take them back to the Menelaos. Mrs Hale carried a huge sponge in her string bag. On a bollard, apart from the others, sat Peter Trubody. He was staring at nothing in particular—or perhaps at some picture in his own mind: the boy’s eyes had such a haunted, sick look, his whole attitude was so dejected, that Mr Chalmers asked him if he was feeling all right.

  “Why shouldn’t I be? You’re the third person who—for God’s sake leave me alone!” Peter ungraciously muttered.

  The boy, said Mr Chalmers to himself, has had a traumatic experience.

  VI

  “Oh dear, I am sleepy,” yawned Clare. “And it’s only six o’clock.”

  “I’m not surprised. Considering—” Nigel’s words were cut off by a third bellow from the Menelaos’s steam whistle, followed by an outbreak of shouting and gesticulation from the sailors who were about to haul up the gangway. A boat was putting out from the harbour, a man standing up in the bows waving frenziedly. When it drew alongside, the caïque was seen to contain three boatmen, a mob of children, Peter Trubody and Melissa Blaydon.

  Nigel watched a sailor go down the gangway and help her out. She was limping heavily. Her face was half concealed by a headscarf.

  “I turned my ankle on the way back. Awfully stupid of me. These damned roads of yours!” she said to Nikki, who was standing with a solicitous expression at the head of the gangway.

  “I’ll tell Dr Plunket to come to your cabin.”

  “No, no, certainly not, Nikki. It doesn’t need that sort of treatment,” she added in a low voice, giving the cruise-manager a deep look.

  Rummaging in her bag, she handed her landing card to the smart, white-uniformed quartermaster who waited nearby; thanked Peter for his escort, and hobbled off carrying her wicker case, towards her cabin.

  “So they did,” was Claire’s comment.

  “Who did what?” asked Nigel.

  “Melissa and Nikki managed to get rid of Ianthe. I must say they’re rather overdoing the circumspection, though.”

  “Circumspection?”

  “Oh, coming back on different caïques. And Melissa pretending she’s turned her ankle to explain why she’s so late. She’d jump at the chance of a handsome doctor fondling her tiny foot, if there was anything really wrong with it.”

  “Puss, puss,” said Nigel; but he remembered Melissa, on Delos, arching a pretty foot for him to put on her shoe. “I expect Nikki has to be careful. Might lose his job if there were complaints that he was carrying on with female passengers.”

  “The only thing I have against cruise life,” said Clare
, yawning again, “is that it’s turning us all into busybodies and gossips.”

  Certainly, rumour flies faster and more erratically on shipboard than anywhere else. An hour later, at dinner, Mrs Hale was able to inform Clare authoritatively that Ianthe Ambrose had returned to the ship in the middle of the afternoon with sunstroke, and was keeping to her cabin but refusing the services of the doctor. Jeremy Street, she added, must be pleased: he would be spared the attentions of Miss Ambrose when he lectured to-night: it was a clear example of good coming out of evil.

  “And so,” Mrs Hale added, “is Kalymnos. A horrid, stony place: nothing but urchins—sea and land ones. But out of it came this.” She reached down under her chair and fetched up a monster sponge, which she placed on the table for them to admire.

  “My wife can’t be parted from it,” said the Bishop. “She carries it about everywhere, like a guilty conscience.”

  “No shop, please, dear. We’re on holiday.”

  Towards the end of dinner, Mrs Blaydon approached their table, bearing a plate of fruit. She was wearing the Indian shawl over her head; it framed her beautiful face in an oval of brilliant colour. As she went past, Mrs Hale said,

  “I hope your sister will soon be better.”

  “Oh, it was only a little touch of the sun, thank you. I’m taking her some fruit. She’s determined to get up presently and attend the lecture.”

  When Melissa had passed on, Mrs Hale said, “More trouble in store for Mr Street, I fear. What a lot of make-up the Merry Widow has put on to-night.”

  “Her complexion has to compete with that Indian shawl,” Clare said.

  “And with yours, my dear, at the dance.”

  “But she won’t be able to dance, with that limp,” said the Bishop.

  “She’ll be able to sit out, though,” his wife replied, her brown eyes bright with mischief.

  “You would never suppose,” the Bishop remarked to Clare and Nigel, “that my wife is really one of the kindest-hearted women in the world, when anyone’s in trouble.”