‘Life is full of conflagrations,’ O’Hara said. ‘We can never be sure when we’ll be consumed by the past.’
She nodded. He had a lovely way of talking, but then, he was an actor.
When O’Hara had gone Vernon hobbled upstairs to ring Harcourt. ‘They’ve all been round,’ he said, after telling Harcourt of his accident. ‘That director chap came and a couple of the actors … the leading ones.’
‘I thought you weren’t going to the match.’
‘Ah, well,’ said Vernon, ‘Stella insisted. I didn’t like to let her down. She was very upset when I fell over. She cradled my head, you know.’
‘That was decent,’ said Harcourt.
‘I told this O’Hara fellow about her mother this morning. I had to. Something’s cropped up. He’s going to keep an eye open.’
‘It’s nothing serious, I hope.’
‘Nothing me and Lily can’t handle. She’s been telling her fibs again.’
‘Like mother, like daughter,’ said Harcourt unwisely.
‘Renée wasn’t all bad,’ snapped Vernon. ‘She had a spark, if you remember. She won that competition to be the speaking clock out of the whole of England.’
‘The girl with the golden voice,’ said Harcourt, by way of apology.
Vernon told him how he’d been taken home from the football field in a chauffeur-driven car. He said it had smelt like a bar parlour.
O’Hara rode his motor-cycle to the Pier Head and parked it against the granite bollards at the entrance to the Albert Dock. He waited until the policeman disappeared inside his prefabricated hut before dodging under the railings and walking rapidly away across the giant crazy paving towards the blitzed warehouses. He had some notion of hiding in the ruins until it was time to go to the theatre. He wanted to howl like a dog and hear the echoes all around him.
Crossing the swing-bridge above the water he lost his footing on a streak of black oil. Falling, he struck the back of his skull hard on the edge of the bridge. He swung his head from side to side, trying to get rid of that image of the girl he had known as Stella Maris holding a baby in her arms.
There was a crocodile of children winding halfway round the square for the afternoon matinee. George told Stella that St Aloysius’s orphanage had a block-booking. The seats had been paid for by the City Corporation. It was a gesture made every year.
She was talking to Prue in the wardrobe – it was Geoffrey’s turn to call the half hour, when Bunny came running up the stairs. He wanted to know if she had seen O’Hara. ‘Why me?’ she said.
‘Stop playing funny buggers,’ he shouted. ‘O’Hara isn’t in his dressing-room.’
At the quarter hour, when O’Hara still hadn’t arrived, Rose called a taxi and sent Bunny up to Percy Street. The biology student opened the door. He hadn’t seen O’Hara all morning because he’d slept in. ‘His bike’s not there,’ he said helpfully, having gone up into the street to look.
O’Hara’s bed was made and the dishes washed. Bunny read the unfinished letter on the table:
It may be that you think my association with a certain person will prevent me from doing anything about Geoffrey. If this is so, you are mistaken. My concern, as on a previous occasion, is for a young man whose life may well be ruined by your attentions. I was approached once before, and have been so again. If the situation continues I will have no other recourse than to set the facts before Rose Lipman. It is …
Bunny burned the letter in the sink and sluiced the ashes under the tap.
The curtain had to be delayed while Meredith made up as Mr Darling. None of the clothes fitted. He was taller than O’Hara, and thinner. Rose made a front-of-curtain speech begging the audience’s indulgence.
The police arrived during the beginning of Act Four, set in ‘the hole under the ground’. Tigerlily’s braves had finished chanting their ugh, ugh, wah, and Wendy, having reminded Peter to change his flannels and left his medicine bottle perched in the fork of a tree, had flown away home. Babs, emerging into the corridor, saw Bunny sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, being spoken to by an officer of the law. Bunny was smiling in a peculiar way, eyebrows raised as though preparing his face to respond to the punch line of a smutty joke.
Babs said, ‘Bunny, what’s happened? Is it bad news?’ But he flapped his hand at her in a dismissive gesture as if she had no right to be there.
Stella heard about O’Hara from the child playing Slightly. ‘Captain Hook’s downed hisself in the river,’ he babbled.
Presently, Tinkerbell drank the medicine intended for Peter. It was an affecting moment. ‘Why Tink,’ cried Peter, ‘it was poisoned and you drank it to save my life. Tink, dear, Tink, are you dying?’
Stella’s hands were trembling as she held the torch. She could hear Mary Deare droning on: ‘Her light is going faint, and if it goes out that means she is dead. Her voice is so low I can scarcely hear what she is saying. She says – she says she thinks she could get well again if children believed in fairies: Say quickly that you believe. If you believe, clap your hands.’
Stella dropped the torch and let it roll into the wings as the children brought their palms together to save Tinkerbell. The light swished from the back-cloth. For a moment the clapping continued, rose in volume, then died raggedly away, replaced by a tumult of weeping …
0
A man with a white muffler wound about his throat rolled from the black shadows of the Ice Warehouse and the girl stopped and spoke to him. ‘I need to make a telephone call,’ she said, ‘and I haven’t any money. Someone’s died.’
The man stared at her; he was holding a bouquet of flowers in a twist of paper. ‘I wasn’t to blame,’ the girl said. ‘He was happy. He kept saying well done. I’m not old enough to shoulder the blame. Not all of it.’
‘Give over,’ he said. ‘There’s no need to make a meal of it.’ He gave her five pennies and a farthing and lurched away under the bouncing lime trees, one hand unbuttoning his fly, the other, arm raised fastidiously above his head, clutching that bedraggled fistful of winter daffodils.
She rang the familiar combination of numbers. ‘It’s been awful,’ she said. ‘There was a man who seduced me.’
‘The time,’ mother intoned, ‘is 6.45. and 40 seconds precisely.’
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Stella shouted. ‘I’ll know how to behave next time. I’m learning. I’m just bending down to tie a shoe-lace. Everyone is just waiting round the corner.’
‘The time,’ pretty mother said, ‘is 6.47 and 20 seconds precisely.’
The Birthday Boys
A Novel
For Petty Officer Jan Boud and Leading Stoker David Tomlinson
Petty Officer Edgar (Taff) Evans
June 1910
We left West India Dock for Cardiff on the first day of June. None of us were sorry, least of all the Owner. For a month we’d had the dignitaries coming aboard, poking their scientific noses into everything, leaving their fingermarks on the brass work shining in the sunlight, the ladies under their parasols shuddering in mock fear as the pig-iron ballast swung overhead. ‘How picturesque it all is,’ they trilled. ‘How thrilling.’ We’d had to keep our shirts on and mind our language.
The night after I signed on I took a drop too much to drink; and the next, and the one following. I’m not proud of my behaviour, what with being on short pay and having little enough to send home to the wife, but how else is a man to fill in his nights when he’s far from home and without a berth?
While the ship was undergoing refitment and the mess deck out of action, me and Tom Crean lodged with William Lashly at his auntie’s house on the Isle of Dogs. Trouble is, Crean was never a man for enjoying a bevvy, and neither Will nor I felt tranquil parked by the fire of an evening with only the auntie and her tabby cat for company. Living ashore hits men differently. Some shuffle back into it like they’ve found an old pair of slippers and others can’t walk easy, no matter how they’re shod.
That being said, me and Will d
idn’t have to put our hands in our pockets all that often; no sooner had the whisper got round that we were on the Terra Nova than there was always someone ready to stand us a drink in return for a yarn. Lashly can coax a sick engine into life like it was an infant far gone with the croup, but he has a brutal way with his mother-tongue. It was left to me to spin the tales. ‘Tell them about the blizzard on Castle Rock,’ he’d prompt. ‘Tell them how Vince met his Maker,’ and off I’d go.
There’s a trick to holding attention, to keeping interest at full pitch, and I learnt it as a boy from Idris Williams, the preacher in the chapel at the bottom of Glamorgan Street. It’s a matter of knowing which way the wind blows and of trimming sails accordingly. All the same, I’ve never found it necessary to alter my description of the cold, or of the ice flowers that bloomed in winter along the edges of the sea.
‘It was in the March of 1902,’ I’d begin, ‘and the Discovery was anchored in McMurdo Bay under the shadow of Mount Erebus. In a few short weeks the sun would go down and fail to rise and the long winter nights set in.’ I’d add a spot of detail – how we built huts for ourselves and kennels for the dogs, though the last was a bloody waste of effort seeing the animals preferred to burrow in the snow, and how we butchered seals in the scant daylight hours so as to lay up fresh meat against the scurvy. Sometimes we played football, and it was a dangerous game, slithering about on the ice. ‘You know what they do to horses when they breaks a leg, don’t you, boys?’ I’d wait then until my listeners got over laughing.
‘I dare say,’ I’d continue, ‘that you think you’ve known what it is to be cold,’ and there’d be a murmur of agreement from men who had sailed the China Seas on windjammers bucking in a force twelve, the waves curling forty feet high and not a patch of clothing that didn’t stick like a leech to their backs. ‘But you can’t know,’ I’d say, quietly enough. ‘Not until you’ve been south. To be cold is when the temperature sinks to –60°F and the mercury freezes in the thermometer. Petrol won’t burn, see, at this degree and even an Eskimo dog can’t work, because its lungs will stop functioning. Real cold is …’ and here I’d drop silent, jaw clenched, as though in the contemplation of such cold the words had frozen in my mouth. Shuddering, I’d shove my empty glass about the table. Then, after someone had placed another measure in my hand, I’d tell them, ‘To be cold is when the snot freezes in your nostrils and your breath snaps like a fire-cracker on the air and falls to ice in your beard.’
I was speaking no more than the gospel truth. It had been as bad as that, and worse, when we’d gone in search of Hare, floundering about in the ghastly, twilight with the blizzard roaring about our ears. The Owner had despatched us onto the Barrier to test our skill on skis and see what weights we could pull sledge-hauling. At first the weather had been in our favour. It was ten degrees below, but the going was so hard, up to our knees in drifts and pulling those damned sledges because no one knew how to work the dogs, that we were stripped down to our vests. On the sixth day a blizzard blew up, and Hare went missing. Three of us turned back to look for him. It was madness; the dogs yapping in a tangle of traces and the wind cutting our faces like knives. Vince wasn’t wearing crampons, and when he slipped he had no purchase. ‘He called out something as he slid past me over the cliff … but I couldn’t hear him, see, on account of the wind.’
Again I’d pause, only this time I wasn’t codding, for no matter how often I told it I relived the moment, that moment between Vince being there and being gone. I kept to myself how my heart leapt in my breast with joy that it was him that was lost and not me. Nor did I think it fit to let on how badly the Owner had taken the news of Vince’s death. Crean heard him blubbing in the night. Dr Wilson sat up with him, attempting to persuade him it was God’s will. The Owner doesn’t find it easy to delegate and he held himself responsible. There were those among us, though they’d have thought twice before voicing it in my presence, who considered this no more than just.
‘The next day,’ I’d conclude, ‘when we’d returned safely to base camp, ice flowers had formed on the newly frozen sea, sculptured blooms like those waxen wreaths in the cemeteries of home.’ And that was the truth too, give or take another week or so.
Some nights, if the men grouped around us were still sober enough to listen, I’d throw in the yarn about the Owner and me stepping into space on the Ferrar Glacier. We’d been crawling across the plateau and toiling up those bloody mountains for weeks, whipped by the wind, the sledge runners torn to shreds, laid up in blizzards so fierce that the stove wouldn’t burn and we chewed half-frozen food for sustenance. Come night-time, we huddled together in a three-man sleeping bag, and to begin with me and Lashly were uneasy at sharing dossing-room with an officer, until we caught on that it was his poor warmth and ours that was keeping us all alive. Lashly was hit bad with the frostbite, his fingers swollen fat as plums.
He was leading, me and the Owner hauling behind, when we dropped into the crevasse. The sledge we were dragging catapulted into the air and jammed bridge-like above us, and we dangled there between blue walls of ice, close as sweethearts, facing death and each other. The damnest thing, in spite of the cold I got a hard on. I suspect it was the best of me, rising up in protest against extinction. I was scared for my life, but at the same time I couldn’t help noticing how bright everything was, the ice not really blue at all but shot through with spangled points of rosy light so dazzling that it made me crinkle up my eyes as though I had something to smile about, and there was a shadow cast by the Owner’s shoulder that washed from seagreen to purple as he twisted in his traces. He hung a foot or so above, and when I looked up at his face I’d never seen such anxiety in a man’s eyes, and it was for me, not him. All at once he let out a sigh, as though until then he hadn’t been breathing, and he said, ‘Are you all right, Taff?’ and I said, polite enough, ‘Don’t trouble yourself about me, sir.’
There were any number of words roaring through my head, but when we were out of our pickle at last and lay spreadeagled on the ice, I came up with nothing better than, ‘Well, I’m blowed.’ Mostly I told the story as it happened, only generally I left out the bit about the sweethearts.
Later, we’d have a few more drinks and continue fairly matey until a carelessly expressed remark by some dog of a merchant seaman would send us out into the alley-way for a scrap, after which, if Crean is to be believed, we rolled home and burst all but insensible through the yard door, bellowing of pursuit by demons. I expect lost Vince ran at our heels.
It was Tom Crean who first alerted me that the Owner was thinking of going south again. He was coxswain on the battleship Bulwark, then under the command of the Owner, when the news came through that Shackleton had turned back only half a dozen marches short of the Pole. ‘I think we should have a shot at it, don’t you, Tom?’ the Owner said, and Tom said, ‘Yes, sir, I think we should.’
I didn’t rush. After the way I’d acquitted myself on the previous jaunt I reckoned my application for inclusion in this present one was in the nature of a formality. And I was right.
‘What delayed you, Taff?’ the Owner asked, tongue-in-cheek, when I went down to London and presented myself at his offices in Victoria Street.
‘I didn’t think it was a matter of urgency, sir,’ I replied, and was careful to smile with the right amount of deference. The Owner can be a stickler for what passes for the right attitude.
‘I’m glad to have you with me, Evans,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t be the same without you.’
The roistering nights ended soon enough. The crew having mustered and the shipwright allowing us aboard, we slung our hammocks where we could and came under the authority of the Mate. Crean holds it’s like old Discovery times, him and me and Lashly together again along with the Owner and Dr Wilson. I don’t mind the doctor, though it’s not easy to engage him in conversation, not unless you’re knowledgeable about birds and their eggs. He being a serious sort of cove, lacking the common touch for all he believes to the contr
ary, and religious into the bargain, I can’t help thinking less of him than the Owner. Both of them come from what the privileged classes assume to be humble backgrounds, meaning that from guilt, temperament or the ill winds blown up by life’s vicissitudes they’ve felt compelled to earn a living. I’m not up on the Doctor’s family, but I do know that two of the Owner’s sisters are dressmakers and a third went on the stage, albeit not in the capacity of a dancer or a feed in a vaudeville act. I’ve come to the conclusion the Doctor pursues his chosen course on account of spiritual leanings, whereas the Owner’s driven by necessity.
I don’t want there to be misconceptions; more than most I’m in a position to evaluate the Doctor’s worth, and even a cynic would have to admit he’s not just a Sunday Christian. You could label him a peacemaker. On more than one occasion during the expedition of 1901 he took the Owner aside and told him a few home-truths. There was a lot of bad feeling between the Owner and Shackleton, and it was causing discord all round. The Owner has a bit of a temper, see, and when things go wrong he’s apt to sound off. It’s not that he lacks control, rather that he’s nervy, and who can blame him when he’s burdened with such heavy responsibilities? There’s no doubt he relies on the Doctor to keep him serene and treading water. He calls him Uncle Bill, although Wilson’s the younger of the two.
The ward-room have taken quite a shine to a newcomer called Bowers shipped hot-foot from Bombay, a former cadet on the Worcester and now seconded from the Royal India Marine with the rank of lieutenant. He’s a rum little bugger with short legs, sandy hair and a nose shaped like a parrot’s – the officers have already nicknamed him ‘Birdie’ – and on first clapping eyes on him the Owner is supposed to have said, ‘Well, we’re landed with him and must make the best of it.’ Crean says he had to be accepted because he came highly recommended from Sir Clements Markham.
The Novels of Beryl Bainbridge Volume 1 Page 16