The Novels of Beryl Bainbridge Volume 1

by Beryl Bainbridge

  The Barry Hotel served up a good dinner of leek soup, with lamb cutlets to follow and a fair amount of beer. They had a Boys’ Brigade band going oompahpah on the rostrum at the end of the room, and a menu with a picture of the Terra Nova embossed across the top with the words Sailed from Cardiff, June 1910 printed underneath. I thought I’d folded it away to send home to Lois, but when I turned out my pockets the next day all I could find was a cigar butt and two pudding spoons encrusted with custard.

  Those who had brought wives, or were courting, had a jollier time of it than the rest of us, spaced as we were between sundry tradesmen and their ladies. The couples got to their feet and waltzed about the floor, larking and smooching, while we unfortunates were left to indulge in conversation. I’m no fool. Having been exposed to persons of the calibre of the Owner, I know a forever gentleman when I fall over him, as compared to a temporary one, and though our hosts were kind enough and more than anxious to do us proud, most of them, beyond having money in the bank, were no better than I am.

  There was a chap seated at my right hand who was employed in some lowly capacity by the Crown Patent Fuel Company. He would keep asking me to put a figure to the value of the briquettes they’d given us. I knew to the last penny, but I played the game and made out they must have cost twice as much. This tickled him no end and he left his seat and went up and down the table recounting what I’d said, at which a little fellow in pince-nez thumped the cloth with his fist and challenged me to estimate the worth of his particular contribution of galley pans and cutlery. I was just making signals to Crean, jerking my head in the direction of the door and indicating we should make a run for it, when a red-faced individual in a dicky and a frock-coat bustled up the steps onto the rostrum, and flapped his hand for the conductor to lower his baton.

  ‘The Lord Mayor of Cardiff,’ he announced, ‘would be obliged if the crew of the Terra Nova would adjourn to the Royal Hotel and join with Captain Scott and members of the Chamber of Commerce at a smoking concert.’

  We walked in crocodile to the hotel, the chap in the dicky marching at our head like a drum-major. People in the street cheered and raised their hats as we passed by. Just as we filed alongside the doors of the Mercantile Insurance offices a pigeon dropped its mess on the shoulder of our leader. He wasn’t aware of it and mistook the roar of laughter for high spirits. Some of the men doubled off down a side street to the nearest pub, but there was no way I was going to let the Owner down. He hates all the formal palaver, and I expect it was at his suggestion that we were fetched.

  He and his wife, along with Lt. Evans and his missus, have been staying at the Mansion House as guests of the Lord Mayor. Though no doubt the Lieutenant has enjoyed himself to the hilt, I reckon the Owner has had a bellyful of social engagements.

  We arrived before the dinner was quite over, to be parked at the end of the room at a long table laid out with extra menus and pamphlets setting down the scientific aims of the Expedition. I had a chance to glance at the menu and they’d had fillets of beef Terra Nova, souffé Captain Scott and South Pole ice pudding.

  It was a splendid dining-room, glittering with silver candelabras and gilded cornices, and you’ve never seen so many flowers, some in vases and others massed in brass tubs, and all of them white – lilies, possibly – to go with the theme of the white South, and a turkey carpet, embroidered in blues and yellows, of such magnificence that it seemed a crime to walk on it. There was a continual buzz and drone of voices in one’s ears, as if bees had zoomed in on a garden heavy with blooms.

  The Owner was seated dead-centre at the head table. I could see him craning forward, trying to spot us, only we were hidden, see, by a bloody big potted palm. Lt. Bowers was there, and the Mate, and Mrs Evans, two shoulders along from the Owner. I have to admit Mrs Evans is a bit of a bobby-dazzler. She was dressed in white, with a pale flower caught up in her dark hair. Mrs Scott was seated to the left of the Lord Mayor. She was sort of sprawled back in her chair looking bored, and she was wearing purple.

  There was no sign, of course, of Captain Oates. The day before he’d told Lashly wild horses wouldn’t drag him to such a do, and that he was damned if he’d sit down to dine with a bunch of Labour socialists. I’m not convinced he’s against such gatherings on political grounds, any more than from shyness, rather that he’s so much his own man, and such a prey to boredom into the bargain, that he does as he pleases.

  Ten minutes or so after we’d sat down there was a lull in the proceedings to allow the ladies to go to the powder room, during which interlude the band launched into a rendering of the Hero of the South. I suspect Mrs Scott had kicked off her shoes, because she was bent sideways searching for something under the table, and when she finally rose to her feet she was a little off balance, and the Owner took her by the elbow to steady her. She smiled at him and flicked at his face, playfully, with her napkin. You could tell by the way he squeezed her arm they were friends, not just husband and wife.

  One of the waiters wheeled a trolley at us with the remains of the South Pole pudding sliding sideways on a silver platter; Crean plucked the little flag off the top and stuck it behind his ear. ‘If it’s all the same to you,’ I told the waiter, ‘we’d prefer something stronger to cool our throats.’

  A comic singer and a lady harpist were heralded as about to give of their all. The singer came on and sang a George Robey song about a philandering husband who took a girl to the music-hall and bumped into his wife the chorus of which we all joined in with a will:

  Staring me in the face,

  Staring me in the face,

  There she was and that lodger of ours,

  Staring me in the face.

  We could have done with more of him, but then the lady harpist scuttled in and you could tell from the general unrest and hubbub throughout that nobody was prepared to listen to that sort of tinkling. By way of amends for her less than enthusiastic reception she was given a tremendous ovation at the end, and the Lord Mayor presented her with a posy.

  I had just settled down behind the palm fronds with a full glass in my hand when Mr Trevor Jones, Chairman of the Chamber, called upon the Lord Mayor to present the Owner with a flag emblazoned with the arms of the City of Cardiff. It was neatly folded when handed over until the Owner, attempting to show suitable appreciation, made the mistake of opening it out. Yards of it fell across the tablecloth. Mrs Scott started to laugh. Then the Owner, struggling with its unwieldy folds, bellowed, ‘Taff … Taff Evans … where are you?’

  Clissold, the ship’s cook, pushed me to my feet. He’d had a skinful by then and could have hurled me across the room by brute force. I would have dodged away, only the Owner, spying me, waved his arm and called, ‘Taff, I need you.’

  I bobbed up and down, feeling foolish, at which the Owner shouted out in ringing tones, ‘My Lord Mayor, Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to present my friend and fellow explorer, Petty Officer Evans.’ Such an explosion of cheering and foot-stamping took place that it would have been the height of mock modesty not to show myself.

  The Mate was relegated to the end of the Captain’s table, so I could be placed between the Owner and the Lord Mayor. Mrs Scott was still laughing; I distinctly remember the Owner leaning across me and hissing, ‘Kathleen, darling, for God’s sake, do stop.’ He got to his feet, thanked everyone for the flag – Lt. Bowers was all this time trying to confine it to manageable proportions – and promised it would be flying from the mast when we departed from Cardiff and hoisted again at the Pole. This last remark was a blatant lie. Where we’re off to we’re going to find it difficult enough to haul ourselves upright, never mind a flag that size.

  ‘We shall never forget,’ he said, ‘the kindness of the City of Cardiff, where we have found the best coal, the best facilities, and the best backing any explorer could hope for.’ Here he faltered, cleared his throat and was unable to continue. Most of those watching took it he was momentarily overcome with gratitude, but as Mrs Scott was still making strang
led noises behind her napkin I reckoned he was struggling with an altogether different sort of emotion.

  By now, Lt. Bowers had reduced the flag to the size of a folded tent and draped it over the back of his chair. Recovering, the Owner reached across and stroking it reverently, spoke the following words: ‘I assure you we will never forget our welcome in Cardiff, or this flag. We would never have endured the strain of preparation except for the support of the people of South Wales. The memory of your generosity,’ and here he spread out his arms to embrace the whole room, ‘will inspire us in what I really believe is a great work.’ Then he shifted the flag from the chair back and, turning to me, declared, ‘I have no hesitation in entrusting this magnificent emblem into the safe-keeping of Petty Officer Edgar Evans, our ‘Taff’, a true son of Wales and the companion of my earlier voyage.’

  I ask you, it would have gone to any man’s head – all that cheering, the rapping on the tables for me to respond, the Owner smiling at me, the band striking up Hen Wlad fy Nhadau.

  All things considered, I think I acquitted myself fairly well. I don’t count myself as educated, but when I stood up I had a feeling in my head – and it was nothing to do with liquor – that I was part of something special, something with glory in it. Even before I opened my mouth a man with a white goatee beard shouted out, ‘Nail our flag to the Pole, Taff Evans.’ He wasn’t joking. There was some laughter, though not as much as you’d expect, yet I didn’t feel angry at such ignorance; if anything I was uplifted, see, at such simplicity, and there was this pride surging in my breast, pride that I was Welsh through and through.

  For the Owner’s benefit I translated into English the mottoes embroidered across the flag: Awake the Day and The Welsh Dragon Leads the Van – at the time the words seemed profound, though in the cold light of day I can’t see them as all that relevant.

  ‘There is no one,’ I said, ‘save the Captain, who could have persuaded me to return to the South. He’s the sort who inspires loyalty, respect … love.’ And here I dashed the moisture from my eye. I daresay the tears had a lot to do with the amount of drink I’d taken on board, but it isn’t easy for a man to say what he feels unless he’s in an exalted state, and I was expressing no more than the truth.

  In a way I was glad my wife wasn’t there to hear me, for though she would have been proud at my being king-pin she might also have considered she was taking second place in my affections. I noticed the Owner was looking very serious, properly moved this time he was, and Mrs Scott opened her reticule and took out her handkerchief, though in her case she was probably still in the grip of hilarity.

  Then, to lighten the proceedings, I called out for the benefit of the fellow with the goatee: ‘If we do reach the Pole, I hope to carry it home to Swansea rather than let it moulder in the National Museum of Cardiff.’ Whereupon a stout alderman at another table offered me £10 if I’d chip off a piece and slip it to him privately. Quick as a flash I shouted back: ‘Why not pay for it in advance?’

  I ended my little speech with the words, ‘We may die there … and join poor Vince, clutched in the cold clasp of the ice … but if we ever do come back, we hope to meet you in Cardiff.’

  No sooner had I sat down than the stout man announced he was prepared to donate £500 to the fund. Someone else followed suit with an offer of £52 10s. Within fifteen minutes cheques adding up to near a thousand pounds had been dumped on the Owner’s pudding plate. ‘Bless you, Taff,’ the Owner said, shaking me vigorously by the hand, ‘you’re a bloody marvel’, and I said, minding my manners, ‘Pleased to be of assistance, sir. Sign off the Belgian stoker. He’ll not last the course.’

  Later I had a chat with the wife of the Lord Mayor. As soon as I heard myself claiming kinship with Lloyd George I made my excuses and legged it back to the ship. I didn’t want to blot my copybook, not after such a triumphal night.

  The following afternoon my niece Sarah arrived from Swansea to wish me godspeed. She’s a clever girl and reads books out of the library. Right from a little one she’s shown interest in my stories of the South, being particularly curious about the sort of birds you get out there, as well as fish. Once, she wrote a letter to Dr Wilson asking him some question or another, and with his reply he sent her a little sketch of snowy petrels. I’ve not seen it myself, but her mother says she’s got it pinned up behind her bed with a bit of tissue-paper fixed on top to keep the dust off.

  Sarah wanted to see over the Terra Nova right away. I was somewhat subdued after what Crean had told me at breakfast, and the last thing I wanted was her getting into conversation with any of the crew, not with events still fresh in their minds. It was a bit awkward; she could see for herself the ship was crawling with visitors. I had to pretend they were guests of the officers.

  ‘You were in all the newspapers this morning, Uncle Edgar,’ she said. ‘You’re more famous than any of the officers.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked. ‘What do they say about me?’

  ‘You raised a lot of money,’ she said. ‘By making a speech. They say you touched their hearts.’

  ‘Did I indeed?’ I said, feeling less alarmed, and promised that tomorrow I’d show her the scientific laboratory and the space where Dr Wilson would be doing his studying of birds, though I left out the fact they’d mostly be dead ones. She was stopping the night with my brother-in-law, so I gave her a few pence to buy herself a cup of tea and a cake and said I’d see her first thing in the morning.

  There wasn’t a peep out of Lt. Evans all day, not that I went out of my way to be in his vicinity. It’s not that I’d be against urinating over his boots, particularly if he was looking in another direction at the time, but I’m inclined to think either some of the lads made the whole story up to agitate me, or else he was so far gone himself that he’s none too sure of his own conduct. As for the flag, how it got draped over a tram at the terminus, beats me. If Jones the Goat hadn’t spotted it, it could have travelled half way across Cardiff. Fortunately there’s no harm done – Crean scrubbed off the stains at the pump and the sailmaker smoothed it out under the flat iron.

  I didn’t go ashore that last evening. There were a lot of jobs to see to, and besides, I thought it best to lie low. The Owner, poor devil, attended a buffet supper at the City Hall. I heard later it wasn’t an occasion for speech-making, or conversation either for that matter, seeing Madame Hughes-Thomas’s Royal Welsh Ladies’ Choir sang throughout.

  Lt. Bowers didn’t go. He was up into the small hours making entries in his notebooks and stalking round his provision boxes like a broody hen. Nor was he in the mood for talk when I brought him his cocoa. I put his reserve down to anxiety; after all, none can know what may befall us. Thinking to put him at his ease, me being an old hand, I said it was a strange feeling, wasn’t it, knowing that tomorrow we’d be gone.

  ‘Strange?’ he said. ‘How so?’

  ‘Why, after all this waiting, sir,’ I said. ‘It’s like letting a dog off the leash and him none too sure where he wants to go any more.’

  ‘I don’t get your drift,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a question of losing the scent, sir,’ I said. ‘Leastways, it strikes me as similar.’

  ‘Not being a dog,’ he replied, ‘I’m afraid I have difficulty in following the allusion.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘Point taken, sir. I daresay our spirits will rise the moment we get up anchor.’

  ‘Some of us,’ he responded curtly, ‘have never been low in spirits.’

  From the stern look he flashed me I knew I was right about him being nervy. Who can blame him? The South is nothing like India.

  I left him and went up on deck to look out at the slithering city, its glitter of street lamps fizzy under the rain. There’s something wrong about a ship in dock, something pathetic, like a bird fluttering in a spill of oil. The Nova was tethered to her berth by ropes and chains, caught in a pool of greasy water. I could feel her shifting under my feet, tugging to be free. In spite of
the late hour there were still groups of people come to stare up at her. I knew what they could see; a cat’s-cradle of rigging illuminated by lanterns; a gleam of paint and brass work, the red burn of the cigar puffed on by the officer of the watch. The best of her was invisible, not to be described in words.

  There are good ships and bad ships and the difference between them has nothing to do with being seaworthy. If I was fanciful I might say some had souls. There are ships built to withstand the worst the Almighty can throw at them yet they go down with hardly a murmur, and there are other, frailer craft, who, having battled the winds and lost masts, yards and canvas, still bob safe home to harbour. With experience a man can tell the one from the other the moment he steps aboard, neither from look nor feel, but from something fathoms deep within himself.

  I stayed on deck for over an hour, hoping to have a quiet last word with the owner, until I remembered he was a guest at the Mansion House.

  The Belgian left just before midday. I ran into him between decks when I was showing Sarah over the ship. He didn’t say anything, nor did I, and I pretended not to notice he had his kit-bag slung over his shoulder. We nodded as we passed and that was that.

  Some minutes later the Chief Steward said the Owner wanted to see me in his cabin. I took my niece with me, as a precaution. I reckoned if he had heard any gossip about that business of the flag he was hardly likely to haul me over the coals in the presence of a third party, and a relation at that. It turned out the Lord Mayor wanted to say goodbye to me personally and present me with a photograph of himself. He’d already given me one, at the smoking concert, which means his recollection of the occasion is as hazy as mine. I hadn’t set eyes on the first photograph since one of his flunkeys handed it to me before I spun out through the revolving doors of the Royal Hotel. I daresay, the Mayor being no oil painting, it’s going backwards and forwards on some tram in the city.