by Gardam, Jane
He rose early next morning, both sisters humps in grey blankets below. He dressed and put on the hooded coat his mother had made him. He was so tall he might have been anybody.
He climbed aboard, up a steep gangway unnoticed. He walked about on deck. He slipped amidships and soon came to a graceful staircase like Hollywood. Like A Hundred Men and a Girl. And high above him on the stair he saw the toes of shiny golden curled slippers jutting over the top step. He found that these feet were attached to the graceful Aladdin-trousers of a golden man in a golden coat and purple turban. This smiling man beckoned and bowed.
‘Come little sir. Welcome to the East. Welcome to the City of Benares. See what is now before you.’
What was before him was The Arabian Nights. The palms. The languid loungers, the gleaming restaurants, the clean cabins for them all—not only for the paying passengers. The white linen hand-towels, the ballroom, and everywhere a glorious smell of spices and food he seemed somewhere to have known. An orchestra was tuning up upon a white marble dais.
There was a play-room for the little ones, full of toys. A rocking-horse stood there against a wall, its nostrils flaring. It was a strong rocking-horse with basket-work seats fastened one to each side of the saddle, all wicker-work but very firm and beautiful. Then away went the steward, about the ship. Coloured streamers, big white teeth smiling, princes bowing to him. It must be a film!
Terry felt very much afraid. He was being mocked. He needed to speak, not to his father but to his mother. There were no women on board this ship. They were all princes, all bowing at him and all false. He had never seen anything like this in the Palace Cinema in Herringfleet.
‘I don’t think I am meant to be here,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am a steward on this glorious ship. It is only one year old. It is known as The Garden of the East. You, all you children, are going to be in heaven. You will be Royalty, even the smallest, away from all harm of war. You will eat chicken and salmon and eastern fruit, rich meats, wines, sherbets, bananas and ice-cream—.’
He was terrified. ‘I have to go back. I am not meant to be here. It’s a dream.’
‘Perhaps the whole world is a dream.’
He ran back on deck. Children were beginning to climb the gangways now, some hand in hand, some solemn, some excited, none looking back, none crying. All so little.
On the quay a few flags were being waved. Someone began to sing half-heartedly ‘Wish Me Luck as You Wave Me Goodbye’ and from across the harbour on one of the escort ships which were to come with them to keep them safe, the song was taken up and sailors on her deck began to sing and to wave and cheer. The two stolid twins, big and heavy in what looked like their mother’s winter clothes, passed Terry by without noticing him. From the inside of the ship came cries of amazed delight, the Pied Piper’s children passing inside the mountain.
He asked someone about the Fondles, and was told that they would already have boarded by a different gangway for the paying passengers.
He said ‘I’ll go back to the quay then, and find it.’
‘No need,’ said another golden Indian man in white. ‘Come this way.’ He had gold tabs on his shoulders.
‘I have to go down. I’ve left my bag.’
‘Someone can escort you.’
‘I can manage.’
‘Hurry then, little master.’
He began to push against the stream of passengers coming up the gangway. He pushed harder, knocking them out of the way, and he was free.
Across the quay, in and then out of last night’s dark lodging—his luggage was still there.
‘Get aboard!’ A Liverpool voice. ‘’Ere—you! You’s a passenger—I seed yer. I remember the hair.’
‘Just going.’
He pulled up the hood of the coat and half an hour later he was far away, running like mad from the port, wandering in battered, broken Liverpool, looking for a phone-box.
* * *
He had the right money and he telephoned Father Griesepert. There was no answer, so he rang Mr. Smith’s number, up in the house on the moor—no phones yet in Muriel Street—and after a long time and the telephonist twice asking if she should disconnect him, little Fred Smith’s voice answered.
‘It’s Terry. Is yer Dad there?’
‘Yer’ll ’ave ter ’old on. They’re not awake yet after last night.’
‘Get him, Fred.’
* * *
‘Hullo? Terry? Terry!’
‘Yes. Sorry, Mr. Smith. I’m comin’ home.’
‘You can’t. It is utterly impossible.’
‘Well, I’m coming. I have the money from Da.’
‘You can’t. There’s no trains. Middlesbrough station was destroyed last night. The lines are broken everywhere.’
‘Yes. Well. I’m still coming. Somehow. The ship’s awash with bairns and little kids and them Fondles is after me. I don’t know why, I don’t trust them. They think I’m theirs. I’m not theirs. I’m me Mam’s. And me Dad’s. I’se jumped ship. The ship’s about to sail. I’m somewhere in Liverpool. They’ll never find me.’
The operator said, ‘Your three minutes is up. Do you want to pay for more time?’
He pushed some shillings and then pennies into the slot and after they had clattered down there was silence again.
But then, at last, Mr. Smith’s voice saying, ‘D’you think you can find The Adelphi Hotel? Terry? Very big. Dark. Ask anyone.’
‘Yes. I think it’s right near. I think I’m beside it. I must have gone in a circle.’
‘Go in there. I’ll phone them and say you’re coming. Right. Now, sit in the main Bar there if they’ll let you. Out of sight if you can. Say someone’s coming for you. Say you’ve had bad news from home that means you are unable to leave the country just now. Give anyone this number. Terry—if this is panic it may not be too late—.’
There was a boom like the Last Judgement across the City of Liverpool and The City of Benares, its funnels calling out like organ pipes, began its graceful journey towards the Atlantic Ocean.
‘It’s not panic, Mr. Smith. And it is too late. I know I’m doing right, Mr. Smith. I’m sorry.’
‘You’ve been listening to the slaughterer, Mr. Churchill, forbidding us to run away.’
‘No. Look. Will you tell Mam and Da? I’m coming home.’
‘You’ve had your three shillings’ worth and more,’ said the operator. ‘I couldn’t help listening. I’m not sure of Churchill neither. Always was a war-monger. Death and glory. I’d go home meself if I was you lad.’
‘Thanks. I know what I’m doing,’ said Terry. ‘Thanks, Mr. Smith. I’m fine.’ But his hand shook so much that it took him three attempts to get the heavy black hand-piece back on its hook. Behind it he saw his face in the small spotted mirror. It looked set and certain. Totally certain. I look like me Da, he thought. So that’s O.K.
CHAPTER 15
Still there?’
The barman at the Adelphi’s shadowy and vast main bar was, towards evening, still polishing glasses. Terry was almost out of sight as he had been for hours around the side of the bar on a black-painted step near the floor, his case beside him, waiting for the telephone to ring.
‘You’s sure now that he’s coming? It’s after tea now.’
‘If Mr. Smith said so—.’
‘Well, he said there’d be someone coming to get you, not him. Someone nearer, but not that near. Fromt Lake District. Not nobody, not God, could get over from Teesside today. News travels. It’s not int papers or ont wireless yet. Bombed and flattened the steel-works. First bad ’un they’ve had there. We’s all but used to it ’ere. You’s well away—there’ll be more. Aren’t you the daft ’un not on that luxury liner with the toffs?’
Terry sat on. ‘Can I have a drink? A bar drink.’
‘I’ll give yo
u one small beer.’
‘No. I want Vodka. I’m partly Russian.’
‘I’ve been noticing the hair.’
‘I’ve been collecting round my school for the Red Cross Penny-a-Week fund for Russia.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m a Communist.’
‘Oh God,’ said the barman. ‘Switch off. You’ve got ground to cover yet. Never mind your father. Hullo? Oh, good evening? Yes. Along here. Someone is coming.’
It was a false hope. Terry sat on. He said, ‘We never met anyone from the Lake District. Where’s the Lake District? I thought it was Canada—like Erie and Michigan and that.’
‘By God, you’re ignorant. Where you been all your life, Lenin? Herringfleet? Cod’s-head folk.’
‘That’s right. Can you get me a sandwich?’
‘There’s none here to get it for you and nowt to put in it if there was! Mebbe in the police-station if none turns up here for you.’
‘Bit longer,’ said Terry, ‘Mr. Smith won’t forget. What’s that?’
Far away in the main foyer of the hotel there was, drawing nearer, a clear, rhythmic, distinctive mechanical sort of voice. ‘—let that be understood. From the beginning. Thank you, yes.’ A small man was walking towards them from the far end of the long shadowed passage, talking as if addressing an audience. ‘And this is my passenger, I dare say?’
‘If you’ve come from a Mr. Smith,’ said the barman.
‘I have. Good afternoon. Stand up, boy. Shake hands with me. A straight back and a direct look. Good. Good. My name is Sir. Just Sir. I am the headmaster of a school in the Lake District where Mr. Smith was once my deputy. All my deputies are called Mr. Smith but this Mr. Smith is authentically Smith. A fine man. My school is called a Preparatory School, or Prep School. My Outfit. I’m afraid you are rather too old for my Outfit but we shall see what can be done.’
(‘He’s a Communist,’ said the barman. ‘We must discuss the matter,’ said Sir.)
‘It is a pity that you are so old for I believe there is much I can do for you. Hair-wise (look up hair in Latin. Roman customs and barbering) and now what exactly is your name? I gather that it is uncertain.’
‘Yes. It has always been a sort of uncertainty.’
‘It must be settled at once. It is most important. If I can do nothing else I can do that. Venitski? Vanetski? Varenski? Are you all illiterate in Herringfleet?’
‘Dad never really discussed it. He came from Odessa.’
(‘It’s Ivan-Skavinski-Skavar,’ said the barman and began to sing the tune.)
‘Enough!’ shouted Sir. ‘This is a very serious matter. Your name henceforth shall be Veneering. Yes. Delightful. Polished. In Dickens, Veneering (look up Our Mutual Friend) is an unpleasant character and you will have to redeem him. Veneering has a positive and memorable ring. Rather jolly. You do not look un-Dickensian, but you look far from jolly.’
‘So—let us leave at once. Tonight you will be staying in the Lake District mountains in my Outfit. Mr. Smith is coming to remove you tomorrow.’
‘Does he know that you will have given me a new name?’
‘He won’t be surprised. A most sensible man. Has a son of his own. Maybe I’ll get him. Such a pity Mr. Smith had to leave me to get married. I have no married teachers in my Outfit. Marriage brings distractions. In my Outfit we are too busy for distractions.’
Handing the barman a five pound note the small loquacious man turned and left the Adelphi Hotel and Terry followed dragging all his worldly possessions in the suitcase.
‘The Adelphi Hotel is haunted,’ said Sir. ‘It is the hotel where doomed passengers of ship-wrecks have always gathered before embarkation. Filled with shadows. Such rubbish. In the back, now. The dickey-seat. I don’t ever drive with a boy along-side me for there is always talk in a Prep School. Mine is a clean school. Was yours?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Sir. Mine was run by a man called Fondle.’
‘That,’ said Sir, ‘is a bad start.’
They roared away north-north-east towards the Cumbrian fells, Sir occasionally blasting off into the empty night, upon the car’s bulbous horn, at resting rabbits. After a time the light around them began to fade into a gentle sunset. Sir stopped the car.
‘Bladder relief.’
‘Now,’ he said, ‘another day is done. By what I hear it has been a day you are unlikely to forget. Time will tell us if you were directed by some spiritual force of nature, by instinct or by selfish whim. I heartily advise you to beware, if it is because of “whim” (look the word up. Old English sudden fancy or caprice OED), never to do such a thing again. Is that understood? I dare say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Now, look at the dark hyacinth-blue of the umbrageous mountains (look up ‘umbrageous’: and ‘hyacinth’ too, they both have a splendid classical root). Tell me, do you care for birds?’
‘Well, I think we only have sea-gulls at Herringfleet.’
‘A pity. And most unlikely. Birds can be a great solace. They never love you and you can never own them. Dogs often—and even cats sometimes—can cause pain by their enduring love. Sycophancy (look that up) is never to be encouraged.’
(Who is he? A madman? I like him.)
‘And although I wish I could have the privilege of teaching you, you are, as I say, a little old. We stop at twelve or thereabouts. Where are you bound for next, I wonder?’
For the first time it occurred to Terry that he had not the faintest idea.
‘I should like to come to your school, Sir, but I don’t think there is any money. I stand to inherit £25, but not until my benefactor is dead.’
‘Is that per annum, boy?’
‘No. It will be net.’
‘Ah.’
‘I could make an exception,’ said Sir, ‘but I will not. We might grow fond of each other, I fear that we are unlikely to meet again.’
‘I’m very sorry, Sir.’
‘Yes. I have to admit that I am often very sad, when a boy leaves my school (though not always). There was one excellent boy called Feathers came to me. Left a year or so ago. Had a cruel stammer. We cured it in a term. He’ll be a barrister. You’ll see. Rather your sort of calibre. Feathers will have a charmed life and he deserves it for he had a terrible start. He was unloved from birth. Whereas you—boy—I understand have had a loving home and interesting parents. This will get you through everything. Almost. Because you were loved you’ll know how to love. And you will recognise real love for you. Here we are.’
The school was on a hill up from a lake that gleamed through black fir trees. Boys erupted through its front door and took charge of a large package, the size of a double-bedded bolster, which Sir took from somewhere beneath his feet. ‘Warm it up at once. Fish and chips. Hake. Irish sea. Made me late at Liverpool. Hake a wonderful fish, not common. Good for the brain (look up “hake”. Is it Viking?). God bless our fishing boats. No car here yet? No Mr. Smith to take you home? Boys, this is Terry Veneering. Yes.’
The boys were all disappearing into the school with the bolster. ‘Veneering, you’ll have to stay the night,’ said Sir and Terry felt suddenly that it had been a long day.
* * *
He stayed for three nights with Sir and there was no message from Herringfleet. He slept in an attic and listened to the birds. He was hauled in to help with football and was a success. In the gymnasium it was even better. ‘You may start them on Russian,’ said Sir, passing by on the third day. ‘We may all be needing it soon. I forbid German, however.’
‘I think there’s a car, Sir.’
‘Where?’
‘Standing in the drive. It might be Mr. Smith.’
‘Excellent. Start now. First Steps in Russian with Class 1. Call them “First Steppes” and see if they get—
. I will send for you. You are right. It is Mr. Smith. They are approaching slowly: There seems to be a priest with him.’
An hour later Terry was summoned to the Parents’ Waiting Room where a tray of tea and Marie biscuits, off the ration, had been laid out and Mr. Smith and Father Griesepert told him that both his parents had been killed in the air-raid on Herringfleet the night he left home. Muriel Street was gone, as were the old rabbit-hole houses in the dunes. Mr. Parable-Apse was dead, along with the people in the ticket-office, and nobody had seen Nurse Watkins.
* * *
Terry was to leave that same evening in Mr. Smith’s car. Father Griesepert was a governor and an old boy of a famous Catholic boarding school where it was hoped Terry would remain for the next few years. He went to see Sir again by himself and found him seated at a desk which looked far too big for him, staring ahead.
But he was talking before Terry was through the door. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘You will not only survive but you will shine. Remember the boy, Feathers. You will outshine him. I know, I am never wrong.
‘But remember—I am only a walk-on part in your life. This is merely a guest-appearance. You will have to get down to your own future now.’
Pompous, Terry thought. Totally self-absorbed. Stand-up comedian. Needs adulation. Probably homosexual. Twerp.
‘And so, goodbye, Veneering.’
‘Goodbye, Sir. And thank you.’
‘Hurry up. I have work to do. Mr. Smith is waiting.’
Veneering turned at the door to shut it behind him and saw Sir staring ahead, his eyes immense, wet beneath his glasses. Unseeing.
CHAPTER 16
On her Memory-Dream mattress sixty years later Dulcie was now listening to the Dorset rain. A sopping Spring. At last she heard the swish of Susan’s car returning from the station, the front door opening and closing. Some kitchen sounds. The radio—.