The Ocean Liner

by Marius Gabriel

  ‘Her mother and I are also concerned about her weight,’ Daddy said, looking at Rosemary critically. ‘She’s much too fond of sweet things. She’s gotten herself much too fat. It attracts unwanted attention. We’re hoping you can do something about that.’

  ‘We certainly can. We’ll make sure—’

  But Rosemary never got to hear the rest of that, because the smiling nun finally appeared and took her off to tour the school. As soon as she was out of Mother Isabel’s office, she lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The nun’s smile faded.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Rosemary demanded.

  The Solent

  The Manhattan sailed promptly at six. Every ship in Southampton, including the troop transports that were themselves preparing to leave for France, sounded horns, steam whistles or sirens. The unearthly chorus sounded to those on board like wails of woe and despair, despite the customary carnival of streamers and confetti that trailed from the high decks of the liner, fragile links with shore that were soon torn apart, joining the debris in the water.

  Masha Morgenstern felt as though her heart were being torn out of her. Unable to watch the docks receding behind Manhattan, she left Rachel waving at the rail, and clung to the huge trumpet of a ventilator intake, pressing her face against the cold metal. She would never see her parents again.

  She felt a hand on her arm, and looked up blearily. It was Thomas, his face twisted in sympathy.

  ‘Oh, Thomas,’ she blurted out, ‘this world is a travesty, a travesty.’ She drew his head on to her breast and held him tightly.

  As the great liner steamed down the Solent, Cubby Hubbard hunted for a sight of Rosemary Kennedy. He pushed his way through the emotional throngs of people on every deck, craning to see over the hats (he was not a very tall young man). He knew that the Kennedys were keeping to their stateroom. One of the stewards had told him that. He’d heard nothing from Rosemary for days. He was concerned. He knew that her mother would have made her life difficult, and Rosemary didn’t respond well to having her life made difficult. He wanted badly to see her.

  At last, leaning back over the rail on the lower deck, he got a glimpse of Luella Hennessey, the family nanny. She was on the deck above him, waving a handkerchief. Beside her was Patricia, Rosemary’s younger sister. Cubby made for the companionway which connected the two decks, but the going was difficult. The stairs were jammed with people who blocked his ascent. He was breathless and dishevelled by the time he got to the First Class deck.

  He glimpsed Pat Kennedy’s blue woollen beret at the rail, and fought his way over to her. He managed to elbow himself a place beside her. Manhattan uttered a deep, bone-jarring blast on her horn. The docks were already a mile away up Southampton water.

  ‘Where’s Rosemary?’ he asked in a low voice.

  Pat turned to Cubby in surprise. She stared at him, her mouth half-open, but didn’t answer.

  ‘Is she okay?’ Cubby demanded.

  Pat shook her head slightly. Her freckled face was pinched with the cold. She looked frightened. ‘No. She’s—’

  Luella Hennessey, now aware of Cubby’s presence, took Pat’s arm and pulled her away before she could say anything more. Cubby called after her, but apart from a last glance over her shoulder, Pat was helpless. Cubby leaned on the rail, biting his lip in frustration as he watched them disappear into the crowd.

  As Manhattan turned west, Commodore Randall was on the bridge, his binoculars to his eyes, watching the horizon.

  ‘Heard the news from France, George?’ he asked his first officer.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘If France falls, the Germans will control the Atlantic coast from Brest to Bordeaux. They’ll be hundreds of miles closer to Allied shipping lanes. They’ll build airfields and U-boat bases all the way along the Channel.’

  ‘It’ll be the end of Southampton, Plymouth and Portsmouth. The south coast ports will be far too dangerous to use. Shipping will have to use Liverpool or even Glasgow instead.’

  ‘And what’s more, the Germans will be perfectly poised for an invasion of Britain.’

  George Symonds nodded. ‘It’s a bad lookout, Commodore.’

  Randall grunted like a walrus, lowering his binoculars. ‘I’m retiring at the end of this trip. I don’t mind telling you, I’m damn glad to be getting out, too.’

  Arturo Toscanini was at Manhattan’s stern, looking down at the ship’s wake.

  He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and took out the sheaf of letters that Carla had brought him from Kastanienbaum. Ada’s letters, bound together by a length of purple ribbon, the ribbon from her slip which he’d begged her to give him after they’d made love for the first time.

  He had read them all over the past two days, often with his heart pounding. So much passion! So much feeling!

  Toscanini relaxed his fingers slowly. There had been others before Ada. But she—

  She had been the love of his life. Ah, that cliché on the lips of every cheap Romeo. The love of my life. But when you considered it, when you really understood it, it was a sentence pronounced by the most terrible of judges, echoing down the barren years that remained.

  He raised the letters to his nose, trying to catch the scent of Ada’s perfume over the salty wind that buffeted him. There! The faintest, sweetest trace of violette di Parma. He inhaled it deeply into his lungs, and then with a groan threw the sheaf of letters away from him. The purple knot unravelled; the letters tumbled in the wind like dying doves, spiralling down into the churning maelstrom of the liner’s wake. For a moment there was a flash of purple silk in the foam, a scattering of dainty envelopes; and then the correspondence was sucked into the deep and gone forever.

  Carla Toscanini was in her little cabin, breakfasting off toast and coffee. She had never adopted the Anglo-Saxon custom of a cooked breakfast; and in any case, there was her figure to think of. If she put on any more weight, she would have nothing to wear. And she couldn’t be bothered to go back into corsets.

  She hadn’t seen her husband for two days, though the stewards told her he tramped the decks ceaselessly. That frenetic engine inside Artú beat with greater energy than ever; but the housing was growing frailer, and one day the engine was going to shake it all to pieces, and that would be the end of Arturo Toscanini.

  Why had she not suspected Ada, thirty years younger than Artú, and with all the right qualifications? Perhaps because Ada’s husband had been young and handsome, and Italy’s foremost cellist. She should have remembered that Artú could conquer any woman, and feared no rival, no matter how young and handsome. Mainardi must have known. Perhaps he had been compliant, even complicit? The tyrant Toscanini subjugated men as easily as women. He was demoniac.

  The word genius, so often thrown carelessly at Artú, had a dark shadow that few people considered. To the ancients it meant the god that ruled each person’s life and passions and appetites. The greater the genius, the greater the appetites. And the more implacable the rule. Artú’s genius was a monster. If one were to see it as it really was, it would not be a little man with white hair. It would be a towering, horned thing, rampant, destructive, mad.

  That was perhaps what his adoring public really worshipped, if the truth were known. Not the music, but the madness.

  The children, of course, knew more than she did. They saw what she preferred to close her eyes to. As one of them said, ‘Papà casts his net wide.’

  Did Artú have no scruples? There had been a line in one of Ada’s letters that had stuck in Carla’s mind:

  You write that your conscience is always fighting with your will, that you hate yourself, are disgusted with yourself! But my darling—

  Perhaps he felt remorse, from time to time, when the horned thing was exhausted. But not enough to bring him back to sanity. And one could not live with a madman.

  She was sixty-two now. At sixty-two, her own mother had been an old woman, already dying. But times had changed. A woman of sixty-two these days was not yet
old. There was still enjoyment left in life, for all the tragedies that had beset her – the death of her own child and those of her sister, the ravages among the family of drug addiction and cancer.

  Out from under Artú’s shadow, she could live a little before the end came. Enjoy what was left of her life. Take refuge from the storm. And find some peace.

  Fanny Ward, the Perennial Flapper, had eaten nothing as yet, though her hamper still contained most of the cold chicken and half the game pie. She had remained in her bunk, with the silk sheets (she had brought her own on board) pulled over her head during the noisy departure from Southampton. She hadn’t wanted to see or hear any of it. It was far too painful.

  She got up now and went to her window, opening the curtain cautiously. She peered out, anxious that she might still catch a glimpse of the country she was leaving with so much sorrow. To her dismay, there was still land to be seen: chalky white cliffs gleaming in the watery sunshine, with a sparse green topping; chalky white rocks sticking out of the sea like a few last teeth; a chalky white lighthouse, painted with fading red stripes.

  She stared blankly at these things, feeling the dull ache in her heart. At least there were no towns, no signs of humanity to be seen. She was leaving behind half her life, and she had a deep foreboding that she would never return to it again. All her lovely things, some of them priceless, now stored in a sandbagged basement. Her friends, her life, her peace, all gone.

  Sighing, she drew the curtains closed and set about the long task of preparing herself to face the day.

  Young Teddy Kennedy was fascinated by the little people. They were called Hoffman’s Midget Marvels. There were eight of them, and they were holding court in the Observation Lounge, seated in a group on a banquette so they could be photographed. They were all dressed fashionably, four miniature ladies and four miniature gentlemen, and their miniature suitcases had been arranged around them for extra effect. None of them were any bigger than Teddy himself, and he was only seven. The smallest was so tiny that their manager, Mr Harry Hoffman (in a jacket with very wide shoulders and smiling very widely) was bouncing him on his knee. Although he was tiny, you could see that he was really quite old, older than the manager, with a face like a wizened apple, and he looked cross at being bounced, which made everyone laugh even more.

  Teddy took a photo with his Brownie while the midget men all lifted their hats and the midget ladies all crossed their legs. Some of the ladies were very pretty. Their manager explained that they were en route to the World’s Fair in New York, where they would live in Little Miracle City, a whole midget town, with midget houses fitted with midget furniture and kitchens.

  ‘Come visit them there, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. You can walk around their tiny town, and see them living their lives, just like real people. Tell all your friends.’

  Teddy wanted to get closer and take a photo of the prettiest of the midget ladies, but his mother stopped him and said she didn’t think the whole thing was very nice at all. He was reluctant to be pulled away. He asked his mother if they could go to the World’s Fair and see the midgets there, and she said that they could certainly go to the World’s Fair, but there were much more interesting things to be seen than human beings put on show like performing monkeys. She said it was on a par with tattooed ladies and sword swallowers. Teddy wanted to see a tattooed lady, and looked around carefully, but there weren’t any to be seen.

  Igor Stravinsky sat with his head in his hands on the edge of his bunk. Katharine sat beside him, with her arm around his shoulders. Despite his long struggle, he had finally given in to the desolation inside him. He felt that his irony and worldliness had sloughed off him like the dry skin of some reptile, leaving him emotionally naked, unable to continue the masquerade.

  ‘Everything is finished,’ he whispered. ‘You are right, Katharine. It’s the end. The end of art, the end of music, the end of everything that matters. The end of me. I cannot express the anguish I feel.’

  ‘You’ll recover, Igor.’ She rocked him, feeling how frail his body had become. He was all bones. He smelled sick. ‘Everything will get better, you’ll see. You’ll start composing again. As for the war, they can’t possibly win. The world won’t let them win.’

  ‘The world has let them win before, these people. Over and over again.’

  ‘America won’t let it happen this time. There’s a new life waiting for you there.’

  ‘I’m too old to begin again.’

  ‘You feel like that now, but you’re exhausted, grieving. You’ll get strong again. There’s so much life in you, Igor. Don’t give up.’

  Commodore Randall had warned the passengers that they might be heading into some bad weather once they had called in at Cobh. The more experienced travellers prepared by lining up in the deckchairs along the sunny side of the ship to soak up all the warmth they could, their chins lifted to catch what solar rays there were, their legs wrapped in rugs.

  There was strong competition for the deckchairs on the overcrowded Manhattan. Miss Fanny Ward, who had taken the wise precaution of slipping Mr Nightingale a five-dollar note beforehand, was one of the fortunate ones. He conducted her to a prime spot, sheltered from the wind, yet catching the full benefit of the hazy sun.

  Miss Ward stretched out carefully on the deckchair, trying to ease her knees into position without too much clicking and creaking. An unwise movement would have her hobbling for a week. Mr Nightingale got the cushions behind her head just the way she liked them, adjusting the rug gently around her feet. She half-expected him to kiss her tenderly on the forehead before leaving. They had sailed together many times.

  She had slept badly the night before. She closed her eyes behind the dark sunglasses, composing her mind for a morning nap. Irritatingly, however, the child on the deckchair beside her was singing ‘Some Day My Prince Will Come’, a song which Miss Ward particularly detested. She tried to shut out the piping voice in vain. It continued, thin and true, to the end of the song, and then began again.

  Miss Ward sat up to look severely at the child. She found herself staring at a little girl of considerable beauty, around seven years old, with a cloud of dark hair and large, lilac-blue eyes. She stopped singing, and looked back at Miss Ward from under impossibly thick eyelashes.

  ‘Am I annoying you?’ the child asked with adult composure.

  ‘It’s not my favourite song,’ Miss Ward said.

  ‘It’s my favourite song,’ the child replied. ‘It’s from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’

  ‘Have you seen it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve seen it three times. And they’ve got it in the ship’s cinema. So I’m going to see it again.’

  ‘Each to his own,’ Miss Ward replied.

  ‘I’m going to be a film star,’ the child volunteered.

  Miss Ward settled back down again and closed her eyes. ‘Good luck to you.’

  ‘I’m going to America to do a screen test for Paramount.’

  Miss Ward sighed. ‘What’s your name, child?’

  ‘Elizabeth Taylor.’

  ‘Well, Elizabeth Taylor, what makes you think you’re going to get a screen test with Paramount?’

  ‘It’s all arranged,’ the child said calmly. ‘It might be MGM. Louis B. Meyer wants me especially. It could be Universal. But I’d rather it was Paramount.’

  This made Miss Ward sit up again. The child was strangely convincing in the matter-of-fact way she spoke of the great Hollywood studios. Miss Ward studied her more carefully. She was a ravishing little thing with an upturned nose and a look of the young Vivien Leigh about her. ‘You’d rather it were Paramount, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is your father arranging all this?’

  ‘My mother and my father. That’s them, over there.’ She pointed to an attractive young couple who were leaning on the rail, the man taking photographs of the woman, who was posing with her straw hat dangling from h
er hand. ‘My brother’s coming, too. I can sing and dance. I’ve been to Madame Vacani’s school of ballet.’

  ‘Have you indeed.’

  ‘She said I had star quality.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘I’m not sure whether to be a film star or an actress.’

  ‘I’m an actress myself, you know,’ Miss Ward offered.

  Elizabeth Taylor looked at her with incredulous violet eyes, but was too polite to express open disbelief. ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Yes. My name is Fanny Ward. I’ve been in thirty films.’

  ‘What films?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have seen them.’ As it happened, her most famous films had been made in the silent era, and were now as dead as the dodo.

  ‘I’m going to be in lots of films,’ Elizabeth replied, unimpressed.

  ‘I imagine you will,’ Miss Ward said dryly. The child had beauty, self-confidence and presence. In a film industry which fawned on child stars, and promoted them relentlessly, young Elizabeth had a decent chance of success. But Miss Ward wondered whether her handsome, confident parents knew what a hard road lay ahead of the child. How much sorrow and disappointment would she endure in her life? How many times would the studios chew her up and spit her out before every vestige of happiness had been sucked out of her? And then, when she was no longer a child, would she join the long list of forgotten infant prodigies in alcoholic homes?

  Approaching the end of her own career, Miss Ward felt she should have some words of wisdom for this hopeful, starting out on the rocky road to the heights. But there was nothing she could say that would be believed, or wouldn’t be instantly forgotten. She felt worn and sad. Without another word, she put her sunglasses back on and lay back down. Beside her, Elizabeth Taylor continued singing ‘Some Day My Prince Will Come’.