‘Thank you so much, Renato.’ She felt him not quite liking to look at her socks. They were Ted’s socks and too big for her. But they were new when he died and warm and she had not wanted to throw them out.
‘I have brought you an adaptor, too.’
‘Renato, you are an angel.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Hetherington.’
When Vi was quite sure there would be no more angelic recurrences she locked the door, put on the kettle and made tea in the chrome-plated teapot. The tea tasted good. Builder’s tea. Somehow Renato had divined what kind she liked. In its way, it was a kind of genius.
13
‘Bruno,’ Edwin announced, ‘is a kind of genius.’
They were eating a supper of baked courgettes, tomatoes, onions and cheese. Vi was by now an experienced vegetable cook. They had never wasted much of the household purse on meat. Fish made the place stink, she preferred vegetables and if there was any money over Edwin would spend it on drink.
They were discussing the autumn edition of the magazine and Edwin had passed her some pages to read.
‘What do you think of those?’
Vi read the poems. They were long and somewhat convoluted. ‘I don’t know. They seem…’ she considered. She had been going to say ‘a bit mannered’ but instead she asked, ‘What do youthink?’
‘They’re by a friend of mine.’
She looked at the name. No one Edwin had mentioned. ‘Bruno Shilling? Who is he?’
Which was when Edwin made the remark.
‘Bruno is a kind of genius.’
Vi ignored this. ‘How do you know him?’
‘We were at school together. He’s one of my oldest friends.’
‘If he’s a friend and you like his poems of course it’s fine by me to put them in. You’re the editor.’
‘But I rely on your judgement.’
‘OK, in my judgement it’s fine to publish poems by your friend.’
‘You don’t like them?’
‘I didn’t say so.’
‘Well, but do you?’
‘They are not my kind of thing,’ Vi said cautiously. ‘But that doesn’t mean they are not good. Miss Arnold doesn’t like Milton, remember?’
A week or so after the autumn issue of Ariel was out, Edwin said, ‘By the way, Bruno’s coming to stay.’
‘Your friend?’
‘If that’s OK.’
‘Of course it is. It’s your house.’
‘No it isn’t. We share it. Anyway, it’s not mine, I rent it from Ralph.’
‘I can’t imagine minding any friend of yours.’
‘You might,’ Edwin said. ‘You didn’t like his poems. You might not like him either. Almost everyone thinks him charming.’
When Vi returned from work that day a big-boned man with green eyes was reading the New Statesman on the sofa. The visitor got up to greet her, holding out a large hand. For all his bulk he moved surprisingly gracefully. ‘I am Bruno.’
‘Hello. I’m Violet.’ She allowed her hand to be held rather longer than she liked.
‘So I’ve been told.’
To her annoyance, the interloper carried her hand to his lips and kissed it.
‘Are you in for supper?’ Surreptitiously, she wiped her hand on her skirt behind her back.
‘If it is no trouble.’
This was annoying too. ‘I made plenty, enough for three.’
Over supper, Bruno explained that he didn’t drink.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it is a threat to my mental powers, which I value more than mere hedonistic pleasures.’
Vi could not help noticing that Bruno’s abstinence made Edwin drink more than usual. He repeated the remark that had annoyed her the first time. ‘Bruno is a genius.’ Having met the man, it struck her as particularly absurd.
‘In what way is he a genius?’
‘He spellbinds people.’
Vi looked at Bruno. You won’t spellbind me, she thought.
Bruno, pouring himself water, said, ‘It’s Edwin’s little joke. I’ve been studying so-called witch doctors for some years. Edwin calls them spellbinders. This here is a very charming jug.’
Vi was taken aback, though whether by the witch doctors or the remark about the jug she could not perhaps have said. ‘The jug was my mother’s. I gave it to her when I was nine.’
‘You had taste as a child, then.’
‘Tell her about the sorcerers.’ Edwin was now more obvi-ously drunk.
‘And your mother…?’ Bruno, ignoring Edwin, was looking at her attentively with his disturbing green eyes.
Vi got up from the table and began to clear away. Going out to the kitchen she called back, ‘Would you like some grapes? I get them free from a disobliging man in the market.’
14
Vi lay on the wide bed, feeling the tip and roll of the ship and the churning engines rumble through her body. Fugitive images flittered through her mind. Edwin drunk. Edwin with a hang-over. Edwin sitting holding her hand after he had thrown up. Edwin pacing their sitting room, speaking his poems under his breath to hear the rhythm. Edwin the night they quarrelled—their first real row.
Bruno had been with them almost seven weeks. He had announced the evening before, over supper, which was now routinely the three of them, that he would be staying over in London that night, with an old friend, Tessa Carfield. All day Vi had been rehearsing, to the indifferent ears of Samuel Palmer’s sheep, what to say to Edwin: Ed, he’s your friend and I understand that so perhaps I had better go. Or, simply, Edwin, I think it is time I moved out—or on?
But of course when it came to it none of these things was said.
‘Why must you have him here? I loathe him, Ed. Sorry, I just do.’ She saw his eyes flicker for a second.
‘“Loathe”, Vi?’
‘Loathe. Sorry, Ed.’
‘Loathe is a big word.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘You must have guessed.’ He had done. She was sure of it.
‘I suppose I hoped I was wrong.’
‘When have you ever been wrong about me, Ed?’
The ship made a sudden dive into the Atlantic and her glasses, with the notebook, slid off the counterpane. Vi got out of bed and in Ted’s large woollen socks padded out on to the balcony.
An eerie light, thrown out by the ship’s greenish dimmed lamps, lay diffused over the steel folds of water. It was very quiet. There was barely any sound save for the low lap of the waves, the thrum of the engines and the occasional distant crackle of a disembodied voice. Way down below a glass or a bottle broke and someone shrieked with laugher and then fell silent.
Vi padded back inside and put on Renato’s kettle. Had she meant what she had said to Edwin during the row? Impossible now to say. What she recalled was the look in his odd eyes.
‘Ed, what is it about Bruno? I don’t understand. Ralph doesn’t like him either.’
‘What’s he done to Ralph?’
She had come home one evening to hear Bruno’s voice raised and Ralph, she noticed, had not spoken to Bruno since.
‘They had some argument, I don’t know what about. But Ralph is the most pacific of men. Or women, if it comes to that. I can’t imagine getting into a fight with Ralph.’
‘They weren’t fighting, were they?’
‘Not physically.’
‘Bruno’s my friend.’ Edwin’s eyes betrayed some hidden appeal.
‘I don’t think I can live with him. Not for much longer, anyhow. I’d better leave.’
‘You can’t leave, Vi.’
‘I can’t live here with you and Bruno, Ed.’
It was hard to put her finger on exactly what was wrong except that their old life had been set by the ears. Bruno, to all appearances, behaved beautifully: he drank nothing but water, told humorous, even witty, anecdotes, made Edwin laugh, and painstakingly converted his bed each morning back into a sofa. He pursued topics of conversation
with the kind of energetic advocacy which in another man she would have found appealing. But for all that—or was it because of it?—she neither liked nor trusted him. It troubled her that for once she and Edwin did not agree.
One evening in November, when the wind off the water-sodden fens was blowing colder than usual, she came home from work with a newspaper full of leeks. Tough, outsized leeks with dirty hanging roots, from Mr Jarvis. And a head of equally earthy celery and some wizened beetroots. Bruno was lying on the sofa in the warm sitting room his feet up, reading The Listener.
‘You should be running a health farm,’ he said, watching her put down the vegetables to take off her coat and boots. ‘And you ought to be wearing gloves.’
A formless Cambridge had lain all day under a tissue of freezing fog and her hands were senseless red lumps of jointed cold.
‘I’ve lost my gloves. Or I’ve lost one of the pair.’
He had a way of watching her. ‘Wear one then. You can put the other hand in your pocket.’
It was an Edwinish sort of remark but coming from someone who wasn’t Edwin it irked her. ‘I can’t be bothered.’
‘Why don’t you like me, Violet St John?’
‘Who said I didn’t?’
‘Your truthful grey eyes.’
She had gone wordlessly into the kitchen and put the dirty vegetables into the sink and run water over them hard so that the noise would be a screen between them. When she emerged, her hands redder still from the cold water, Bruno was standing in the sitting room, just as she had left him.
‘Violet?’
‘Yes?’
‘Honour Violet St John?’
‘Yes?’
‘H.V. St John?’
‘What?’
When Edwin came in, Vi was in the bath. She took longer than usual over it and the three of them ate supper late, leek and celery soup and baked beetroots, with cream from the week before that had soured. Vi was unusually polite to Bruno. Neither of them said much during the meal and it was Edwin who talked. As soon as supper was over Vi went straight to bed. She made sure that she left early for work the next morning.
That evening when she came home Edwin informed her that Bruno was moving out.
‘Where’s he going?’
‘To a friend’s.’
‘Oh, he has another friend, does he?’
‘I suppose you’ll be glad he is going?’
She had gone to their pub and bought cigarettes, a brand which existed no longer and which, she suddenly remembered, were in a red packet which bore on it the face of a bearded sailor, like a youthful version of Captain Ryle. After that evening she had begun to smoke seriously.
She was visited by a tremendous urge to smoke now. Her smoking had worried Ted, and because it was something she could do for him (with so much that it seemed she couldn’t) she had given up. But Ted was dead and could no longer be worried by her.
Crew were forbidden to use the outer passenger decks except while on duty but on the whole Tim Troubridge, the crew purser, who was a fair man, turned a blind eye. Des liked to prowl there late at night, when discovery was unlikely but the slight possibility gave the excursions an edge. He was treading quietly along Deck Three, skirting the dark outline of a shape on one of the benches where a tiny point of light signalled someone trying to light a match.
The quiet voice made him start. ‘Excuse me, but have you a light? These matches keep going out.’
‘Mrs Hetherington?’
‘Who is that?’
‘It’s me, Mrs Hetherington. Dino.’
‘Oh, it’s you!’ She sounded relieved.
‘Here.’ He found his lighter and lit her cigarette.
‘Would you like one?’
‘We aren’t supposed to be on the passenger decks.’
‘Don’t get into trouble on my account.’
‘I will have one, if you don’t mind. I often come out here. No one notices.’
Des could smell her perfume, Mitsouko, he thought. Unable to find a way into a conversation he was turning over in his mind possible approaches when she spoke.
‘Have you been on the ship long?’
‘Four years this May.’
‘You like it, then?’
‘It’s a job.’
‘But you do like dancing?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where are you from, Dino?’
He had dropped his Italian accent along with his guard. Best to turn the slip to advantage.
‘Leicester. But don’t tell anyone. They all think I’m Italian.’
‘Whom would I tell?’
Her voice sounded frosty and he was afraid that he had offended her.
‘I’m not really called Dino.’
‘No?’
‘My real name’s Desmond. Des, I was called at home.’
‘Ah.’
She did not seem very interested so the honesty was wasted. He tried again. ‘My father was Italian so I…’
‘You know, I’ve often thought that we married women are lucky because we have the chance to borrow another name.’
‘You are married?’ She had that big diamond on her ring finger. Whoever had given her that had made sure that it showed.
‘My husband died last year.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m afraid I wasn’t. Or—well, not enough. Does that sound harsh?’
‘Not at all.’ In spite of himself, he was shocked.
‘I didn’t love him, you see.’
‘Oh. But I expect…’ He began what he hoped might emerge as words of comfort but she interrupted.
‘I married him after I was married to someone else. He was kind—and I was in need of kindness. But it wasn’t really fair on him. Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever been?’
‘No.’ He was used to being the interrogator not the inter-rogated.
‘Very sensible. It doesn’t solve anything. People imagine it will solve their problems, not seeing that it becomes the problem.’ She finished her cigarette and tossed the glowing butt over the rails. ‘My teacher told me not to marry. It was the one piece of advice of hers that I never took.’
Des said, not really intending to, ‘My mother wasn’t married when she had me.’
‘Did you mind?’ At this she did sound interested.
‘I didn’t know until I was nearly eighteen. I always thought my grandmother was my mother.’
‘You must have minded that.’
‘My mother was only a kid herself when she had me, so my grandmother and grandfather brought me up as theirs. It was all right.’ And it had been, till his mother had dropped her bombshell.
‘How did you find out?’
‘She told me. My real mother did. I’d always thought she was my aunty.’ Des chucked his cigarette end over the railings to join hers. ‘I never liked her much.’ He’d never liked her at all. ‘Her older sister died so I guess that maybe didn’t help.’
‘That must have been difficult.’
‘I guess. And for my gran. She looked like she was a lovely girl, my Aunty Mel.’ There was a picture of her, a smiling girl with long blonde hair. He had climbed up so often to look at it on the chest of drawers in the bedroom of the woman he had thought his mother.
‘Another cigarette?’
‘Well…?’
‘I shan’t give you away.’
‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘I don’t mind.’
Side by side, they smoked in silence. Sitting so close and smelling her perfume, Des became nervous. The old Des seemed to have returned with his unexpected revelation and taken away his confidence. What did she want? He couldn’t tell.
‘I’m here, on the ship, I mean,’ her low voice came out of the dark beside him, ‘in order to visit someone I’ve not seen for years. He lives in New York.’
So that was it. She was looking up an old flame. Well, she still might fancy a fling on the way. Get
herself in practice.
‘Are you getting off at New York, then?’ The Caroline docked for three days in New York where some passengers left the ship while others joined those who had returned to continue the cruise to Acapulco and beyond.
‘I might. Or I might come back on board and go on with the voyage. I’ve not decided.’
‘You’ve paid for the whole trip?’ This suggested unusual wealth.
‘Yes. I wanted to keep my options open. It’s sheer self-indulgence, I know, especially in these times. But it is one of the advantages of having no ties. You can do, more or less, as you like. You must know that yourself.’
‘That takes money.’ The unintended frankness had spilled out and in the dark he flushed.
‘Yes, I know I’m lucky. My husband was not what used to be called a millionaire—heaven knows what it’s known as nowadays—but he was well off. He left me, not a fortune but enough money to do, within reason, for a while anyway, what I like.’
‘And what do you like?’ He had spoken before the words were conscious and he felt himself flushing again.
‘Maybe not what I thought I liked.’ She moved the hand holding the cigarette and he saw a crinkle of light reflecting in the facets of the large diamond.
‘You’re left-handed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me too. We’re fellow southpaws.’
‘My mother was ambidextrous—she could use either hand equally well. I used to love watching her write my name with first one hand and then the other.’ She still had a piece of paper with her mother’s writing on it: Honour Violet St John (right hand) almost perfectly replicated as Honour Violet St John (left hand).
‘My father must have been the left-handed one,’ Des said. ‘The Claybournes are all right-handed. But I can’t check. I never met him. And not likely to now.’
‘You could find him.’
‘My mother wasn’t even sure of his first name. Anyway, he wouldn’t want to know me. He’s probably got a fat wife and eleven kids. Probably had them already when he was having it off with my mother.’
‘You don’t know. We don’t really know much about other people.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Forgive me, I’m lecturing you and all you wanted was peace and quiet after a hard day with people like me.’ She got up and with an almost violent gesture flung her unfinished cigarette into the water.
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