‘Indeed, but I can’t really tell you what to look out for. The main thing is keep all this under your hat. Barrett knows as much as you do so you can trust him but nobody else.’
‘Not even Verity?’
Edward shuddered. ‘Especially not Verity.’ Frank opened his mouth to object but Edward stopped him. ‘Verity is first and foremost a journalist and a very good one. You would put her in an impossible situation if you started pressing alarm buttons. Don’t even tell her why you were delayed. It’s nothing to do with her.’
‘If you say so, Uncle, but, as you say, she’s a very good journalist. I expect she’ll get it out of Mr Fern – probably has already.’
‘Frank! This is serious,’ Edward repeated. ‘You have to be discreet and I’d better impress it on Fern, but then, he knows what’s at stake. The trouble is, we’ve no idea if there is anyone aboard who might try and finish off what your friend outside Micheldever started.’
‘So Barrett’s a policeman, is he? I thought he looked a bit tough for a valet. Wow, I really think I’m going to enjoy this trip.’
Verity, too, was enjoying herself. It was something of a paradox that, sincere as she was in her belief that wealth ought to be more fairly distributed, she liked the way the rich lived. She liked fashionable clothes, she liked to eat in good restaurants and she liked luxurious hotels. The Queen Mary was everything she admired. She had already explored the public rooms, each more splendid than the one before, decorated with paintings and murals by the most distinguished living artists. Cunard had decided to eschew the ‘Stately Home’ look in favour of a light and airy modern design. The First Class saloon – which Cunard called prosaically the Main Lounge – was perhaps the most magnificent room. Verity had pushed her way through heavy swing doors to stand, mouth agape, in this great space which pierced three decks. A hundred feet long, it had walls of a rich golden colour, the dull bronze metalwork contrasting with the dark wood panelling. She counted no fewer than thirty-two tall windows which illuminated a huge gilt panel featuring unicorns and peacocks above a massive onyx mantelpiece. At first she thought the huge room was empty – everyone was on deck or in their cabins – but then a deep, dark brown voice boomed at her from an armchair to the right of the fireplace.
‘Magnificent, isn’t it? Do you see, they have a stage and a cinema here too. I always notice that because so often I am asked “as a great favour” – that’s usually how they put it – to sing.’
Verity walked over and said, ‘You’re Warren Fairley, aren’t you? I must tell you how much I admire your work for social equality. I’m proud to call myself a Communist and your example has been an inspiration to us all. I’ve read about your work for the ILD.’ The ILD was the International Labor Defense League, the legal arm of the Communist Party in the United States which was active in the defence of strikers and racial minorities, particularly blacks. ‘You live in England now, don’t you?’
‘Well, Miss . . .?’
‘Miss Browne, Verity Browne. You’ll have to forgive me but I have never seen you on stage so I can’t say anything about acting.’
Fairley solemnly rose from his chair, the book in his lap falling on to the floor along with an issue of New Masses, and shook Verity’s hand. ‘I am delighted . . . but surprised to meet a fellow Party member in the First Class lounge on the Queen Mary. But then life is full of surprises. It is so refreshing to meet a white person who likes my politics rather than seeing me as just another singer of Negro spirituals.’
Verity stooped to pick up the book he had dropped. ‘Mary Barton by Mrs Gaskell – what is it? I’ve never heard of Mrs Gaskell.’
‘She was a friend of Charlotte Brontë. Wrote her biography in fact, but her novels are the thing. They’re about working-class life in Victorian England – the North mainly. “Trouble-at-t’mill” – that kind of thing, but very good. Her descriptions of the industrial poor are required reading for people of our persuasion.’
‘Golly! Well, of course, I will read them.’
‘Here, take this. I’ve read it before.’
‘May I? Thank you so much. I suppose I couldn’t ask you to write in it for me, could I?’
He took out his fountain pen and wrote on the title page. When he had finished, he said, ‘I expect you think it’s an odd book for an American – a black American – to be reading but I think John Steinbeck must have read her too. Have you read In Dubious Battle? It came out last year. It’s the story of a strike of migratory fruit pickers.’
‘You must think me very ignorant but I haven’t heard of him either. I have read Albert Halper’s Scab!, though.’ She saw from the look in his eyes that he did not consider Halper to be in the same league as this man Steinbeck. ‘Oh dear! I have so much to learn!’
Fairley chuckled. ‘At least you want to learn. I find so many people like to stay with their own ignorance. It makes prejudice so much easier.’
‘I only read books which tell the truth,’ Verity said, as though the truth was something finite and definable. ‘I don’t really read novels. They’re . . . made up.’
‘Le récit est menteur et le sens est véritable. That’s La Fontaine – the story is a lie but the meaning is true.’
‘I see . . . I think.’
‘For the Marxist, the fundamental forces of today are those which are working to destroy capitalism and establish socialism. We can all agree on what is important – the economic crisis, unemployment, the growth of Fascism, the approach of a new world war. A writer today who wishes to produce his best work must go over to the progressive side of the class conflict.’
Verity nodded her head gravely. She wanted to ask whether Jane Barclay was a Marxist but didn’t quite dare.
The contrast between the two of them was comical: the small, birdlike girl, her white hand almost enveloped in the powerful black hand, looking up in awe at the famous – not to say ‘notorious’ – face of the other. Verity was struck not just by the physical presence of the man – six foot three and with the broad chest of an opera singer – but by the dignity of his demeanour. Although she could not remember ever having read Othello, she recalled a line which had been drummed into her at school: ‘Keep up your bright swords for the dew will rust them.’
She only half understood what it meant but it seemed to express just the kind of noble contempt for the rabble this man exuded and yet, paradoxically, it was to ‘the rabble’ he had dedicated his life.
‘I suppose we ought to be on deck or something,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to sound arrogant, Miss Browne, but I have made this crossing many times – though not, of course, on this great ship – so I can take my leisure here without too great a feeling of guilt. In any case, I told my wife this was where I would meet her. I am afraid I had to leave her and her maid to unpack on their own. I thought I might otherwise drown in lingerie. But don’t let me stop you . . .’
Verity giggled. ‘I was just exploring but I can do that any time. I would much rather talk to you . . . I mean, if I’m not being a nuisance. I expect you must be tired with strangers buttonholing you.’
‘Not when they are young and beautiful with principles I can share.’ His eyes twinkled and suddenly Verity found her insides turning over. This was a very attractive man, she found herself thinking, and to her annoyance she blushed. It annoyed her that, as a hard-bitten war correspondent, she should blush like a young girl.
‘But why are you living in London? Or are you going back to live in America?’ she asked hurriedly to cover her confusion.
‘I am going to the States to make a film and address two political meetings on the issue of race but then I will come back to London. The authorities in my own country make it almost impossible for me to live peaceably there. To quote a hero of mine, Frederick Douglass, a runaway slave who travelled Europe arousing anti-slavery sentiment, ‘ “I go back for the sake of my brethren. I go to suffer with them; to toil with them; to endure with them; to undergo outrage with them; t
o lift up my voice in their behalf.” ’
What might have sounded grandiose or melodramatic in another man, resonated in the rich, basso profundo voice of Warren Fairley as simple truth.
‘You will think I am very stupid but is there still much . . . you know, what’s the word – discrimination? I suppose in the South . . .’
‘Miss Browne, you must not encourage me to lecture you. Yes, there is still a frontier across which no Negro can cross. There may be no customs posts or walls but it is a real frontier for all that. If a black man wants to move into a white neighbourhood in any city – I don’t mean just in Atlanta, Georgia, but even New York or Washington – he will not be allowed to.’
‘But that’s terrible. Who would stop him? The police?’
‘Yes, the police in the last resort but it would never come to that. The black face would see all doors closed against him. He would find no one prepared to sell to him and, if he wants to travel to another country, he may not be permitted to go.’
‘But surely they can’t stop you going abroad?’
‘When first I applied for a passport to come to Europe, it was denied me. They called me a troublemaker and a denigrator of my country. I told them I was a patriot but they laughed. It took me three years and the agitations of many powerful white men before I was given my passport and it may be revoked at any time.’
‘So there is a risk in going back to America?’
‘A grave risk, Miss Browne, but a risk I intend to run.’
‘You have many enemies then?’
He leant over and put his hand over hers. ‘In the scales, just one of my friends tips the balance against all my enemies. I am what I am and I would echo that racist bigot, Martin Luther, whose views I abhor, and say, “Here I stand.” ’
Their tête-à-tête was interrupted by a shrill squeal. ‘Why there you are, Warren. I’ve been looking all over for you. I looked in here before but I didn’t see you and you must have been so engaged with this little lady you didn’t see me.’
‘Jane, honey, look who I have found! Another Comrade. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are more reds in First Class than in Tourist. May I introduce Miss Verity Browne? Verity, Miss Jane Barclay.’
The two women looked at each other with instant loathing. Verity was not a frequent ‘picture-goer’ but she would immediately have identified Jane Barclay as a ‘film star’. She might never have seen her fleeting appearance in Blue Orchid or her moment of fame as a streetwalker in Sinners but the woman who now claimed Warren Fairley was everything she ought to be. She was excessively blonde – platinum blonde, she thought it was called – with an hourglass figure and a dress which revealed more of her breasts than Verity thought wise.
‘Pleased, I’m sure,’ she said, putting a limp hand in Verity’s. ‘Now, sweetheart,’ she continued, turning to her husband, ‘your little girl’s just dying for a Manhattan. While I was looking for you I discovered a cute little cocktail lounge complete with a good-looking boy behind the bar only too eager to satisfy my desires. Are you coming with me or am I to go unprotected into temptation?’
Jane Barclay spoke in a southern drawl which Verity thought was adopted for her benefit. Anyway, it was clear she was de trop so she said a quick goodbye and was favoured by Warren Fairley with a suspicion of a wink. As she made her way up on deck, she thought how odd it was that highly intelligent men left their brains at home when they chose their women.
Edward had also been making friends. He had gone with Frank to see how Lord Benyon wished to spend his first evening on board and discovered him deep in conversation with the man Major Ferguson had labelled a crook.
‘Ah, there you both are!’ Benyon said amiably. ‘I want you to meet a good friend of mine, Bernard Hunt, the distinguished art historian. We were discussing the art on board.’ Introductions were made and hands shaken. Hunt was a lean, tall man with the loricate, leathery skin of the chain smoker. He was smoking now, and his long, sensitive, nicotine-yellow fingers against his equine face made Edward want to wipe his own hand on his coat. There was something dirty about him. ‘He was telling me Cunard consulted him on who they should commission to decorate the ship. It was a brave move of Cunard’s chairman, Sir Percy Bates, to make the Queen Mary a showpiece of modern British art. It must have been quite a responsibility, Hunt?’
‘It was! A great responsibility and a great burden. I was bound to make myself unpopular and I did.’
‘Well, indeed,’ Benyon said, smiling mischievously. ‘My good friend, Mr Duncan Grant, was commissioned to paint some murals and then had his sketches turned down. He was very much upset, as you can imagine.’
‘That was unfortunate but, really, they were quite unsuitable.’ Hunt quickly changed tack. ‘Lord Edward, I would be happy to take you and your nephew on a tour of the ship if you were interested. The paintings in the private dining-rooms by Dame Laura Knight and Vanessa Bell – another of Lord Benyon’s friends – are very pleasing.’
‘Oh yes. I’ve seen Vanessa’s paintings,’ Benson responded. ‘Her work is absurdly undervalued in my opinion but, of course, you’ll say I’m parti pris.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Hunt,’ Edward said. ‘I would very much like to look at the pictures with you, and Frank should come too. He needs further education.’
Frank looked at him with distaste. ‘Sorry, not me. I’m playing squash with a man. Gosh, is that the time? I must run – that is, if you don’t need me, sir,’ he added guiltily, turning to Benyon.
‘No, that’s all right, Frank. I’m going to do some work. The steward tells me the long-range weather forecast isn’t good and we might have a rough crossing. I’m afraid I’m not much of a sailor so, if I’m going to get anything done, I ought to do it now before I’m prostrated.’’
‘Surely a modern ship like this won’t roll very much?’ Frank said.
‘I have to say that on the maiden voyage, on which I was privileged to be a guest of Cunard,’ Hunt put in, his face going a shade paler, if that were possible, ‘she did “roll”, sometimes quite alarmingly, and the weather was said to be good.’
‘Who did those amazing paintings on the walls of the Verandah Grill?’ Edward broke in, seeing Benyon looking apprehensive. ‘I think that’s what it’s called, isn’t it?’
‘Those rather risqué pictures of carnival crowds?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I’m glad you like them. They’re by Doris Zinkeisen who is on board with us. I’ll introduce you. If you’re ready, Lord Edward, we might leave Lord Benyon to his work and your nephew to his exercise and walk round the public rooms.’
‘Well, if you are sure that wouldn’t be a bore . . .’ Edward said politely.
‘That’s it! I’ve had enough! I thought I was fit but I’m licked.’ The young American looked at Frank with admiration. ‘You’ve hardly worked up a sweat and here I am on the floor.’
‘Isn’t it amazing!’ Frank said.
‘What?’
‘This place. Having a real squash court on a ship.’
‘Sure is, and I want to use it now, while it’s calm. Can you imagine trying to play squash in the Bay of Biscay!’
He laughed and his broad smile revealed the perfect teeth of the well-bred American. Frank had struck up an acquaintance with him in the cocktail bar and they had liked each other immediately. They were of an age – Perry Roosevelt being the elder by two years – and had both been brought up among the rich and privileged. Frank had rebelled against his background, hating to have it so easy. His running away to Spain had been designed to assert his position as an adult but, in an odd way, it had made him feel more of a child than ever. When he had been hauled back home, he had been secretly quite relieved. He would never admit it but Spain had been frightening in a way he had never imagined. His uncle had been tactful – he had not dressed him down or patronized him – and even the Duke, his father, had not berated him as he had anticipated. His mother had been so delighted to ha
ve him back in one piece that she said not a word to him of the anxiety she had felt. All this restraint had the desired effect: Frank felt guilty – ashamed – angry with himself and the world in general.
This trip with Lord Benyon was a godsend. He had longed to go to America. He instinctively loved all things American and, though he had felt a little bored at being made a baggage handler, he had had, in the event, an exciting time of it. Within two days of meeting his employer he had been shot at and, though he was able to pretend – after Spain – that he was ‘used to it’, it had given him quite a jolt. It was all very well dodging bullets in a country at war but in the Hampshire countryside . . .? That was unsettling. He had been impressed by Benyon’s behaviour under fire. He might not look ‘a man’s man’, as they said in the body-building advertisements in the newspapers, but he had been coolness itself.
Mr Fern, too, had seemed unmoved by the experience but, when Frank looked at the papers he had in his hand which he had been discussing with Benyon, he was surprised to see that Fern had, quite unconsciously, crumpled them into a ball. Barrett had taken charge and no one had questioned his authority. He had been sitting in front with the chauffeur and, even before the car had come to a halt, he had smashed a hole in the fractured windscreen with his gloved hand. Once he had ascertained nobody had been hurt, he had ordered the chauffeur to continue to Southampton.
‘That was a bullet, Lord Benyon, not a stone. We’re lucky to be alive and we should get away before whoever it is takes another shot at us. If we lose a tyre, we’ll be sitting ducks.’
‘Shouldn’t we call the police?’
‘There’s nothing to be gained by waiting here for the local police,’ Barrett said decisively. ‘They won’t know how to deal with the situation. For all we know, the gunman may be repositioning himself as we speak. From the position of the hole in the windscreen, I would say he’s somewhere over there.’ He pointed a hundred yards ahead of them where several trees lined the road.
Everyone had looked nervous and the chauffeur started the engine so clumsily that it stalled and they had to wait a few moments before he could try again. This time it started, to the relief of all concerned. The chauffeur swung the car into the road and they sped off.
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