When they at last got on deck the wind and rain took their breath away. The seas were mountainous and the great ship seemed to slide down the side of one wave with no thought of ever rising up the slope of the next. Edward asked a passing crew member if the storm was worse than expected but he pretended not to hear.
The altar had not been set up in the lounge so there was no chance of praying for calm. The Sunday service, the Purser informed them, had been postponed so they staggered back to Benyon’s suite to find him lying in his berth feeling very unwell. Fenton, who seemed unaffected by the motion of the ship, said, ‘I called the doctor and he’s promised to be here in the next hour but apparently there are some seriously ill passengers. There have been several accidents and he said someone’s broken their leg falling downstairs.’
Verity was sitting on the bed wiping Benyon’s forehead with a cold flannel but she was looking rather green and her skin was clammy.
‘You’d better go and lie down,’ Edward told her.
‘Oh, don’t fuss. I’m all right.’ No sooner had she uttered the words than a particularly fearsome wallow made her go a deeper shade of green and she only just made the lavatory in time. Edward wanted to help but she waved him away. ‘It’s nothing,’ she gasped. ‘Go and see Mr Fern. He’s suffering too.’
Fern was in bed looking pale and wan. He said he had been trying to read but had given it up. ‘All I can do now is just pray for it to stop. Do you think it will ever stop?’ he inquired mournfully.
Frank wandered off to see if he could find the twins. They weren’t in any of the public rooms, as far as he could see, and a steward directed him to their cabin on A Deck.
He knocked and there was a muffled ‘Come in.’
‘Oh, it’s you,’ Philly said faintly. She was wearing a silk dressing-gown and her hair was mussed and uncombed. Her white, almost transparent, skin looked even more like tightly drawn muslin than usual. ‘It’s Mother. She’s not good at sea and she only came on the Queen Mary because they told her it wouldn’t roll – but it’s worse than the Normandie.’
‘Can I do anything?’
‘Come and see her. I’ve told her all about you. Maybe you can distract her.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Mrs Roosevelt was indeed in a bad way. She had vomited up everything she could and was now retching in that painful way which is more like hiccups than anything else.
‘How are you, Mrs Roosevelt?’ Frank said, with some embarrassment. As a first encounter, this was probably not the best time for small talk and he wondered if the poor woman would really want him to see her prostrated.
‘Ma, this is Lord Corinth – Frank – who we were telling you about.’
‘Lord Corinth, I’m so pleased to . . .’ She made an attempt to raise her head from the pillow but fell back.
‘Please don’t move, Mrs Roosevelt. Is there anything I can get to make you more comfortable?’
‘No . . . no, thank you. Forgive me . . . could you get my eau de Cologne from the shelf over the basin in the bathroom?’
Frank went in to the bathroom to find that all the little bottles which had been on the shelf were rolling about on the floor. He got down on his knees, gathered as many as he could see and put them in the wash basin which was the only available place where they would not roll straight back on to the floor. There seemed to be an armamentarium of drugs. He picked up one bottle but it was not the eau de Cologne. When he finally identified it, he gathered it up with another bottle and, without thinking, read the label: ‘Arsenic trioxide. Danger – take as directed.’
He wondered why she should be taking arsenic but, at that moment, Philly appeared in the bathroom and Frank passed the scent bottle to her.
‘I think I’d better go,’ he whispered. ‘If you feel up to it, come up on deck later. The storm is something you should . . . you know, witness . . . to tell your grandchildren.’
She looked at him as though he were mad and then said in a low voice, ‘I’ll try. Go now. Thank you for coming.’
On the way back to his own cabin, he met Bernard Hunt, who seemed quite untroubled by the ship’s motion. He grasped Frank by the arm and pulled him into the cocktail lounge. ‘Have a drink, my boy. It will steady you.’
‘I don’t think I could but you go ahead.’
‘Well, I will then. I know it’s only ten o’clock but a small brandy, Roger, please.’
He took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth before remembering his manners. ‘You don’t smoke, do you? Disgusting habit – always meant to give it up.’
Frank looked at the man curiously. He was almost sure he was drunk but he wasn’t quite experienced enough to be certain. Hunt put a hand on his knee. It was casual enough but Frank had no wish to be mauled by those yellow fingers with their bitten nails. He slid down on a sofa but Hunt pursued him. A particularly violent plunge, which seemed to set the Queen Mary on her side, gave Frank an excuse to struggle to his feet.
‘I don’t like this at all,’ he said, not certain whether he referred to Hunt’s groping or the ship’s motion. ‘Did it do this on the maiden voyage?’
‘Did she do this, you mean. Ships are feminine. No, but it amuses me, this bucking and twisting. She’s showing her feminine side. Know what I mean?’
He smiled, showing yellow, equine teeth. ‘But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.’ Frank was now sure the man was drunk – at ten o’clock in the morning – and he tried to be amused but was inwardly rather revolted. ‘I hear you were in Spain. Good show and all that. Meet a man there called Griffiths-Jones? A Party worker – one of the best.’
‘No, but I’ve heard Verity – Miss Browne – talk about him. He’s a big shot, isn’t he? But how do you know him? You’re not a Communist, are you?’
It seemed to Frank inconceivable that this unpleasant creature – an art historian and, he now had to believe, a homosexual – should be a Party member. Though why Communists shouldn’t be interested in art he couldn’t have said.
‘Not a Party member. I carry no card – wouldn’t be wise, old man, not in my position.’ He rubbed the side of his nose with the roguish exaggeration of the drunk. ‘But in every sense a “fellow-traveller”.’ He sniggered. ‘It’s not about me – it’s about you I want to talk. I’m seriously impressed. The son of a duke and a fully paid-up member of the Party! That’s . . . that’s spiffing.’
This was getting worse, worse even than Perry Roosevelt asking him all those questions. Why couldn’t people leave him alone? And why was it even Communists seemed pleased he was an aristocrat? It was what he had joined the Party to get away from.
‘And you ran away from school! Good for you. I was at Marlborough. Hated the place. That was why I took to art – to escape! It didn’t always work but . . . that fagging! I was always being beaten because I hadn’t cleaned my fagmaster’s footer boots, or some such rot! And the food – bread and margarine. We had a bad time of it . . . the war, you know. I was always cold. And the lavatories . . . so insanitary. A double row of doorless compartments – no privacy, not even there. The other boys would send down rafts of burning paper to singe my bottom. They hated me because I didn’t like footer . . .’
The pain and contempt with which he spoke the word ‘footer’ made Frank stare. Behind this languid, asthenic man was something very hard – a ball of hatred which most of the time he kept well hidden – but because of the drink and the storm, and because this boy attracted him and had himself hated school, he was revealing parts of himself he usually kept secret.
‘It was a bestial place . . .’ Hunt shuddered, ‘and so cold. So damn cold . . . and those bloody, boring practical jokes. Perhaps it was different at Eton. They called me a pansy and did things to me . . . horrible things.’
‘But you loved art . . .?’ Frank said, interested despite himself.
‘Yes, my father was in Paris for the Peace Conference. He was a diplomat. I almost lived in the Louvre during the holidays. I’d s
tarted a magazine at school – The Aesthete we called it. It was against everything I hated, especially footer. I started writing about art then and I never stopped.’
‘I started a magazine at Eton,’ Frank chimed in, but Hunt was not listening. He was remembering. ‘Cambridge was better.’
‘Did you know my uncle?’
‘No, I wasn’t at Trinity. I had my own set. My friends were at King’s. Morgan Forster . . . heard of him?’ Frank hadn’t, not being a reader of novels. ‘I was frightfully keen on Picasso and Blake, and a boy called . . .’ He sniggered again. ‘Never mind that.’
‘But were you converted to Communism?’ Frank asked.
‘Sh!’ Hunt said, with exaggerated alarm. ‘Mustn’t say that. I told you, I’m not a Communist. Shouldn’t really have said anything. But you’re safe, aren’t you?’
‘I can keep a secret, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I knew you could. I went to the Soviet Union in ’32 . . . to look at the pictures. I wanted to see the Hermitage.’
‘And was it wonderful?’ Frank asked, excited at last.
‘So wonderful . . . the Poussins . . .’
‘No, no. I mean the Soviet Union. Was it utopia?’
Hunt smiled crookedly. ‘Not what I call utopia. The lavatories were worse than at school – unbelievably filthy. The food was bad and there wasn’t much of it. I refused to tour all those beastly factories but we were impressed. A group of us went. We could see they had done wonderful things. They had industrialized very fast but you couldn’t judge it by normal Western standards. They had come so far in so short a time. It was natural there were still problems.’
‘But that was where you became . . . what you said you’re not?’
‘I suppose so,’ Hunt conceded. ‘Mind you, they thought I was “decadent” – the Party, I mean. They wouldn’t give me my card; said I was more use outside the Party. They sent me to the States and it was there I met that man, Senator Day.’
‘You know Day?’ Frank exclaimed.
‘He made it his business to investigate people like me . . . like Warren Fairley, too. He made our lives difficult. I was offered a research job in the National Gallery in Washington but Day, damn him, heard about it and discovered I’d been to the Soviet Union and had the offer withdrawn. All for the good in the end but I’ll never forgive him . . . never!’
At that moment they were interrupted by Edward. He nodded to Hunt and then, holding on to a convenient pillar to support himself against the ship’s dipping and diving, signalled to his nephew.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he said with sarcasm, ‘but it’s your turn on duty. Report to Benyon’s cabin and relieve Mr Fern, will you? Damn this ship,’ he gasped as a particularly violent heave sent the crockery flying and the furniture not fixed to the floor slipping and sliding across the room. ‘I really can’t believe this is acceptable in this so-called modern miracle of engineering. It is quite frightening on deck and the Captain has had to cut our speed by a half so God knows when we’ll reach New York. There have been at least two nasty accidents already. An elderly woman in Tourist Class was badly hurt when she tried to go through a swing door and it swung back and knocked her off her feet. Someone else fell and broke an arm in one of the corridors. There ought to be rails to hold on to but, apparently, they thought the ship was too stable to need them!’
‘What’s happened about Tom Barrett? Do we know how he died yet?’ Frank asked.
‘The doctor says he was knocked on the head by a club or metal bar but we haven’t found any sign of it. The Captain has announced that there was a fatal accident – quite understandable in these conditions, I should think. Most people won’t realize it happened before the storm. There will be a short church service tomorrow or whenever the storm abates.’
‘Gosh, will there be a burial at sea? I wouldn’t mind being buried at sea.’
‘No, certainly not. The body will be taken home for his relatives to bury. At the moment, it’s in cold storage – I mean, not where we found it but . . . you know what I mean. The police will want to have a proper post mortem, I imagine. Now, be a good chap and get along to Benyon. What was Hunt talking to you about so earnestly – art appreciation? He looks rather drunk but it’s hard to tell when everyone’s falling about like Laurel and Hardy.’
‘He put his hand on my knee and told me he was a “fellow-traveller”,’ Frank said, making off before his uncle could reply.
‘What, another queer pinko?’ Edward said in disgust. He looked over at the sofa where Hunt was fast asleep, his mouth open and his brandy glass empty in his lap.
Frank found Marcus Fern looking very green about the gills and sent him off to his cabin to lie on his bunk for which he was suitably grateful.
‘Lord Benyon’s sleeping, I think. He’s got his eyes shut, anyway. Lock the door after me. Your uncle’s man – what’s his name? – Fenton, will relieve you in a couple of hours.’
Frank went into Benyon’s bedroom and found him asleep, as Fern had said, so he returned to the outer room and threw himself into a chair. The ship was plunging ever deeper and seemed ever more reluctant to raise her bows before the next great wave. For the first time, Frank really began to think the Queen Mary had some basic design fault. It couldn’t be right – even in these heavy seas – for such a great ship to roll in such an odd corkscrew motion and it occurred to him that it was possible she might sink. It seemed absurd but there was the fate of Titanic to consider. They had called her unsinkable.
Fortunately, his rather morbid imaginings were interrupted by a feeble call from the bedroom. Frank went in to find Benyon in a pitiable state. He had nothing left to vomit but was wretchedly weak and a very odd colour.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ he inquired fatuously.
‘Frank, is that you?’ Benyon said faintly, putting out a hand. Frank wasn’t used to holding hands with men he hardly knew but the appeal went to his heart and he grasped it. He was disturbed to find it dry and papery. He had expected it to be damp and hot.
‘Should I call the doctor, sir?’
‘No, no thank you, my boy. He can do nothing. I was praying we would have a smooth crossing but God had other ideas. Perhaps the storm has been whipped up by our enemies. What do you think?’ The little joke seemed to revive him and he went on, ‘At first I thought I was going to die but now I’ve reached the stage where I fear I may not. Do you think we are going to sink?’
‘No, of course not,’ Frank answered firmly. ‘Have a little water. I think you may be dehydrated.’
‘ “Water, water everywhere nor any drop to drink,” ’ Benyon quoted and, rather pleased with himself, managed to raise his head from the bed and sip from the glass Frank held for him. He sank back wearily but his eyes were open and he was obviously thinking about something other than his physical condition because he said, ‘They say you’re a Communist, Frank. Is that right?’
‘I am indeed, sir. It’s the only thing to be – you must see that.’ Frank, realizing he might have sounded hectoring, added, ‘At least, that’s how it seems to me.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Oh, you don’t want to hear my views on life.’
‘But I do. It would help take my mind off this infernal seasickness.’
‘Well, I don’t pretend to be very original. I just think it’s all obvious. Everything is moving so fast now – science, technology, the way society works. It’s quite different from your generation. Sorry, sir, I didn’t intend to be rude but you know what I mean.’
‘Go on. So what makes Communism the philosophy suited to this new, fast-moving world?’
‘Everyone should have an equal start in life. That goes without saying. Money and titles – it’s all bosh and it gets in the way of progress. And all our industries should be state-owned. Why should men like Henry Ford make millions at our expense? And all those war profiteers who made fortunes out of supplying boots or biscuits to the army, let alone arms. Why should Lord Londonderry be on
e of the richest men in the world because he happens to own land with coal under it? It’s iniquitous.’
‘State ownership has been tried but it fails because it stifles the innovator and the entrepreneur. You say society is changing so fast – that’s because people can make money out of their inventions and enjoy the fruits of their hard work.’
‘The experiment in the Soviet Union proves it can work.’
‘Have you seen it?’ Benyon asked drily.
‘No, but I’ve talked to people who have. Anyway, money isn’t the only stimulus to bring out the best in man. There’s patriotism and honour.’
Benyon said gently, ‘I agree. That’s why I’m sailing this dangerous sea. It’s certainly not for my own profit. But –’
‘That’s right! Honour – the respect of your fellow citizens – that’s stimulus enough, surely? It’s harnessing the competitive instinct to honour rather than money.’
‘I don’t agree. I wish I did.’
‘It doesn’t matter now. The people will take what is theirs as they have in the Soviet Union.’
Benyon sighed. ‘When you talk about the people taking what is theirs, my heart sinks. Do you really think the weak, the hungry and the poor will get their share?’
‘You think it’s all rot, sir, but look at Spain. People . . . even people like Verity who know . . . talk about the war as if it were the first battle against Fascism but it’s not. Or it wasn’t when it started, at any rate.’
‘What was it then?’
‘It was the spontaneous uprising of the workers to take what was theirs from the landowners and the exploiters. They formed communes and workers’ co-operatives . . .’
‘But now they are the puppets of ideologues and are manipulated by bigots who don’t care who they have to trample over to get the society they want . . .’
There was more strength in Benyon’s voice and Frank had to smile. ‘You’re feeling better, sir?’
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