Dangerous Sea

by David Roberts

  ‘Golly,’ Verity said, ‘that was magic! How did he do it? You always have an explanation for everything, Edward. You explain.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t. I remember one man I knew – a member of the American Magic Circle – talking about “misdirection”.’

  ‘Misdirection? What’s that?’

  ‘Well, basically, you make the audience look one way while what’s really happening goes on somewhere else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know, V. I just mean it’s an illusion. You have to be made to think something’s happening even when you know, rationally, it can’t be.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ Verity said. ‘Come on, Sam, give me some more champagne. Oh look, it’s Warren!’

  Warren Fairley was climbing on to the stage to be greeted by a wave of applause. He held up his hand and there was silence almost immediately.

  ‘I hadn’t intended to sing tonight. My songs can be a little sad for a night like this when we are all enjoying ourselves and looking forward to docking in New York tomorrow.’

  There were cries of ‘No’ and ‘We’re staying put.’

  ‘However, we mustn’t forget that two men have died on the Queen Mary during this voyage. One was a man I did not know but I believe to have been honourable and a friend to justice. The other was no friend of mine and an enemy to the cause of racial equality.’ There was an uneasy murmur and Edward had a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that there might be some unpleasant barracking from some of the younger and drunker partygoers who might think they were being lectured. But the moment passed and Warren, pulling himself up to his full height, went on, ‘But, friend or enemy, I do not condone violence. I have seen too much of it and I know that hate and violence only breed hate and violence so, for these two men, I offer up this.’

  He had no use for the microphone which stood at one corner of the stage. Quite alone in a single spotlight, with no accompaniment of any kind, he began to sing. For Verity it was the most moving thirty minutes of her life and, when she looked at Edward, he saw tears were streaming down her face. She was weeping for herself as much as for anyone else. He touched her hand and she held on to his. They could not take their eyes off this man who had suffered so much for justice and whose vision of a righteous world never failed, even when there was no possible reason for hope. Here was a man who had outfaced disaster and the murmur of his audience, low and respectful, seemed to acknowledge this.

  He sang, almost without a break, the Negro spirituals with which he had first come to fame. These songs of pain and regret, faith in the Lord, and stoic endurance of suffering were powerful enough. Verity was not alone in finding her face wet with tears and Edward felt his heart swell with anger at these poignant reminders of man’s inhumanity to man. He knew that Fairley was singing for all the dispossessed, not just black Americans. He was remembering the itinerant white fruit pickers starving in California amongst so much wealth; the women and children of Spain living in the rubble of what had once been their homes, and the Jews and Communists rotting in German prison camps.

  Finally, he told his audience, he was going to sing for them a song written for the Federal Theater Project. He explained that this was a government-sponsored organization with which he had been involved since it was founded two years before. It operated throughout the States employing actors and actresses, writers and stage staff, who had been without work for some time. They performed in disused theatres, barns and tents or in the open air. They reached audiences who had never had a chance of seeing theatre before and were therefore viewed as subversive by many men of substance, particularly politicians. Some of the plays they performed raised issues of economic and social injustice and, unsurprisingly, Senator Day had been one of those demanding the Project be suppressed.

  ‘I am going to sing you one of their songs, called “Ballad for Americans”. It says what I believe about America.’

  He stretched himself, as though summoning up all his forces, and began – his voice at first sweet and low but gradually gathering power until the whole room, huge as it was, seemed to reverberate. The words were simple enough: a list of all the races and religions which made up America – Irish, Negro, Jew, Italian, French, English, Spanish and Chinese. Then came a list of the wide range of religions and beliefs held by these far-flung people – Baptist, Methodist, Catholic, Mormon, Quaker, Jew and so many more. When the ballad came to its rousing finish, the whole audience rose to its feet to applaud both the singer and the sentiments.

  It hadn’t needed anyone to point out that the Queen Mary was a microcosm of the world – a hundred races and creeds – all hoping for something from the New World which the Old World could not give them. At last Edward was able to disagree with Dr Johnson: the ship was not a prison, nor yet a slaughterhouse. It was a frail vessel of hope, a message in a bottle tossed into the sea, one day to find its answer. They had all weathered storms and dangerous seas to reach their goal and Fairley had made them feel their lives were not worthless – mere bric-à-brac tossed hither and thither at the mercy of a cruel wind – but had meaning and value.

  The Purser hurried on stage to thank the performers and urge the dancers to take to the floor again, nervous that the mood had become too sombre. Henry Hall’s band scraped away energetically and dancers drifted back to the floor. Edward watched a little enviously as Sam swept Verity back into the dancing and soon he was left alone again. Even Benyon was back in the arms of Mrs Roosevelt and Marcus Fern had found his gypsy again. However, just as he was thinking he might go back to his cabin and rest on his bed, he was joined by Warren Fairley.

  ‘May I . . .?’ Fairley said, gesturing to the chair next to his.

  ‘Of course! It would be an honour. Your performance – it moved Verity to tears and made me feel what a spoiled, privileged life I have led.’

  ‘Lord Edward – please don’t think I was not also feeling guilty about the life I am leading. After all, what was I doing singing to First Class passengers? Was I not upholding a different kind of segregation – economic segregation? Come – why are you not dancing? How silly of me – your knee! What bad luck . . . though I am glad to have a moment alone with you.’

  ‘Please, is there anything I can do?’

  ‘It’s about my wife . . . I gather she made some sort of mad confession to you. You didn’t believe a word of it, I hope?’

  ‘I thought she was protecting you. I guessed that she had got it into her head that you had killed Senator Day but after what you said on stage . . .’

  ‘You didn’t really think . . .?’

  ‘Can you blame me? Your wife thought . . . feared you might have taken it upon yourself to . . .’ Edward hesitated, ‘right a wrong, and she’s no fool.’

  ‘That’s it. You are most astute. Jane may look like an empty-headed starlet but she’s no fool. In fact, I rely on her entirely. This may sound melodramatic but I literally couldn’t live without her.’

  Edward paused, waiting for Fairley to say something more, but he didn’t. He adopted an air of abstraction and looked out into the dancers. Finally he said, ‘So you don’t suspect either of us?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. Your wife is a formidable person and you are, as you say, fortunate to have her. I think she would do a lot to protect you.’

  ‘But not murder?’

  ‘In certain circumstances I think she might take extreme measures to keep you safe.’

  ‘I know it.’ His face was grave. ‘She is the light of my life . . .’

  ‘ “O my fair warrior!” ’

  ‘What? Oh yes – that is how Othello greets his Desdemona after the storm. But tell me, Lord Edward, do you know who murdered the Senator?’

  ‘I believe I do.’

  ‘He was an evil man.’

  ‘The murderer?’

  ‘No, the murdered man. As you quoted Othello at me, what say you to persuading “justice to break her sword”?’

  ‘You mean, not pursue the
murderer?’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ Fairley agreed.

  To mark midnight and the beginning of their last day at sea, or for some other reason Edward could not guess at, the ship’s siren sounded. Low-pitched and haunting, the sound seemed to carry with it the whole history of departure, longing and loss. God knew what would face them at journey’s end. The omens were not good and there was the promise of foul weather. He decided he would be better able to face whatever the new day might bring after a few hours’ sleep. He would ask Frank to take charge of Benyon.

  As he got to his feet, a piercing pain in his knee made him sink back into his seat.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Verity had appeared out of the crowd like the rabbit from the hat. ‘You look white as a whatsit.’

  ‘My knee, blast it! I’m not sure I can use it at all. As soon as we get on shore I’m going to have to see a real doctor. Can you give me a hand, V? I thought I might retire to the cabin and try and get some sleep.’

  Like two sailors rather the worse for wear, Edward and Verity staggered down the stairs. It was all so absurd. Warren’s achingly sad songs had left Verity drained of emotion. Weakened by all that had happened in the four days they had been at sea, she was now as prone to laughter as to tears and propping up Edward was a very funny thing to be doing. He was the tall, strong man and she was the small, bird-like female who just happened to be dressed in a dinner jacket.

  When they got to the cabin, Verity tumbled him down on his berth and somehow – who could say how? – she tumbled with him. For a minute, they lay there exhausted, breathing heavily, very much aware of each other. Edward had her in his arms and it seemed criminal not to take the chance of kissing her. She tasted odd, he thought – salty with tears, her scent spiced with sweat, her flesh warm and sweet on his lips. It was a heady brew and he was intoxicated.

  ‘V,’ he said at last, removing his lips from hers, ‘I’ve been a fool. What you said about not wanting to marry . . . you’re right, of course. It wouldn’t work.’

  Verity stirred. ‘What do you mean, “it wouldn’t work”?’

  ‘Well, you said you weren’t the marrying sort. That it would make us both unhappy.’

  ‘Oh damn it, Edward,’ she said, raising her head. ‘Don’t take what a girl says about marriage so seriously. You caught me at a bad moment. I thought I was in love with somebody else. Ask me again.’

  He was amazed – nonplussed – and his heart started beating a rat-tat-tat in his chest. ‘Verity – darling, infuriating Verity, will you marry me? Say you’ll marry me – that is, if you don’t happen to be in love with anyone else at the moment. We’ll argue, we’ll fight, we’ll be unhappy, but at least we won’t kick ourselves for not having tried.’

  Verity was silent. Then she said, ‘I’m a pain in the backside most of the time. I’ll go off and leave you for months on end and I may not always manage to be completely faithful. The Duke won’t like it. I won’t have children – not yet anyway – and I don’t have respectable friends.’

  ‘I know all that but I’m not perfect either. At least, I don’t think I am.’

  She tried to cuff him but he held her thin wrists in his hands and she was powerless. ‘You don’t think it would be a good idea to sleep together first – to see if we fit?’ she whispered in his ear. ‘You might not like me. I might not be very good.’

  ‘I’d teach you,’ Edward said, and this time she did kick him.

  ‘Ow! Blast you, that was my knee! I’ll never walk again. I know it.’

  ‘Don’t swear at me. That doesn’t bode well for our marriage.’

  ‘So you are going to marry me?’

  ‘I don’t know. You haven’t asked me yet, not properly.’

  ‘Damn it, V, I can’t get down on one knee for obvious reasons but I’m asking you now. Will you please marry me?’

  The sound of what could only be a gunshot in the next cabin made them jump apart. Verity scrambled off the bed, leaving Edward to follow her as best he could. She tried Benyon’s door and, to her surprise, the handle turned and she almost fell into the room.

  ‘No need to worry,’ Frank said, clutching his arm. ‘Just scraped my flesh.’ He was standing beside the armchair in which Benyon was sitting, very white but undamaged. They both looked rather ridiculous in their fancy dress. Benyon still had on his sheet but the turban had gone – and Verity had to resist a nervous laugh. Thank God – she found herself thinking – Frank not dead, Benyon not dead. What if, while she and Edward had been in each other’s arms just a few feet away . . .? It didn’t bear thinking about. In the same instant, she registered the existence of the other person in the room, Major Cranton. He had an automatic in his hand and it was still pointed at Lord Benyon.

  ‘Give that to me, please,’ she said like a bossy headmistress and walked over to the Major. ‘You can’t start shooting people on the Queen Mary. It just won’t do.’

  It was a ridiculous thing to say but somehow it had the desired effect. Rather sheepishly, the Major gave her his gun and then sank to a crouch, his back supported by the wall of the cabin, and put his face in his hands. ‘They said I wouldn’t do it,’ he said miserably. ‘They said it and they were right. I’m useless.’

  ‘I don’t know who you are but –’ Verity began.

  ‘But I do,’ Edward interrupted. Leaning on his stick, his face creased with pain, he said again, ‘I do. This is Captain Blane . . . Lionel Blane. I thought I recognized him when I first saw him three days ago.’ He limped over to Frank. ‘Hey, are you hurt, my boy?’

  Benyon chipped in. ‘He saved my life. He stood in front of me and threw a pillow at that man.’ He pointed at Cranton and Edward saw his outstretched arm was quite steady.

  ‘You’re all right, Benyon? Not hurt?’

  ‘No, but Frank . . .’

  ‘I thought I had better try and put him offside.’ Frank tried to sound nonchalant but he was now very pale as his wound began to pain him.

  ‘Verity, use that telephone to summon the doctor and the Captain, would you? I think I would be happier if this pathetic specimen was safely lodged in the brig.’

  He examined Frank’s arm. The shirt was torn and there was a three-inch runnel where the bullet had grazed his arm. It was bleeding but the crease made by the bullet was not very deep.

  ‘And V, get me a clean towel from the bathroom, will you? Thanks. How did he get in, Frank? I thought I told you to keep the cabin door locked.’

  ‘It was locked but I heard a knock on the door and I thought it was you so . . .’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I opened it and there was this fellow holding a gun. Sorry, Uncle, I suppose I was rather silly.’ His voice wobbled a little. ‘Do you know this man, Uncle?’

  ‘I haven’t met him before but I have seen him. During the Cable Street riot, you remember, V? He was standing a few paces behind Mosley.’

  ‘You weren’t being nasty to Frank, were you, Edward? You’re not such hot stuff when it comes to guarding people, you know. I think he’s a hero.’ She beamed at Frank and he smiled back but there was still no blood in his face. The shock of what had happened was only just beginning to hit him.

  ‘I wasn’t blaming Frank. I was angry with myself. I ought not to have let this happen. So, V, you don’t remember seeing Blane at the riot?’

  ‘I remember the Cable Street protest,’ she said deliberately, ‘but I don’t remember seeing this worm before. You say he’s one of Mosley’s lot?’

  ‘He was but I gather that, about six months ago, he and one or two other nut cases split off from that organization and founded their own little group. They call themselves the Imperial Fascist League – isn’t that right, Blane? – to combat “Red Revolution”.’

  There was no answer from the man crouched on the floor – just grunts which could have meant anything or nothing.

  The phone in her hand, Verity snorted, ‘Well, I don’t think the Red Revolution has much to fear if this . . . object is an exa
mple of its enemy. Anyway . . . Oh, Captain, sorry to bother you but we’ve arrested a man trying to murder Lord Benyon . . . yes, here, in his cabin. We wondered if you could send down a couple of heavies to cart him away . . . yes, put him in irons until we reach New York. Thanks . . . and can you send the doctor down? I’m afraid Lord Corinth has caught a slug in his arm. Nothing to worry about . . . Oh good, thanks.’ Verity put down the receiver. ‘They’re on the way. The Captain sounded rather annoyed, I thought.’

  ‘I say,’ Frank objected, ‘I mean, dash it, don’t be so casual. I might be bleeding to death.’

  ‘Well, you aren’t, are you?’ she said rather sharply. ‘Here, let me have a look. No, as I thought, just a graze. It’s almost stopped bleeding. Edward, give me the towel. You’re going to fall over if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Ouch, Verity, that hurt! Oughtn’t I to be offered brandy? They always offer the wounded brandy in the flicks,’ he said reproachfully.

  ‘Don’t be a baby, Frank. In Spain I saw lots worse than this.’

  ‘Yes,’ Benyon broke in, ‘but we’re not in Spain. We’re on the Queen Mary where people aren’t supposed to shoot at one another.’

  Verity was immediately contrite. ‘I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound unsympathetic. I’ll get the brandy. I expect we could all do with some.’ She was actually trying to stifle her panic at the realization of how close the boy had been to death but her concern had manifested itself as a reprimand.