‘You shall have to ask Lockwood. I do not manage the ship.’
‘Grantley says – ’
‘I do not give two damns what your precious Grantley says. Or anyone else. Do you hear me, Laura? You and your precious Grantley can drown yourselves for all I would care. As a matter of fact it would be highly convenient.’
She sat down at the table. ‘David – Is it true?’
‘Is what true?’
‘That we are in danger?’
He turned a page of his newspaper. ‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous.’
‘Locks? Bolts? Curfews? Bodyguards? There were seven armed men on guard in the corridor when I left just a moment ago. A private conversation of any kind in the First-Class quarters seems entirely impossible now.’
‘How horribly inconvenient, Laura, the removal of your privacy.’
‘It is not mine of which I speak but that of your children. They were not brought up to live in a prison.’ She paused before adding: ‘Nor is it fair to Mary.’
‘Mary will do as she is ordered and like it.’
Two stewards came by and collected up the crockery. A splatter of dirty surf landed on the deck boards.
‘I should have thought you would have a little more respect for the girl than that. In the circumstances.’
‘I am sure I do not know at all what you mean.’
‘You know very well indeed. As I do, also.’
‘She is an old friend of the family, as I have told you previously.’
‘Your conscience is your own, David. I neither expect nor require explanations. Neither do I expect hypocrisy when it comes to judging mine.’
He looked at her now. She was staring at the sea.
‘Are we in danger on this ship, David? I have a right to know.’
‘It’s a piece of bloody ridiculous talk. A rumour; nothing more.’
She nodded calmly. ‘And the boys are targets too?’
Merridith said nothing.
‘How did you discover it?’
‘If you really must know, we were alerted by Mulvey. The man you would not lift one precious finger to assist. But thankfully not everyone is such a screaming snob as yourself, otherwise we might all have been shot in our beds already.’
Reverend Deedes now approached and greeted the Merridiths. He had a birthday gift for Jonathan, which he gave to the Countess: a copy of John Newton’s Olney Hymns. Perhaps noticing that a domestic dispute was in progress, he did not remain in their company but took another table, further away than the one at which he had been sitting previously. Lord Kingscourt returned to his newspaper. When he looked up again, his wife was silently weeping.
‘Laura.’
Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.
‘I am very sorry,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, Laura. It was cruel of me to speak so harshly.’
She gave a wrenching, agonised sob that twisted her face. It was the first time in years that they deliberately touched. Her fingers twined hard around his own as she wept. She swallowed hard and gaped around the deck; a look of unspeakable incomprehension blanking her features.
‘Nothing will happen, Laura. Nothing. I promise it.’
She nodded again; kissed his knuckles. Rose and walked quickly away down the deck.
Pius Mulvey’s Lazaretto
— about 4 p.m. —
(As recollected many years later by Jonathan Merridith; aged eight years at the time of the events.)
‘Everything all right, is it?’
Mulvey jumped up as they entered the little cabin. A crust of bread and a small hunk of cheese were sitting in a fold of muslin on his bedding.
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
The poor man looked as petrified as if he was about to be arrested.
‘Good man, good man. I say, good shirt you have on.’
‘Her Ladyship came in with it a while ago, sir. I didn’t want to take it.’
‘Nonsense. Looks bloody better on yourself than ever it did on me.’
‘It’s too good of you, sir. Thank you, sir. It was a great honour to meet Her Ladyship, sir. She’s a very kind lady indeed, sir, so she is.’
‘Rustled you up a bit of tuck as well, I see, did she?’
‘Thank you, sir; yes sir.’
‘Good. I say, Mulvey, we wanted to have a little word. The Captain and myself.’
‘Sir?’
He nudged his son. The boy stepped forward and spoke in the toneless drawl of the reluctant, a speech he had been made to learn by heart. ‘Mr Mulvey, I should very much like to invite you to my birthday tea this evening if you have no previous or more pressing engagement.’
‘And?’ said Lord Kingscourt.
‘And we shall have a cake if I and my brother are good for the rest of the day.’
‘And?’
He scowled. ‘And if we are naughty there shall be no cake.’
Merridith winked knowingly at his charity case. ‘What do you say, Mulvey? Sound like a good sort of adventure?’
‘I – wouldn’t have anything proper to put on myself, sir. Only what I’m standing in.’
‘Oh, the Countess can ask Mary to go through my things. Must be some old bit of schmutter we could kit you out in.’
‘I’d as lief not, sir, if it’s all the same to Your Honour. I’d only be in the way.’
‘Nonsense. We’d be mortally offended if you didn’t. Wouldn’t we, Jons?’
‘Would we?’
‘Yes, we bloody would,’ his father said.
‘May we invite Mr Dixon, too?’
‘I imagine he may well be busy, old thing.’
‘No, he isn’t busy, Pops. I asked him already. He said he’d be delighted. I thought he might tell us a story afterwards. He tells awfully good stories, Pops. Nearly as good as yours.’
Jonathan Merridith’s father did not look happy. ‘Don’t you want to have just family and friends, old Captain? Didn’t think we’d have a whole slew of outsiders along.’
‘Neither did I,’ his son replied. ‘But then you and Mama said we must invite Mr Mulvey.’
Lord Kingscourt gave a sigh and said he supposed it would be all right.
‘Your Honour,’ attempted Mulvey, now pallid and appearing very anxious, ‘I’d feel I was in the way. It’s kind of Your Honour but it’s too much.’
‘Rot. It’s an order from the Countess and myself. Sort of feel it’s good for the boys, if you see what I mean.’
‘Your Lordship?’
‘Mixing with a wide variety, sort of thing. Don’t want them thinking everyone’s a mincing bloody aristo, do we?’
‘Sir.’
‘My mother, whom you were kind enough to mention before: she used to give a big shindig on her birthday every year. Tenants, workers. No airs and graces. Everyone used to trot along and muck in together. None of this bloody absurdity of master and servant. All Galwegians together, you see. Tradition we’d sort of like to keep up.’
‘Sir.’
‘So stagger along at seven or so; yes? Good man. Good man. Oh. There’s this too.’
He handed Mulvey a cut-throat razor.
‘The Countess’s idea,’ Lord Kingscourt said. ‘You’ll find it nice and sharp.’
Stateroom used by the Merridith Family for Dining.
— about 7 p.m. —
Mulvey shuffled in, gruel-faced and perspiring, in an evening suit too large for him by several sizes. His hair had been plastered to his scalp with some kind of grease and his skin was gleaming like ice on a corpse.
For he’s the jolly gay fellow
For he’s the jolly gay fellow
For he’s the jolly gay fellow
Which nobody can deny.
On one side of the table sat Robert Merridith with his mother; between them was Jonathan, the eight-year-old Viscount, in a crown roughly fashioned from a page of a newspaper. His mother and brother were also wearing paper hats. On the side Mulvey couldn’t see, with their backs to the door, were M
ary Duane and Grantley Dixon, both uneasy in cardboard bonnets. At the head, near the porthole, was seated Lord Kingscourt of Carna. He beckoned in greeting. He was wearing no hat.
‘Failte,’ he cried. The Irish for welcome.
‘Boys?’ said Laura Merridith, rising quickly. ‘Here is our guest of honour. Mr Mulvey.’
‘Good evening, Mr Mulvey.’ Jonathan grinned, blessing him expansively with a shining dessert spoon.
‘Who on earth is that?’ asked Robert Merridith disdainfully.
‘Mr Mulvey is a friend who has come to join us for supper.’
‘It’s gracious of Your Ladyship to invite me,’ the interloper murmured.
‘The graciousness is your own for accepting, Mr Mulvey. Won’t you please be seated? We have saved your place.’
He limped to the only free setting at the table, the seat between Grantley Dixon and Mary Duane. The children before him were laughing quietly with their mother. He stared at the arsenal of gleaming silver cutlery, at the phalanx of crystal glasses and stacks of fine plates. Four stewards quickly entered carrying trestles of food. Whoops and wolf-whistles came from the children.
‘Gingerbread!’ one yelled.
‘Cake!’ proclaimed the other.
‘Haven’t you forgotten something, Mulvey?’ Lord Kingscourt raised his right hand and sternly snapped his fingers. A newspaper skullcap was fetched to the table by the Countess and placed on the guest’s head with a little show of ceremony.
She gave a soft, abashed laugh. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Of course he doesn’t bloody mind, you cluck. I never met a Galwayman who didn’t care for a party.’
The stewards were still arranging the food on to serving tables. Bowls of potatoes and steaming carrots. Dishes glistening with drops of moisture. Jugs of lemonade and syllabub and custard.
‘What happened to your face?’
‘I cut it shaving, master.’
‘You’ve practically sliced off your bally head.’
‘Jonathan,’ said his mother.
More trolleys and trays of food arrived. Mary Duane rose from the table to help the stewards unload it. Jonathan Merridith was beaming at Mulvey.
‘My grandpapa fought beside Lord Nelson. He killed a lot of Froggies. Have you ever killed a Froggie, Mr Mulvey?’
‘No, master.’
‘A German?’
‘No, master.’
‘He might kill you in a minute, if you don’t shut up,’ Lord Kingscourt said. ‘Drink, Mulvey?’
‘I don’t take a drink, sir, thank you.’
‘Go on, have a small one. The claret or the chablis?’
‘Wine – isn’t something I know, sir.’
‘Oh you must have a preference. Come on, spit it out.’
Sensing his embarrassment, Laura Merridith said, ‘Do you know, Mr Mulvey, I don’t have a preference either. I always feel time spent on such matters is utterly wasted. Don’t you?’
‘Lady.’
‘Perhaps you would try a small sherry with me. That’s what I like myself.’
‘Thank you, lady. I will, then. Thank you.’
‘I can’t see any blasted sherry here,’ Lord Kingscourt said.
‘It is there, David. Right by your hand.’
‘Ah. So it is. Pity the poor blind. Foostering about like an imbecile tonight.’
His drink was poured and brought to the table by Lord Kingscourt.
‘I should like to kill a few Froggies when I grow up. Probably a few Germans as well, I should think. Shoot them in their ugly fat faces with a cannonball.’
‘Jonathan, please,’ his mother said.
‘Well I shall.’
‘Did you know Queen Victoria’s husband is German, old thing?’ said his father.
‘That’s a beastly lie.’
‘Certainly isn’t. As German as sausages.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to say grace tonight, Jonathan.’
‘I want Mr Mulvey to say it. His voice is nice.’
‘What a capital idea,’ Lord Kingscourt said. ‘Would you mind, Mulvey? In your own time of course.’
He spoke the words of a prayer in a very quiet voice, which was devoid of even the slightest feeling. ‘Bless us oh Lord and these thy gifts, which of thy bounty we are about to receive, through Christ our Lord.’
‘Amen.’
Lady Kingscourt and Mary Duane began serving plates of salad. The birthday boy was gulping his tumbler of lemonade.
‘Are you a Wesleyan, Mr Mulvey?’
‘No, master.’
‘A Methodist?’
‘No, master.’
‘You’re not a bally Jew, are you?’
‘Mr Mulvey is a Roman Catholic, Jonathan,’ said Lord Kingscourt. ‘At least I imagine so. Is that correct, Mulvey?’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Jonathan Merridith. ‘Of course. He would be.’
‘I have always thought of Catholicism as a very pleasant religion,’ said Laura Merridith feebly. ‘Rather a wonderful sense of drama. We have a number of very close friends who are Roman Catholics.’
‘Yes, lady.’
‘Mr Dixon is Jewish,’ said Lord Kingscourt quietly. ‘That is a pleasant religion, too.’
Jonathan Merridith appeared amazed. ‘Are you, Grantlers?’
‘My mother was; yes.’
‘I thought Jews had beards.’ He was speaking with his mouth full. ‘They always do in the newspapers.’
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t believe everything you see in the newspapers.’
A polite laugh was shared by some of the adults at the table. ‘Now that,’ said Lord Kingscourt, ‘is a matter on which we can all agree.’
‘So what do Jews believe, Grantlers?’
‘They believe many of the same things we believe ourselves,’ said Lord Kingscourt. ‘That we should give each other a fair crack of the whip. Not give a fellow a drubbing when he’s down. They are often remarkably kind and humane people.’
‘That’s not what some of the masters at Winchester used to say.’
‘Well that is very sad and stupid of the silly old goats.’
The boy fell quiet and looked at his plate. For a while everyone ate in restless silence, broken only by the scratch of forks on china. It was as though each diner was waiting for someone else to introduce a topic, but after several minutes nobody had.
The crystal chandeliers, the sheened, teak pillars gave the stateroom the air of a restaurant in Paris. Only the clanking of a chain outside the porthole broke the illusion.
‘Oh, Dixon,’ said Lord Kingscourt, forking at his food, ‘I meant to say I saw that piece of yours. In the New York Trib. The one in which you were kind enough to mention myself. Your response to that daft old letter of mine. One of the chaps got it for me on that tub we passed the other day.’
‘I may have been a little overheated when I wrote it.’
‘Actually I rather thought it was food for thought. If I may so. You’re quite right. We have so much. Seems unfair, somehow. Rather crystallised some of the things I think myself.’
Dixon looked across at him, expecting the customary sneer. But he wasn’t sneering. He was looking exhausted and pale.
‘Mm.’ The Earl shook his head and crumbled a bread roll. His eyes ranged around the room and took on a strangely mystified expression, as though he was suddenly confused about how he’d got there. ‘Best in the whole world, if you ask me. The Irish people, I mean. Always felt sort of at home there before it all went wrong.’ He gave a melancholy smile. ‘The world is an unfair old place, isn’t it?’
‘It’s exactly what we’ve made it, I suppose.’
‘Quite. Quite. Neatly put.’ He chewed another mouthful for a long time. ‘I used to think – you know – had I got my hands on old Kingscourt. Might have been able to do a little better. Than was done in the past, I mean. Given it a crack anyhow.’ He poured a glass of water but for a moment did not drink. ‘Ain’t going
to happen now at any rate. Pity.’
‘Pops,’ said Jonathan Merridith. ‘Ain’t is common.’
‘Perhaps we might talk about something a little less dull,’ said Lady Kingscourt meaningfully.
‘Sorry. I’m being a bloody bore again.’ He turned to his son. ‘Six of the best for Papa for being a bore. What shall my punishment be?’
The boy held up his glass. ‘More lemonade for the King!’
His father laughed easily and went to the serving table. He picked up a jug and began to pour. And what happened next to David Merridith was so shocking that it took him a moment to realise it was pain.
‘David?’ said his wife. ‘What is the matter?’
Dixon rose quickly and got to him as he stumbled. A dish was knocked from the serving table, spilling its contents over the rug. His face was beaded with droplets of sweat. A tremor ran through him; he gave a small gasp.
‘Are you all right, Merridith? You are pale.’
‘Absolutely fine. No matter at all. Bloody heartburn.’
Dixon and the Countess helped him to his feet. He shuddered again; leaned his hands on the table.
‘Pops?’
‘Shall we fetch the Surgeon, David?’
‘Don’t be bloody dense. Little indigestion cramp or something.’
‘Jonathan darling, will you pop down to Doctor Mangan’s quarters and see if he is there?’
‘Laura, really I am fine. Let us just have our supper and not make a bloody operetta. Honestly.’
He sat painfully back down and took a long drink of iced water. Made a pacifying gesture with his hands to the Countess. Mopped his forehead with a rucked napkin.
‘Bloody shipboard rations,’ he chuckled. ‘Give a dead man the shites.’
His sons giggled with the relief and delight of hearing him swear.
‘David, please.’
‘Sorry. Let that remark be stricken from the record, you two.’
‘May I pass you some more greens, Jonathan?’ asked Grantley Dixon.
‘No, thank you. I only eat pudding.’
‘You certainly do not, sir,’ Laura Merridith said with a frown.
The child accepted a spoonful of limp vegetation. Poked at it with his knife, wrinkling his nose.
‘There shall be a double dose of lessons tomorrow for petulant gentlemen who do not eat their greens,’ Lord Kingscourt said. ‘Then they shall have to walk the plank.’
The Star of the Sea Page 34