‘Come on, let’s freshen up and go up for dinner.’
Retreating to her cabin, Juliet combed her hair and splashed water on her face, before perching on the edge of Max’s bed. She did not ask whether he was joining them – he had not ventured into the dining-room since their first night on board. He smiled at her through half-closed eyes.
‘I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this.’
‘No,’ agreed Juliet.
‘I’d forgotten how much I hate being at sea.’
Juliet shrugged. She was hungry and she could tell from the stink and the slurring that Max was already drunk. None of the men in her family drank very much – a glass of kosher wine on Friday, a drop of schnapps to mark a holiday – and she found Max’s sporadic bouts of drinking discomforting. While a bout lasted, it kept her at a distance, and she understood that even if there hadn’t been a George, an ordinary life of easy companionship would never have been possible with Max. She tried not to mind.
Sprawled on the leaf-stencilled eiderdown, he made her think of Antaeus, the demon-god whose strength was tied to the flesh of the earth. Held aloft by Hercules and separated from the soil, he lost his strength. Max’s soul was in the woods of Fippenny Hollow and unable to smell the leaf litter or the summer rot of the woodland floor, he pined and withered. The sea air thinned him. Yesterday she’d rummaged in his spongebag looking for some more toothpaste, but instead of toiletries she’d found a rustle of drying leaves – oak, ash, beech and a clump of larch needles instead of the more conventional sewing kit.
In the newly redecorated tourist-class dining-room, Juliet and the children sat at communal tables beneath one of Max’s murals. Only if she looked very closely could she see that the cricketers in their whites had the faces of British birds – owls batted against chaffinches and a blue tit bowled. The designs were a riot of whimsy, a folklore collection of a rural England that never quite was. She thought it slightly strange to be away at sea on a floating celebration of earthiness – beneath the dining-room banister March hares cavorted under harvest moons and sly Jack-in-the-Greens peered out from oak trees as orchards dropped fruit onto village greens and thatched cottages.
Waiters swept to and fro serving jellied ham in aspic. The tinned peas suspended in the translucent gelatine glistened like algae in ice. Only Leonard looked thrilled, declaring he’d never had a more disgusting meal. Juliet yearned for dry land and a soft-boiled egg. Two days left until they reached New York. Max would be better once he was ashore. She tried not to think about the fact that he couldn’t bear London. America would be different, she was sure of it.
After dinner, when the children were in bed, Juliet put on her coat and went up on deck. It was cold, the wind humming in chords through the ship’s wires, and most of the passengers had disappeared below to smoke in the warmth of the lounge. Juliet shivered and huddled on a deckchair, watching the black water foam in the dark. She checked her watch – nearly eleven. She smelled Max’s pipe before she saw him.
‘Hello. I’m over here,’ she called.
He came towards her staggering slightly into the rails, then pausing and forcing himself to walk straight with the exaggerated step of a drunkard.
‘Damn choppy sea.’
‘It’s nothing to do with the sea. It’s perfectly calm tonight.’
He wasn’t wearing a jacket, alcohol making him oblivious to the cold. He sat down beside her on the deckchair with a thump, knocking tobacco out of his pipe and onto the floor where it glowed red.
‘Did I tell you about my last trip to sea?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
Max took out his pouch of tobacco and started to re-pack his pipe with clumsy fingers, spraying half the leaves over his trousers.
‘It ended in a shipwreck. Did I tell you that?’
Juliet shook her head and turned to look at him, his face white in the dark.
‘It was during the war. From Cairo I’d been sent to Cape Town and then ordered back to England. I was pleased to be going home. I’d stashed in my cabin some twenty sketchbooks and countless watercolours – soldiers sleeping in the desert, field captains, mules outside the citadel, drawings of veiled women – you know the sort of thing.’
Juliet nodded even though she’d never glimpsed any such pictures by Max.
‘And I’d been doing a neat line in portraits of soldiers – dozens of them asked me to whip up a quick picture for their wife or sweetheart. Some of these chaps had been away for years and they were getting jittery – suppose their wives forgot all about them? We all heard stories about the Yanks. A nice heroic picture would jolt the missus into a bit of fondness, or make her kick out her Yank for a night or two, or so they hoped.’
He finished stuffing his pipe and produced a box of matches but his hands were shaking too much to light it. Juliet took them from him, feeling the ice cold of his skin, and struck a match. He sucked on the pipe stem in silence for a minute, the smoke mingling with steam from their breath.
‘What was the name of the ship?’ asked Juliet.
‘The Laconia.’
‘I think I’ve heard of it.’
‘Very possibly. It was one of the more famous disasters. We were somewhere in the South Atlantic when the torpedo got us. It was early on one evening and I was just having a drink before dinner. The ship shuddered, groaning the way a man does when he’s been shot, and then all the glass along the bar shattered, broken bottles hailing down on us. I don’t remember being frightened but I do remember worrying about the pictures in my cabin. I’d promised to post those portraits on to the chaps’ wives when I reached Blighty. And,’ he paused, a little embarrassed, ‘I’d bought myself a rather expensive watch in Cape Town. Seemed a pity for it to go down with the ship. Here, give me a bit of that coat will you?’
Juliet sighed and took off her coat, wrapping it across both their legs, blanket style. Max shuffled in closer.
‘In my cabin I stuffed my jacket with the portraits. Watercolours mostly. The odd pencil drawing. Anyway, when I got back up on deck ropes were dangling down the sides and the crew was trying to get the few women and children into lifeboats, but the ship was tilting at a god-awful angle. More than one soul was tipped straight into the drink. I didn’t linger long enough to see if they were fished out again. If you ever wondered whether I was a hero, the answer is quite simple – I’m not.’
‘I can’t say that your heroism is really something I’ve thought about,’ said Juliet, keeping her voice light.
Max shrugged. ‘No, perhaps not. But most women like to believe their boyfriend has heroic potential, even if it is rather deeply buried. I was only keen to remain alive. It didn’t seem likely but I was pretty determined to give it my best shot. I didn’t much fancy climbing down a rope into a boat myself, I can tell you, but there wasn’t much alternative. I burned my hands until they bled but I landed feet first into a lifeboat. When it was full, the seamen did their best to cover the boat with a scrap of tarpaulin. Underneath it stank worse than a rotting deer carcass because some green member of the crew soiled himself.’
From the first-class deck drifted the sounds of the band cranking out last decade’s hits – Dean Martin drifted into a rendition of Bing Crosby. The ship rocked to and fro, cradled in the waves. The sea was calm, only the regular tilt of the tide slapped against the sides. Juliet tried to picture the Laconia in the distance, hull blazing.
‘We sat in that little boat for four days. Grovelling under the tarpaulin for shelter. Now and then we saw the submarine. After two days we ran out of food and after three we ran out of water. All I had was my watch and the portraits stuffed into my jacket.’
‘But you survived.’
‘On the fifth day a boat appeared on the horizon and sailed right for us. The crew prayed it was an Allied ship. It wasn’t.’
‘What happened? Did they leave you?’
‘No. The boat was Vichy French and the crew none too friendly, but at least they pulled us out of th
e water. I was the last to get out of the lifeboat. Nothing to do with gallantry – I was too tired to move. It was hot and we all had terrible sunburn. I lay under my jacket, trying to shield my hands and face – not that it worked. Look, you can still see scars from the blisters.’
Max leaned forward for Juliet to inspect a shiny mark above his lip.
‘But when I was safely aboard the Vichy ship, I realised that I’d left my wretched jacket in the lifeboat – all the portraits of the men stuffed in the pockets. I tried to climb back down but they wouldn’t let me. I’d like to say that I put up a fight, gave some officious shit a fat lip, but I didn’t. I was so tired. All my fight was gone. I sat on deck as the lifeboats were cut loose and watched for as long as I could, watching all those men drift away.’
He sat quite still for a minute, staring out over the water.
‘Some of the men came back home at the end of it all, but most of them didn’t. Lost during overseas campaigns. Missing Presumed Dead. I kept a log of the men I painted – needed the addresses to send the pictures to their wives, and when I looked through it, I realised the attrition rate was awful. Catastrophic. Never mind a chap hoping he wasn’t sent to Africa or some other bloodbath, he needed to pray he wasn’t painted by me. I realised my damn sketchbook was a doomsday book. If I painted you, then the odds were you wouldn’t make it.’
‘Darling, I’m sure that isn’t true.’
‘It might be true, it might not, but frankly I can’t take the risk. I made a promise that after the war I wouldn’t paint anyone else.’
Juliet laid her head on his shoulder and reached for his hand, stroking the coarse nub on his forefinger callused from hours spent holding a brush. Sometimes she almost forgot that Max wasn’t quite like other men. But, then that was why she loved him, each of them had a piece missing. Neither made any attempt to fill the void in the other but they were good companions, easing one another’s loneliness when they were together.
‘I can’t come with you, Juliet,’ he said softly.
‘What do you mean? You are here.’
‘I’m not coming to New York.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’re nearly there.’
‘Yes but I’m not going ashore. I’ve arranged it all with the purser. I’m going to stay on board and go straight home. Your ticket and the children’s are all valid. The three of you might have to share a cabin on the way back—’
‘How can you just abandon us in New York? I’ve never even been to France before.’
‘You’ll be just fine. You’ll be better off without me.’
Juliet released his hand and wriggled away.
‘I can understand that you don’t like being on the boat – it must be awful for you. I didn’t know about the Laconia and I’m more sorry than I can say. But New York’s on bloody dry land – it doesn’t make sense.’
Max shrugged and looked away, avoiding her eye. ‘I have to go home. I can’t do this. It was stupid of me to come.’
He reached out and patted her knee as if she were a dog. ‘You can all come and visit and tell me all about it when you’re back. I’ve wired Tom. He’s going to pick me up from the docks and take me home. ’
Angry, she pulled away from him so that the overcoat fell onto the ground.
‘You’ll be all right, old girl.’
‘Oh do shut up.’
Max stood, steady and more sober now. He scooped up the fallen coat and tucked it around her shoulders, before kissing the crown of her head.
‘I’m sorry, Juliet.’
He ambled away into the darkness and she watched him go, the glow from his pipe turning into a red pinprick. She licked her lips, salty from the sea air. From an upper deck came the strains of the second-rate band and she pictured pastel-rinsed ladies shuffling in the arms of their husbands. Lights strung along the ship’s stays wobbled in time to the current. Automatically, she dipped her fingers into her pocket and brushed the scrap of newspaper.
• • •
The children did not seem upset that Max wasn’t coming with them. Frieda said nothing at all and unsure if she was even listening Juliet repeated it.
‘I heard you the first time.’ Frieda shrugged. ‘Charlie wouldn’t have abandoned us.’
‘No,’ agreed Leonard with a look at his mother.
• • •
In a fit of remorse, Max had given Leonard his camera. As they disembarked Leonard squinted up and snapped a picture of the small figure waving at them from the upper deck, pipe held aloft in one hand, paisley scarf flapping. He and Frieda waved back with helicopter arms and great enthusiasm. Juliet did not.
That night they couldn’t sleep. They huddled in their dingy downtown hotel room, too tired and too excited. Somewhere beyond the brown and fluttering curtains lay New York City. New York. Leonard poked his finger into the cigarette burn on the counterpane. Something danced in his belly.
‘Are you awake?’ he called in a stage whisper.
‘Yes,’ answered Frieda.
‘Yes,’ added Juliet.
Both children giggled, delighted that their mother was joining in the game. Perhaps such topsy-turvy things were simply part of life in America.
‘What time is it? I’m not at all sleepy,’ said Leonard.
Juliet groped on the nightstand for her watch. ‘Four.’
‘Can we get up?’
Juliet shrugged under the covers. ‘I suppose so.’
‘I want a hamburger dinner. I’ve got my dollar from bingo,’ said Leonard.
‘All right,’ said Juliet. ‘If anything’s open.’
Both children were out of bed, pulling on yesterday’s clothes before she could say anything else and break the spell. In a few minutes they stood in the hotel corridor, the yellow electric light pulsing as though batted by invisible moth wings. The three of them held hands automatically; for once Frieda didn’t complain. Outside the hotel the sidewalk was quiet. The background thrum of the city was like a static whir. The streetlights throbbed pale white and a taxi dawdled past, half-heartedly searching for a fare. Across the street a diner’s neon sign blinked, the restaurant shining into the dark street like an illuminated liner out at sea. Tugging the children’s hands, Juliet hurried them over the road and inside. Leonard’s face was pale with excitement.
‘They have booths. With red benches.’ His voice was hushed with awe.
‘Come on.’ Juliet started to draw him in but Leonard stood stock-still.
‘No. We have to “Please wait to be seated”.’
He pointed to a plastic sign. There was a tiled counter along one wall, and behind it a tired fry cook in whitish overalls scraped at a hotplate. On his head he wore a folded linen hat that to Leonard’s eye looked just like a paper boat, the sort Kenneth made in maths class and they sailed on the pond during break. He sighed in happiness. America truly was a magic land where restaurants stayed open all night and people wore boats on their heads. A waitress ambled over, lips smudged with scarlet even at this hour. She smiled at the children, revealing a tiny fleck of lipstick on her teeth.
‘How are you doing this morning? Sit wherever you like.’
Leonard gazed around at the sea of empty booths and the tempting expanse of counter, quite unable to make up his mind. Juliet ushered them into the nearest booth, suddenly feeling very tired. The waitress hovered, waiting to take their order.
‘What can I get you?’
‘A hamburger,’ said Leonard, resolute. Cornflake Jones’s father had once gone to America on business and tried the hamburger and said it was the tastiest thing he’d ever eaten.
‘One hamburger. Anything to drink? A milkshake? A malt?’
The children gazed at her blankly.
‘I’ll bring you two chocolate malts. You’ll love ’em,’ she grinned.
Juliet felt more tired than ever, exhausted by the woman’s cheerfulness. She listened in a daze as the children chattered about the trip, ‘on holiday all the way from England . . . Los Angele
s . . . a bus that takes four days and Frieda gets car-sick . . . it’s going to be so awful, I can’t wait.’ She watched their reflections in the glass. It was still dark outside and they were framed like a painting – the polished counter, the cook in his whites, the waitress with her slash of lipstick, and in the distance the lights pinging on halfway up the sky as the first of the morning risers started to think about a new day.
The journey passed in a blur of truck stops and picture-book mountains and greasy coffee and teeth-brushing by the side of the road. They sat on the bus sweating into the coarse fabric seats and watched America out of the window. Juliet felt so small. Smaller than one of the garden ants scuttling from their garden nest under the pear tree to the kitchen table. She felt as if she’d sipped from the ‘Drink Me’ vial like Alice in Wonderland and had shrunk into a doll-size Juliet. As the bus travelled further west, the plains stretched empty into a blank horizon, punctured only by the odd farm and the endless straight grey road. In England the lanes curved around hedges and hills and trees – even after a tree had vanished the curl in the road remained to tell you that once an oak or an ash had been rooted there. Here no trees grew beside the road and the ground was level, ironed flatter than even Mr Greene’s best Saturday trousers. Sometimes Juliet and the children fell asleep, lulled away for hours only to wake in what looked like the same place, unable to tell from the endless sky and flat grey grass whether they had moved on at all. Days fell into night. From early evening the sky began to kindle along the horizon, slowly at first, no more than a match flicker, until it caught and fired the drifting clouds. It blazed in a too rich vermilion. If Max used such a red in a painting, Juliet would have complained that it was too much – a sickly, child’s red – but the colours here looked different. Juliet’s tweed jacket lost its texture under the bright midday sun, but her purple Liberty scarf shone, the flecks of yellow buzzing gold.
Each evening they stopped at a restaurant beside the road. They were all the same, dusty and tired. The creased travellers filed out of the bus on stiff and unsteady limbs in order to eat and pee and climb aboard again, ready to rattle away into the darkness, heads knocking against the bus windows, sweater-
The Gallery of Vanished Husbands Page 19