All of this meant little to Patrick, of course. He helped his mother to entertain, and tried to make himself invisible when the trustees were there to balance the books. He was truly astonished at the percentage of highly placed bores in the world, and at the universal lasciviousness of their consorts. When he wasn’t serving double brandies to one he was fending off the other. Or doing both simultaneously.
The countess displayed an unexpected virtuosity on the piano, but she would only play alone, which meant the middle of the night. Her voice was loud and off-key, and one of the older servants quit. Bill Cyples had a tin ear and slept through most of it on a couch. He was getting ready to ship out back to Canada with his regiment, and the Austrian tailor had turned him into a masterpiece of military haberdashery.
Eventually the whole act wore thin, and they all became slightly edgy towards one another. Bill started to drink too much, Eva MacQueen began to have misgivings about the importance of her job, and the countess wanted to return to London, now that the air raids were less severe. Patrick was beginning to sulk. His soul was empty, and one of the dark maids was provocative.
“We were supposed to meet King Carol from Romania,” said the countess, with a laugh. “But Bobbie told me that the governor wouldn’t accept his girlfriend and the king wouldn’t go without her! They had to settle on a bachelor dinner, my dear.”
“He looked like father,” said Patrick. “I’ve put in for a sailing next month.”
Eva MacQueen’s lack of artificiality prevented her from expressing regret. But she knew that this was no place for the boy, and her position was very delicate. The public label that she had put on her employment—a “war job”—was really an artifice. It was an important piece of fiction, of course, as it enabled her to maintain an independent social stance. However, she needed the income, and Patrick had been no great help.
“I’ll be gone before then,” said Lieutenant Cyples, struggling out of the couch and pouring himself a large drink of scotch. “I can’t imagine you in the navy! You’re welcome to them, the snotty bastards.” He lit a cigarette and his hands trembled slightly.
“If I can get that actor out of my flat,” said Vivienne, “it would be such fun to see London again. I know Hitler smashed it up a bit, but the Savoy is still there. It might even be more exciting now.”
“I’ll look you up,” said Patrick.
Suddenly his mother felt a shadow cross her heart. She felt a surge of guilt for having criticized her son. The war was a nightmare taking place beyond her horizon, but she had lived through the Halifax explosion and knew what could happen to a vulnerable ship. She reached over and gave his arm a squeeze. It was such a spontaneous gesture that Patrick looked at her in surprise. He then smiled with pleasure.
The countess tinkled a few notes then firmly shut the lid over the keyboard. “Would you like a job at the War Office, Bill?” she asked. She gazed at her hands and adjusted a sapphire ring to reflect the light.
William Cyples had rested his head on the back of the couch again and was gazing at the ceiling. A large grandfather clock was slowly ticking in the corner, and Patrick MacQueen held his breath. Bill Cyples straightened his head and looked at each one of them in turn. The clock chimed two o’clock. He smiled faintly and slowly shook his head.
“There are no dragons in London,” said William Cyples.
49
Patrick MacQueen had never made love in a bed. He lay full-length on Elbow Beach, in a warm rivulet of water from some unknown source, and gazed at the small naked lady beside him. Breakers were crashing in from the ocean, and the sky was turning a gentle shade of light pink. He was leaning on an elbow; their clothes were hidden in the rocks a half mile away. A dark man slept in his carriage unseen on the cliff’s top, and the lady seemed to be in a trance. They would soon have to leave.
Patrick knew that they had followed a previously ordained path, but he wondered at the wildness of it. The primitive urges that nature lets loose have no rationality, and this sleeping beauty alongside him had unloosed torrents that he did not even wish to control. There was no remote savagery and howling into the dawn here. This lady had entwined him like an octopus until he had lost every sense of reality.
He reached over and touched her shoulder. She opened her slanted eyes and smiled.
“We must go,” said Patrick MacQueen. “This beach will soon be full of children.”
Rene Warnefeld-Davies sat up with a quick start and looked about her. The tide was coming in, and the farthest reaches of the breakers were already lapping their feet. They rose and ran down the beach together, towards their clothes. Patrick took a quick detour and plunged into a giant wave. It tossed him back onto the beach in a flurry of limbs, as though disdaining the taste of a mere mortal.
Their teeth chattered in the morning breeze. Silently, she pulled on her wide purple evening pants and quickly buttoned a white blouse. Patrick shoved his legs into his summer evening trousers and pulled the shirt over his head. They gathered their shoes and other belongings and started up the path of the cliff. It was now light enough to avoid stepping on a cactus. The coachman had just awakened, and he climbed wearily onto the box.
“What will we say to John?” asked Patrick. She gathered his hand into one of hers and squeezed it reassuringly. Under her dark tan he could see veins pulsating with life.
The fulfillment of this prophecy had commenced the previous afternoon when Patrick, in a fit of uncontrollable boredom, had let himself out the little gate and walked down to the 21 Club for a drink. Considering his financial situation, this was an extravagant solution to what was a perennial problem, but he sat defiantly at the bar and ordered a brandy. He was dressed in shorts, with the obligatory jacket, socks, and tie. The tie was striped beige and blue. His mother had leased the entire outside dance pavilion of the Langton Hotel, high on a hill opposite Government House, to entertain an array of American merchant marine officers. The thought of the evening ahead of him was stupefying and he welcomed the brandy burning his gullet.
“There’s Captain MacQueen!” he heard in a chirping voice. He turned to see Nora Cowan excitedly waving her fat little hand. She was sitting at a table with Rene Warnefeld-Davies. MacQueen walked over to the table and shook each of them by the hand.
“Won’t you join us for a drink?” asked Rene in her husky voice. She was dressed in a white linen suit, with a bright silk scarf around her neck. She wore a large emerald ring.
Patrick’s heart stopped. Once he had paid for his brandy he would have nothing left. Nora clapped her hands then pushed a leather upholstered chair towards him an inch or so with her foot. He sat down. Rene Warnefeld-Davies waved at a waiter.
“I’ll have a brandy and soda,” said Patrick MacQueen. “No ice.”
Patrick drank three brandies and sodas on an empty stomach as the 21 Club filled up and spilled onto the balcony. Rene smuggled a wad of banknotes into his hand and asked him to kindly pay the bill. He asked her if she would like to come to his mother’s dance. Nora encouraged her to go, saying that she had been a hermit for too long. She accepted.
Rene hired a carriage so she could return home and change. She lived with her son in a roomy bungalow near the Belmont Hotel, overlooking a little harbour full of small sailboats moored on buoys. She ordered the carriage to wait.
Eva MacQueen had a suite of rooms in the Langton Hotel, and had carefully laid out her son’s white mess jacket and trousers on a bed. Patrick changed into these in a mild state of delirium. He then escorted his tiny partner to the dance pavilion. She was wearing wide purple evening pants and a white silk blouse with gold earrings. She looked like a gypsy queen. The world had never looked more promising to Patrick.
The sight of her son with this miniature vision on his arm startled Eva MacQueen. The officers of the American merchant marine were gallantly trying to be gentlemen, but they were a rowdy lot, and their white uniforms were creased and crumpled. The ladies who had been procured for these boors were out
of control, unlike the girls in Somerset, whom Eva MacQueen had known personally.
The orchestra was returning from a recess, a jukebox was loudly playing in the adjoining bar, and some people were noisily splashing in the swimming pool. This was hardly a society event. War is a grim business, however, and everyone must do their part.
She’s not much younger than I am, thought Eva MacQueen. She advanced to welcome them with outstretched hands. “My dear,” she said, “we met at the play! Your boy took the lead, and he was so droll.” She bent forward, and they embraced lightly.
Rene Warnefeld-Davies wondered what she had stepped into. She glanced at the drunken officers and their sweaty partners. What on earth is this woman trying to do, renting hotels to entertain this noisy mob? she thought.
“You are so sweet,” said Rene Warnefeld-Davies. “And Patrick was so kind to ask me to your party. My son is devoted to him.”
Through the haze of brandy and soda Patrick realized that everything had suddenly gone off the rails. Mother will never forgive me for showing her in this setting, he thought, and Rene Warnefeld-Davies probably hates me already. She certainly became the centre of attention; one officer, mistaking her for Merle Oberon, asked for her autograph.
To Eva MacQueen’s relief it was not long before Patrick and Rene retreated. During the course of this manoeuvre, through excessive bonhomie, Patrick procured a bottle of rum. His last glimpse of his mother was of a brave woman trying to manufacture charm and keep control of a sinking ship.
In the carriage, under the moon, he uncorked the rum bottle and tilted it to his lips.
“Have you had anything to eat?” asked Rene Warnefeld-Davies.
He shuddered and offered the bottle to her. She pushed his hand away gently, and he replaced the cork.
They went to a small, Spanish-style hotel in Hamilton and sat at a table in the red-tiled courtyard. A man with a guitar sang songs of gypsies and wandering troubadours, and they ordered oysters and curried lamb. The potted palm trees rustled against the stars, and they did not talk very much. The memories of the appalling dance gradually faded from Patrick’s mind, but he did not apologize for it. It wasn’t necessary.
A swim in the ocean had been her idea. At that point it seemed to him the natural thing to do. The breakers had almost pulverized them, so they retreated along the beach and found the mysterious stream. In that, she taught him the feeling of abandon, and he was doubtful if he would ever gather himself together again.
50
The send-off for the countess was mostly noticeable by her sudden flood of generosity. She bestowed jewels upon Eva MacQueen, gave a gold watch to Patrick, and slipped Lieutenant Cyples an envelope containing ten American one-hundred-dollar bills. Her entire wardrobe was forwarded first (and sank without trace in the English Channel), but eventually the countess stood bravely at the railing of the grey Cunard liner and waved to her friends on the pier, the Pekinese yapping a storm of protest in her arms.
Patrick MacQueen was wearing his gold sunglasses and kept glancing at his gold watch. Eva MacQueen wore her new pearl necklace over a flowered silk dress and kept glancing at her sapphire. Lieutenant Cyples was smoking a Monte Cristo cigar and kept raising his sun helmet. These departures were always agonizing in length, as no one knew the actual time of departure. Every ship sailed past the Bermuda Censor Board, of course, and the thousand eyes there had come from all parts of the globe.
“It looks as though I’m the next one,” said Lieutenant Cyples. “God, I’d like a drink.”
“I wish she would go to her cabin,” said Eva MacQueen. “We can’t stand around here waving all day.”
“Why is she going back to London?” asked Patrick MacQueen, checking on the time. “The war is still on.”
“Peace is boring,” said Lieutenant Cyples. “The danger may be mostly over but the excitement is still there.”
Someone on board spoke to the countess and, with a final wave, she disappeared into the ship.
“Let’s have a quick one at the Twenty-One,” said Bill Cyples.
“I will miss Vivienne so,” said Eva MacQueen, hesitating as Bill opened the door into the terminus. “But the club will be much quieter.”
“Any word on your sailing, Pat?” asked the newly affluent lieutenant, ordering a round of drinks. Eva had a sherry, Patrick ordered a rum swizzle, and the lieutenant had a double scotch. He had left his cigar in the gutter of Front Street, and opened his gold case for a fresh one.
“I’m ready when they call me,” replied Patrick. “How are your troops?”
The lieutenant laughed and poured a little water into the scotch. “A few weeks back at camp on the prairies will fix them,” he said. “I won’t be sorry, really. Vivienne has been a revelation, but she isn’t a career. It’s time to get back to work.”
“The ship is moving!” exclaimed Eva MacQueen.
They went onto the balcony. They could see the violet figure of the countess standing at the rails once more. She knew where to look, and waved frantically. The funnel emitted a deep roar to warn small boats to clear the path. A small tug pulled her bow from the wharf, and the mighty screws churned sand from the harbour’s bottom. Puffs of white clouds were sailing across the sky as the big ship headed towards the Narrows. She made a prime target for harried submariners, but she was fast, totally blacked out, and no one knew her course until the captain broke the seal after the pilot left her. The admiralty planned to convert her into a troopship: this was her final voyage as a merchant ship.
“Have you any idea where you will be sent? Britain, I suppose?” asked Patrick as they resumed their seats.
“Maybe my visit to your mother’s surprising Chinese room was a forerunner.” The lieutenant was only half joking.
“Do you think Japan is going to get involved?” asked Eva MacQueen.
“The Germans and the Japs could divide the Soviet between them,” said Bill Cyples casually. “The United States is the real question mark. I have to get back to barracks.”
“Rene asked me to go dancing at the Belmont Manor,” Patrick said rather sheepishly to his mother.
“Don’t get too serious, my dear,” replied his mother. “She is married and has a son. Not to mention the countess remembered seeing her at Deanville—or somewhere—and she was gambling heavily.”
I wonder who she was with then? thought MacQueen.
51
Bill Cyples stood on the pier with a company of Canadian soldiers. They all wore battle gear and haversacks with helmets and carried rifles. Gusts of rain were slanting over the wharf, raising ripples in the harbour. The governor had arrived to thank them, and to wish them bon voyage to wherever they might be going. He led them in three cheers for the king, then Bobbie hastened him away to the covered carriage.
Each man carried all of his own equipment, and they filed up the gangway. A few had been married in Bermuda, and a few more had sired children. They carried some souvenirs and little bottles of LiLi perfume to bargain for favours at home or to give to their mothers. The band had been cancelled due to inclement weather.
Lieutenant William Cyples slipped his gold cigarette case into Patrick’s shirt pocket, right over his heart. “Give it back to me after the war, old boy,” he said.
Patrick’s mother had decided it best to leave them to say goodbye alone. She had given the lieutenant a carton of Dunhills from the club, and he had presented her with a gold crest of his regiment.
The top of the terminus was covered with shallow puddles of rain, and he stamped his heavy boots and gesticulated in his old nervous way. “It’s been quite an experience, Pat,” he said. “Thanks to you.” He blew his nose into a khaki handkerchief and turned up the collar of his trench coat. “I can’t say why I think we’re going to the east, but keep your eyes on the newspapers. I’ll call your father.”
“Tell him I’ll be there,” answered Patrick. “I’ve just got one complication.”
Bill Cyples laughed and shook his head. “It�
�s that tiny broad, isn’t it? She’ll fix your clock my boy! What’d you do with her kid, roast him in the oven?”
“That boy knows more about life than I do,” said Patrick. “He floats around the edges and doesn’t miss a thing. I don’t think he’s jealous—but I don’t think I’m the first.”
“That’s where his sense of humour comes in,” said Bill Cyples. “Disillusionment is the foundation of humour. I could sense it when he was on that stage.”
A sergeant stomped up to Lieutenant Cyples and saluted. “All of the men are aboard, sir,” he said. “I think they want to lower the gangway.”
Patrick MacQueen accompanied his friend to the end of the gangway. The sergeant hastened across it and out of the rain. It was blowing in sheets now, and Patrick was immediately soaked. Two sailors dressed in yellow weather gear stood holding ropes. They faced one another. Rain dripped off the rim of Bill’s helmet and shaded his gun barrel eyes. Patrick’s hair was flattened across his head, and no one could distinguish the rain from the tears. They gripped one another’s hands.
“I’ll give the case back to you,” said Patrick, his lips trembling.
Bill Cyples turned suddenly and hastened up the gangway. The sailors pulled it onto the wharf, and the side of the ship closed. Patrick stood looking at the grey steel wall in front of him. He suddenly felt as alone as Lord Nelson on top of his column.
“Better come in out of the wet, sir?” suggested one of the sailors. He turned and walked with them into the terminus and straight through—out into the rain on the other side. He walked on, to his mother’s club, quietly took a hot bath, and crawled into bed.
Upon awakening, Patrick emerged into the Chinese room. Lightning was crackling outside the windows, and the dragons were writhing on the throne. Bill Cyples was stripped to the waist with a Cossack hat on his head, and he was reaching for the sacred pearl. Lady Lemonton entered, in a long white cloak with a black cross on the left shoulder. She raised a crusader’s sword behind Bill’s head, and the lightning reflected off the cruel blade. Connie screamed from the corner as the blade bit into Bill’s neck and blood gushed forth….
The Broken Sword Page 22