The Drowned Sailor

by Benjamin Parsons

reported to Ravella, who closely noted the details, and pointed out that even rich men can be frustratingly frugal. But Clare, in order to compensate for her disappointment about the foreign holiday, now imagined a much nicer surprise altogether. She convinced herself that he meant to propose properly. Ravella realised that this might not be such an absolute fantasy, since the tide was turning that way anyhow, and decided to act immediately.

  ‘The first birthday in a relationship is sure to make or break it,’ she remarked to herself, ‘and I certainly know which way I intend this one to fall.’

  So it was that, on the eve of this fatal birthday, Ravella arrived at her dear friend’s home in a carefully contrived state. As soon as the door was opened to her, she burst into floods of very convincing tears on the doorstep.

  ‘Ravella! What’s happened?’ cried Clare, and bundled her inside for a stiff drink and sympathy.

  ‘Oh Clare!’ gasped Ravella. ‘I’ve had such a day, the worst of my whole life!’

  ‘Why, why, what’s happened?’

  ‘All my dreams are ruined! I’m at the end of my tether!’ She took a deep breath. ‘Jack has thrown me out!’

  ‘Thrown you out? No!’

  ‘Yes! Actually turned me out of doors, in just my coat and what I’m stood up in! He had the nerve to throw a matchbox after me down the stairs, for my clothes— well you know I don’t have so many, but I guess I’ve got a long way to go—’

  Here she wept some more, incoherence embellishing her appearance of distress.

  ‘But what happened?’ Clare asked. ‘Why did he do it?’

  Ravella sighed. ‘He says I don’t love him enough. But what does he know about love, anyway? I daresay he’s found some prettier, younger creature, and is sick of me!’

  ‘How could he?’ gasped Clare, outraged at the idea. ‘And so he sent you off, just like that?’

  Ravella leaned back, world-wearily. ‘Men! Give me another drink. Here’s to men! You always know what to expect from them— a knife in the back! Cheers!’

  Following this toast she went on to explain how Jack (Jack Elliott, her doting lover and benefactor, currently in St. Petersburg, if the truth were known) had suddenly started a row about nothing. Hot words had flown about, and he had said he did not want her, that she could leave if she liked, that minute; Ravella had argued with him (she said) and pleaded for a second chance, but he was implacable.

  ‘I’m too proud to beg,’ she asserted, ‘and life’s too short to go scraping after lost causes. I don’t want him anymore, Clare. Even if he came crawling to me tomorrow, I’d kick him back. It’s unforgivable that he could even think of leaving me!’ A cocktail of further robust and bitter defiances followed.

  ‘Oh Ravella, I admire your courage! I’m sure if it had happened to me, I’d be a wreck!’

  ‘What? Do you expect me to curl up and die?’ She laughed grimly and tossed her head. ‘I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction! I’ll survive him, Clare, and thrive, too! It takes more than a man to break me! But that’s enough of that. I don’t want to talk about it anymore, not one word. Here’s to you, Clare, to your birthday, and what it may bring!’

  They toasted again, and the subject was neatly turned onto Clare, who was content to remain on it for the rest of the evening, once it was established that Ravella must stay the night. Her plan was to leave the next day and retreat to an aunt’s in Devonshire to lick her wounds.

  Really, Ravella should have gone upon the stage, or appeared in films, because the entire melodrama was a fabrication from beginning to end, a ruse to secure herself at Clare’s at that critical time, and to ensure her escape route the next day.

  In the morning she sprang up with the lark, while her friend lay fast asleep under the weight of the previous evening’s indulgences. Ravella drummed her fingers until the first post, and when it arrived, scoured the envelopes for Trevick’s handwriting (which she remembered from the famous poem). She pounced upon the correct card and opened it directly. Inside was a ticket for the theatre and an appointment to meet for dinner beforehand. Ravella noted the details of this cheapskate scheme, and then tore it all up and threw it out of the window, before secretly telephoning Guy Laurence, who was waiting for his final instructions. Then she cancelled the booking at the restaurant for Trevick, and rebooked it for Laurence; and all of this was neatly, swiftly and stealthily accomplished before Clare was even aware of the world, much to her friend’s satisfaction.

  When that lady finally arose, she hurried to open her birthday cards with enthusiasm, but could hardly conceal her disappointment when she got nothing from one well-wisher.

  ‘He did say he would send something,’ she protested forlornly to Ravella, who consoled her with the notion that there was still a second post to come. And indeed, that post came, and indeed it brought yet more cards, which were met with renewed happiness by their addressee, until she discovered the notable absence. Then it was confusion, questions, worry.

  ‘Oh Ravella, I’m sure he said— I was certain that maybe— perhaps he’s forgotten— perhaps a delay with the post— what if— what if— what do you think?’

  This anguished plea was met with the suggestion that there might be a special delivery, a courier —and Clare clutched the straw soundly, so that the remainder of the day was spent in anxiety and waiting for a special birthday message, sadly remiss. Every engine she conjectured to be a motorcycle dispatch, every step on the pavement a potential knock at the door.

  ‘What does it mean?’ cried Clare, pacing the room. ‘Why doesn’t he call? He might at least wish me happy birthday— you would think he’d do that!’

  ‘Yes, you’d think so,’ concurred Ravella, who, however, had accidentally disconnected the telephone.

  The afflicted lady, though sorely tempted, would not deign to call her erstwhile lover, but nor would she leave home in case of some communication; so she paced and debated and worried and disclaimed until finally, bursting into tears, she wildly decided that James Trevick must be dead. Ravella observed, however, that this tragedy would not have prevented his birthday card from arriving, if he had posted it.

  ‘Then I wish he was dead!’ sobbed Clare anew, and worked over again the reasons why he might not have contacted her, until the only solution seemed to be that he did not want to— that he did not love her.

  ‘Nonsense!’ cried Ravella, appalled. ‘Of course he loves you! I’m sure it’s some mistake.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Clare. ‘A mistake. The wrong address! He’s sent my card to the wrong address!’

  ‘I’m sure that’s it. And he’s lost your number, so he can’t call.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the other, not even convincing herself. ‘But how could he mistake the address?’ she muttered under her breath. ‘And you’d think he’d know the number by now.’

  ‘Why don’t you just ring him and clear it all up?’ Ravella gambled.

  ‘Call him! Me call him! When he can’t even be bothered to call on my birthday! I don’t think so! I’m not going to make it easy for him!’ —and she burst into tears again, as evening drew on.

  ‘Look at this,’ she announced then, running into the bedroom and re-emerging with a silken slip in her hand. ‘I was going to wear this tonight— I bought it specially! I was going to wear it just for him, and he can’t even make the effort to call me!’

  Ravella hugged her consolingly. ‘I can hardly believe anything bad of James,’ she said, ‘but I suppose men are men at the end of the day, and James and Jack are pressed from the same mould.’

  ‘Oh, Ravella! Here’s me moaning on, when Jack has thrown you out and broken your heart!’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Clare. I always land on my feet, like the best cats. But I hate to see you treated badly.’

  ‘But I haven’t been used as terribly as you have, Ravella.’

  ‘Your birthday’s been ruined, hasn’t it? Good money wasted on a dress he’ll never see, and your best hopes set at nothing!’ />
  Clare sobbed again in spite of herself, and dropped into a chair. ‘I wish I was as strong as you, Ravella.’

  Her companion soothed her. ‘My motto,’ she said, ‘is always “carry on regardless”. I never fall and I never break— I just keep on going.’

  And with these empty words she left her alone, and soon, at the appointed time, surreptitiously re-connected the telephone line. Before long, there was a bright and hearty ring. Clare leapt up as though she had been electrocuted and snatched at the receiver —only to visibly slump when Guy Laurence cheerily wished her a happy birthday.

  Not being privy to the events of the day, he expressed concern at the miserable tone of his beloved’s voice, and his affection for her made him ideally compassionate to her distress. Ravella had, of course, already arranged for him to take her out to dinner, and now he asked her in earnest, as a consolation for her disappointment elsewhere.

  Ravella began innocently playing cards with herself while this conversation ensued, gambling on its success. Clare put her hand over the receiver and asked: ‘Guy wants to take me out to dinner, what shall I say?’

  ‘Well, you know,’ said Ravella, ‘I’ll have to get my train to Devon soon, and you don’t want to sit in on your own tonight, do you?’

  Clare gloomily considered this prospect a moment, before grimly setting her chin. ‘I’ll be damned before I let that man ruin my entire birthday!’ —and turning