Doctor Who_ Ghost Ship - Keith Topping [11]
'Not all wars are worthless,' I suggested.
'No, you're right there,' Bryce said with a heavy regret. 'And to be fair to the lads we were fighting against, they probably thought the same way about us. First coloured chap I ever met were in the desert. A Sikh lad. I asked him why he'd come all the way from one desert to another to do some fighting when he could have stayed at home and done it there, and he said it was because he wanted a world where his ten year old son didn't have to get up at four o'clock in the morning and go to work in a mill, or a mine or something. I forget what it was now. We're back to Conditions of the Working Classes in England again, aren't we?'
'What happened to him?'
Bryce shrugged. 'Haven't got a clue,' he replied. 'Never saw him again. Probably got killed. Lot of us did. Not me though.'
He was trying to sound cynical and dismissive, but Bryce, I knew, was as affected by the ramifications of his own private war as much as every man is. 'Engels ran a factory in Manchester that employed mostly child labour, you know,' I noted.
'Aye, he were a hypocrite and a scoundrel that lad, and no mistake,' Bryce said. 'And anybody who isn't both of them things at least once in their life, well frankly, they've never lived!'
'My point is one of perception rather than experience.'
'Yes, I agree with all that,' he answered. 'The real question should be
why is it that those in Third Class, for example, are happy to be in Third Class when they could be up on top with us? It's a moribund argument, you know. Like the Amateur Sprint and the Gentlemen versus the Players. As obsolete as warships in the Baltic.' Then Bryce paused again, aware perhaps that his voice was rising slightly. He immediately apologised to the ladies for having brought grim politics to the breakfast table. 'Sometimes I forget I'm not in the boardroom all the time,' he told me, turning his attention momentarily away from his colleagues.
I placed my napkin on the table and stood, bidding them all good day.
'A pleasure, Doctor,' Bryce noted through a mouthful of bread-crumbs.
Once again my eyes came into contact with those of Miss Lamb, which were filled with involuntary tears. Without another word, I turned my back on them all and left.
Some time later, I found myself returning to the forward bar after the breakfasts had all been served and the place was virtually deserted. The weather had continued to take something of a turn for the better and most of the passengers who would normally be spending their entire trip in this place, faces pressed miserably to the glass watching the churning waves, had clearly decided to make the most of what little ocean sun they were likely to see.
As many passengers strolled on the decks, I found a quiet corner, took a seat and picked up a discarded copy of The Times that I found lying nearby. It was from two days ago, the day of embarkation. And, judging by its dog-eared and shiny state, it had obviously been read many times by many different people.
I lost all track of time as I read items of varying degrees of interest. Discussion of the resignation announcement of British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan. The aftermath of the disastrous bursting of a dam in the Piave Valley, Italy. Obituaries of Jean Cocteau and Edith Piaf. Eventually my eyes fell upon a small article on page nine concerning the latest British scientist who was, it said, about to join the so-called brain drain to America. Doctor Peter Osbourne, a maverick quantum physicist, was, the report continued, looking for a financial backer in the United States to help him build an 'experimental time machine' after his government grant in Great Britain had been cut. I must admit, the paragraph amused me greatly. Not