Every Man for Himself - Beryl Bainbridge [11]
Melchett and I remained silent while we continued our inspection of the ship, and when it was done and we had sunk into the leather armchairs in the foyer of A deck we still had no words. It wasn’t the lavish furnishings of the public rooms, the doors inlaid with mother of pearl, the panelled corridorsof oak and maple, the shimmer of gilt and brass and cut glass that made us catch our breath, anymore than the twenty-one-light candelabra hung from the massive dome above the sweep of that imperial staircase. We had spent our lives in splendid houses and grand hotels and for us there was nothing new under the sun, nothing that is, in the way of opulence; it was the sublime thermodynamics of the Titanic’s marine engineering that took us by the throat. Dazzled, I was thinking that if the fate of man was connected to the order of the universe, and if one could equate the scientific workings of the engines with just such a reciprocal universe, why then, nothing could go wrong with my world.
I don’t know what Melchett was thinking, beyond he was pale and his left knee was bouncing up and down as though in imitation of those connecting rods oscillating below the water line.
Just then, old man Seefax called out my name. He was tottering through the doors of the promenade deck supported between a bell-hop boy and the man with the split lip. Behind strutted the stout individual last seen on the mechanical camel. I jumped up and offered my chair to Seefax.
‘Morgan,’ he said, ‘why the devil isn’t your uncle aboard?’
‘Business,’ I said.
‘Nonsense. He was cruising the Nile a week ago.’
‘Which precipitated an attack of the gout,’ I said. ‘It came on suddenly.’
I was about to perjure myself further when my attention was distracted by the sight of the statuesque woman ascending the main staircase. She was waving her hand in my direction.
‘Have you met Scurra?’ asked Seefax. ‘Your uncle knows him.’
‘He does not know me,’ corrected the man with the split lip. ‘But we were acquainted in the past.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Scurra,’ I said, holding out my hand.
‘Not Mr,’ he replied. ‘In my experience such prefixes erect barriers. Haven’t you found that to be the case?’
He was watching me closely through those heavy spectacles; his eyes were nearer black than brown.
I said, ‘I believe someone is looking for you.’
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the woman. She called out, ‘We’re nearly at Cherbourg . . . he will surely be there.’
‘I hope so,’ he said, ‘for your sake,’ and turned back to me.
She waited there a moment before going out on deck, as if expecting him to join her. I must admit I was puzzled; for all his ease of manner and air of authority, no gentleman would treat his wife in such a churlish manner, let alone a mistress.
As though he read my thoughts, he exclaimed, ‘Yet another damsel in distress. They’re everywhere, dear boy,’ and laughed so boisterously I couldn’t help smiling.
Perching himself on the arm of Melchett’s chair he took off his spectacles and began to rub at them with his handkerchief. Lookingup at me, he said, ‘I understand you have been working as a designer under Thomas Andrews.’
‘Simply as a draughtsman,’ I replied, somewhat stiffly. ‘Concerned mainly with the specifications of bathtubs.’ Even then I wanted to impress him but had a sixth sense he would see through the attempt. Without his spectacles I saw his eyes were grey, not brown.
He said, ‘Andrews is a curious man. Unlike many who regard succession as a right, he believes in proving himself. I find that very boring, don’t you? He also believes in fate.’
‘Fate,’ I echoed.
‘The sentence of the Gods. A comforting idea, don’t you think, in that it leaves the individual blameless?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I said, though I hardly knew what I was agreeing with. It wasn’t comfortable, talking to him. Quite apart from keeping one’s gaze from off his damaged lip, everything he said was expressed in such a way as to require an answer, and a considered one at that. He had no small talk.
‘Melchett and I have been down