Every Man for Himself - Beryl Bainbridge [29]
‘My people would never allow it,’ said Melchett.
‘There are girls in London,’ Hopper boasted, ‘who would thank you for caressing them.’
It was different for Hopper, of course. Though only two years older he had an apartment on Fifty-seventh Street and a job in his father’s law firm. Being British, Charlie had nothing of his own and nothing to do save ride round the family estate with a gun under his arm, waiting for his father to die. All the same, both insisted they had plans for a golden future which would have little to do with either law or the running of an estate. Quite what it would have to do with wasn’t made clear, though Hopper vowed he was going to land the biggest fish that ever flashed in a river.
It’s true he was crazy about fishing. When we were boys at Warm Springs he spent whole nights lying on his stomach waiting for the bait to be taken, until his grandmother, catching him fast asleep in the moonlight, a snake a foot away from his face, beat him out of the habit.
I envied them, lolling in that shining automobile, both so sure the future would be different from what had gone before. For myself, I had no such certainties. Jumping into the back of the Wolseley I lay flat and contemplated the heights above and the depths below. Cupping my hands over my ears I imagined it was the ocean that roared in my head. I might have fallen asleep if Hopper hadn’t bellowed my name.
‘What now?’ I called.
‘Charlie says you’re steamed up over Wallis.’
‘Is that so?’
‘We all know what she’s like, Morgan. The girl has ice in her veins. I doubt if any man could melt her, not even a husband.’
‘I don’t wish to discuss it,’ I said pompously, and heard his snort of laughter.
It had gone midnight when we climbed up out of the hold. As we returned to the elevator a door opened in the corridor ahead and two men, one in seaman’s uniform, stepped out. Between them sagged a third man, knees buckling, head sunk on his breast. A monstrous hissing rolled towards us and ceased as the door clanged shut. I would have passed by had I not recognised Riley. Hopper and Melchett, side-stepping, walked on.
I asked if I could be of assistance. The stricken man was well past middle age, the perspiration plastering his white hair to his scalp. Bare-chested, his sodden trousers smeared with grease and dirt, he looked half drowned. Riley said it was nothing to worry about, simply a matter of heat and exhaustion. Indeed, even as he spoke the old man came to, and, wiping his eyes on the back of one filthy hand made as if to pull back the door.
‘He needs rest,’ I protested. ‘And water.’
After some hesitation on the part of all three, the second man, supporting his comrade round the waist, shambled off along the corridor in the direction of the cargo office. I noticed the sick man had an elaborate crucifixion tattooed on his back, the arms of the Christ spread out across his shoulders.
‘They’re working double shifts,’ said Riley. He began to rub at his soiled uniform with a piece of rag.
‘You’ve coal dust on your cheek,’ I said. Taking the rag from him I offered my handkerchief. Smiling, he took it and dabbed at his face. It wasn’t an entirely friendly smile. I was about to wish him goodnight when he said, ‘Someone ought to do something about them shifts. They knew the situation before we left Southampton.’
‘And what situation was that?’ I asked, but before he could reply the two stokers appeared again at the top of the passage.
‘Come with me,’ he ordered, marching off in the opposite direction, and I followed meekly enough until, reaching a door marked Crew Only, he halted and enquired whether I could spare him a few moments. ‘I expect,’ he said, ‘you’ve better things to do.’ Though the words were deferential he made it sound like an accusation.
‘Not at all,’ I replied, damned if he was going to get the better of me. The room we entered was some sort of night pantry. There was a stove, two chairs, a table with its legs standing in circles of rat poison and a row of shelves stocked with tins of food. On the wall, askew, hung a picture