Every Man for Himself - Beryl Bainbridge [31]
‘It would,’ I agreed. I was wondering whether the inspection would include the boiler rooms.
‘Shelley,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps Doctor Johnson.’
‘Dickens,’ I ventured. ‘Then people will know who it is.’
It’s possible I had a crush on Andrews. Certainly I admired him. One needs someone to look up to, someone worthy that is, and being fulfilled rather than just rich he was what I judge to be a successful man. He was also a pretty smart dresser and I’d once gone to the lengths of sketching a particular coat he wore – it had a row of tortoiseshell buttons down the front and four on each cuff – and giving it to my tailor to copy. When it was made up I didn’t have the nerve to wear it, in case he noticed.
For the rest, he wasn’t renowned for his wit, had never said anything to me that stayed in the mind, and one couldn’t call him handsome exactly, his face being on the heavy side, though he did have remarkable eyes, blue and candid, and a dimple in his chin. All the same, when I was in his company I quite forgot my plans for the future and if things had been different might have wished for nothing better in this world than to remain in his employ.
He engaged me in a discussion concerning the sirocco ventilating fans in Number 2 engine room. In his opinion they weren’t entirely satisfactory.
‘I believe you’re right, sir,’ I said. ‘I’ve just been down on G deck and seen a man carried out with heat stroke.’
‘Indeed,’ he said, and wrote something in his notebook.
He was good to chat with and learn from, just as long as one kept to the subject of the ship, or rather its design – bring up anything of a more personal nature and he immediately shied off. Stupidly mentioning who I’d dined with that evening I repeated Ismay’s remark that heads would roll if we didn’t reach full speed.
‘Ten o’clock sharp,’ he said, cutting me short. ‘I suggest we meet outside the gymnasium,’ and with that he gathered up his pencil and notebook and made for the door. He walked like a boxer, slightly bow-legged yet light on his feet.
Crushed, I was about to follow at a respectful distance when a tremendous outburst of coughing and spluttering arose from one of the wing armchairs turned to the wall. It was old Seefax, who, thumping the skirting board with his stick, demanded to be turned to the fire. When I’d manhandled his chair into place and prodded the coals into flame, he asked me to ring for a night-cap.
‘It’s late,’ I told him. ‘The bar steward has gone off duty.’
‘Nonsense,’ he wheezed. ‘Go and find him,’ at which, shouting out to an imaginary attendant, I fetched Andrews’ half-filled glass.
‘Told you so,’ he said. ‘They never go off duty, not in a properly run hotel.’ Spilling more than he sipped, he asked, ‘What have you been up to? Chasing girls I shouldn’t wonder.’ I told him I’d been down to the cargo decks and seen a stoker with a crucifix tattooed upon his back.
‘Used to be quite common in the past,’ he said. ‘They did it hoping to avoid the lash. Same as when they come aboard . . . you’ll see some of the old hands saluting the quarterdeck . . . the cross used to hang there.’
He then fell into a reverie, eyes fixed on the leaping flames, one parchment claw twisting the black cord from which his spectacles dangled. I waited with him; the ship was as steady as a rock but he was a frail and ancient man and I feared he might fall if left to get to his room on his own.
After some minutes, he said, ‘Women are extraordinary creatures. You can never guess what they’re capable of.’
I nodded, thinking of Wallis.
‘She went out through that window like a chipmunk up a tree. When she clambered back in one could have mistaken her for a nigger woman.’
‘Could one,’ I said, humouring him.
‘It was the smoke from the engine, you see . . . it was just going through a tunnel.’ Then, kicking his feet in delight he cried out,