Every Man for Himself - Beryl Bainbridge [33]
‘He’s hungry for the limelight,’ said Scurra, winking at me.
‘There’s money in designing dresses for the stage,’ Rosenfelder protested. ‘Mrs Duff thinks my skills lie in the direction of the flamboyant. There is about me an element of showmanship.’
‘You must tell young Morgan what role you have in mind for Adele,’ prompted Scurra.
This Rosenfelder did, at some length. It spoilt my breakfast rather, for I had to keep nodding and smiling. If I glanced down to cut my bacon or spread butter on my bread he tapped my knuckles with his teaspoon to ensure attention. He was going to get Adele to sing in the Palm Court that evening; the ship’s orchestra would accompany her. This had been Scurra’s idea. She would wear the window dress intended for Macy’s. That idea had come from Mrs Duff.
‘I will then ask Mr Harris to the concert—’
‘His very own idea,’ interrupted Scurra.
‘And in the ticking of a clock myself and the abandoned Adele will make ourselves famous,’ concluded Rosenfelder.
I agreed it was a splendid idea and one not likely to fail. Unless, of course, the Fenwicks song-bird didn’t choose to sing.
‘Pff,’ cried Rosenfelder. ‘Since when did a woman with two pounds in her purse and no buttons to her coat know such a thing as choice?’
Andrews and his team were at least half an hour late assembling outside the gymnasium. By the time they arrived, Captain Smith, in full dress uniform, medals pinned to his pouting white tunic, the chief engineer, purser, surgeon and chief steward strutting gosling-fashion in his wake, had already begun his daily inspection. It was quite comical the way our two groups kept passing each other, often merging as we went down through the ship examining hand rails and companionways, checking portholes and connecting doors, making notes on the durability of floor coverings, measuring distances between service hatches and tables.
On F deck, forward, something of a kerfuffle ensued when Captain Smith, about to enter the Turkish baths, was confronted by a harridan of a woman stewardess who flew through the doors and barred his way. Apparently he had forgotten that the baths were open to ladies between the hours of ten and twelve each morning.
‘You shall not force yourself inside,’ she shouted imperiously, taking no heed of the braid on his uniform.
‘Madam,’ he thundered, ‘I have no intention of forcing myself anywhere.’
Discomforted, he turned and blundered into those hard on his heels. Confined in that narrow passage it took time to sort ourselves out and at least two of the design team fell in behind the purser and marched mistakenly off, not to join us again until we reached the Marconi telegraph room. Here I was present, albeit squeezed out into the corridor, when one of the wireless operators read out a message received from the French vessel La Touraine, bound from New York to Le Havre, congratulating the Titanic on her maiden voyage, wishing her God Speed and warning of ice ahead.
I was half afraid I would encounter Adele during our inspection of the steerage decks. How should I greet her? If I ignored her it was surely on the cards, seeing she roamed over the ship as she pleased, that it would be reported to Scurra, who would then think less of me. In the event, though the public rooms swarmed with men, women and children, mostly emigrants babbling in a mixture of tongues, Adele was not among them.
When we came at last to the engine and boiler rooms, only Smith, Andrews and the chief engineer were allowed access. The rest of us went off to examine the refrigeration area and the cargo holds, through which we tramped to the pinging of that ghostly violin.
Twenty minutes later the engine room detail emerged into the corridor, Andrews mopping his brow, droplets of perspiration sparkling in the Captain’s beard. Their glowing faces gave nothing away and