Every Man for Himself - Beryl Bainbridge [4]
It struck me, even then, that the stranger with the scarred lip was someone I might usefully cultivate. There was a robustness about him, an arrogance that had nothing to do with money, and if I hadn’t felt so liverish I’d have responded to that first zestful overture. I’m not, or rather I wasn’t, the sort of fellow who sees the point in keeping his distance, particularly if it’s likely to lead to amusement.
The man with the oblong package was the first to leave. He too looked at me and nodded as he passed by. His cool acknowledgement and the graceful manner in which he manoeuvred his way between the tables surprised me; one always expects fat men of a certain class to be both clumsy and lacking in confidence. In spite of myself, I nodded in return. At that instant the clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour and the woman rose from her chair. The stout man reached the door and half turned. The expression on his face was so open, his feelings of admiration, if not downright desire, so apparent, that I too looked at the woman. She was singularly tall for her sex, statuesque in build, and wore a tailored coat made of some dark material with a touch of cheap fur at throat and wrists. From her low-brimmed hat escaped a wave of bright hair. I have no early recollection of the beauty of her features, the Roman nose, the width between her pale eyes, only of the translucency of her skin. It would be true to say, if couched a shade poetically, that she had a complexion so luminous in its perfection that it was like gazing upon a pearl.
For perhaps five seconds the three of us remained fixated, he looking at her, she looking at him, myself regarding first one then the other. He was hatless and a bead of sweat rolled from beneath the black curls lolling on his brow. Then the fourth spectator, leaning even further backward in his seat, called out, ‘My word, life is a tragedy, what?’ It was such a knowing, insolent intrusion that I coloured up.
Minutes later he too quit the room. This time I made out I was studying the breakfast menu. As he passed he gave a little bark of a cough, doubtless to draw my attention. I didn’t look up; in my present state of lethargy I feared I might disappoint him. Though not vain, I’m aware my outward appearance raises expectations.
When he’d gone I remained for an hour or more in the empty dining room, during which time the third class train from Waterloo puffed up the tracks of West Road and disgorged its steerage passengers alongside White Star Dock. I took little interest in the massive liner that was soon to carry me home, though in her beauty she was as deserving of attention as the tall woman who had recently left the hotel. More so, for in a small way, albeit very small, I’d helped in her creation. That being said, my thoughts were mostly of my mother who had never been closer to my heart.
Dreaming there, my mind racing the clouds above Southampton Water, I resolved, not for the first time, to spend the next few days pursuing fitness of mind and body; a visit to the swimming pool and squash court each morning, the library in the afternoon followed by two courses at dinner, absolutely no alcohol and retirement by ten o’clock at the latest. No sooner had I dwelt on the satisfaction to be gained from such a puritanical regime than I was compelled to order a brandy. I wasn’t irresolute by nature, merely shaken at the prospect.
I saw the man with the split lip again when I was searching for Melchett’s automobile. He was talking to J.S. Seefax, a second cousin of my aunt’s and a crashing bore, always rambling on about his early manhood in Georgia when as an agent for the Confederate Government he’d helped run the blockade of Europe. I fancy he saw me too, for they both turned in my direction, but at that