Every Man for Himself - Beryl Bainbridge [43]
‘You’ll be interested to know,’ Ginsberg said, addressing me, ‘that Scurra holds equally fierce views on the beastly properties of anything German.’
Melchett groaned.
‘And he speaks from experience. His lip was damaged from the recoil of a Mauser rifle.’
‘He was bitten by a parrot,’ I said. I was distracted by the sight of Rosenfelder mounting the orchestra rostrum. He spoke to the violinist who nodded then shooed him away with his bow.
‘You’re both mistaken,’ Wallis said. ‘I happen to know Scurra was gored by a bull in Cadiz.’
At which moment the band finished their piece and a hubbub of shushing arose from the Duff Gordons’ table, whereupon Rosenfelder, climbing on to a chair, called for silence. He was only partially successful, in that Mrs Brown of Denver had evidently just delivered the punch line to one of her risqué stories; a bellow of laughter from the gentlemen at her table obliterated his opening words.
‘. . . in half an hour in the Palm Court,’ he concluded, stabbing his cigar in that direction, and beaming clambered from view.
‘What’s Rosenfelder blabbing about now?’ asked Ginsberg.
‘He’s organised a recital,’ said Wallis. ‘A lady called Miss Baines is to sing for us.’
I was surprised she was so well informed and wondered if she knew that the ‘lady’ in question was travelling steerage. Not wishing to ask her outright, I observed instead that it was strange we hadn’t known of Miss Baines’ existence before now. Wallis gave one of her enigmatic smiles and said that most things were strange, and none more so than men.
When she and Ida went off to the powder room, Melchett, spotting Molly Dodge at the Carters’ table, declared he was going over to enquire whether she was feeling better. ‘She was terribly upset earlier on,’ he said, and added for Ginsberg’s benefit, ‘Which is hardly surprising, is it?’ Ginsberg didn’t bat an eyelid. At Melchett’s departure he moved chairs and sat beside me. In spite of putting his mouth to my ear he spoke in such a low voice that I had to strain to hear him. ‘Good news,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve heard on the grape-vine that the fire’s almost out.’
I hesitated, then asked, ‘Do they know what caused it?’
‘Insufficient hosing down of the coal,’ he said. ‘I guess they were in a hurry on account of meeting the departure date.’
I’d never really looked at him properly, certainly not at such close quarters, and was astonished at how pale his skin was and how crimson his mouth in comparison. He drew back slightly and studied me in return. ‘You don’t seem convinced,’ he said.
Of course I shrugged him off and made light of the whole thing, but I’m not sure he was fooled. My feelings towards him were thoroughly ambivalent; on the one hand I detested him and on the other – well, I already knew he was pretty confident, which is not to be scoffed at. That day beside the Thames, when he’d thrown himself down on the grass after I’d challenged him to a fight, he’d shouted, ‘What on earth will it prove if I knock you out?’ It was his assumption that I’d be the loser, rather than the other way round, that had got through to me. It was damnably irritating, of course, but still impressive. I began to wonder whether I shunned him because everybody else did, and for the same reasons; we instantly detect in others those faults most common to ourselves.
A large crowd gathered in the Palm Court after dinner. Lady Duff Gordon saw to that, rounding us up like so many sheep. Nor were we allowed to sit where we pleased, the tables having been removed and the chairs rearranged in front of the flight of stairs leading up to the mirrored doors of the a` la carte restaurant. To the right of the stairs stood a three-pronged candle stand, five foot in height, topped with virgin candles. The orchestra sat below the stairs and to the left.
I must say Lady Duff Gordon was right in thinking Rosenfelder had a touch of the