Every Man for Himself - Beryl Bainbridge [46]
‘I don’t understand why she’s so cheerful,’ I burst out. ‘I expected her to leap for the ocean again. Is it possible she didn’t love him after all?’
‘You don’t understand women,’ he said, which was true enough. ‘Given the choice, desertion or bereavement, a woman will pick the latter every time. A sensible enough preference, don’t you agree? At least she knows where he is.’
And then, of course, his shoulders heaved with laughter, in which I joined because I couldn’t help myself. I guess it was his way of puncturing false concern. It’s bunkum to suppose we can be touched by tragedies other than our own.
I suggested a stroll together on deck before bed. He hesitated and then agreed. As we rose from the table Wallis approached. She wanted to know if Miss Baines had recovered from her fainting fit. Scurra answered that she had.
‘We’re just going out to take the air,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t think we’ll be long.’
‘What is the time?’ she asked, and without consulting his watch Scurra told her it was ten forty-five, which was incorrect, because when we mounted the stairs the hands of the clock on the main landing stood at no more than fifteen minutes past the hour.
It was cold on deck and the few people about had sensibly put on coats and scarves. We walked to the dull roar of the ship as it waded the leaden sea. The night was moonless, windless; rags of dance music floated up from the deck below. ‘It’s parky,’ I exclaimed, the word rising from my subconscious like a fish from the deep.
‘A curious adjective,’ Scurra pondered. ‘It can mean both inclement weather and a sharpness of tongue. It’s intriguing, don’t you agree, the flotsam we allow to surface from the past?’
‘The toy horse remains submerged,’ I said.
We continued our walk in silence; it was too cold to stand at the rail. I had the feeling Scurra was abstracted and tried to think of an interesting topic for discussion, something that would return his thoughts to me. I wondered if it would be impolite to ask what advice he had given Bruce Ismay all those years ago.
‘I’ve been mulling over our conversation of yesterday,’ I said at last, ‘with regards to the division of capital. Perhaps I was wrong . . . there is always another way . . .’
‘Dear God,’ he groaned. ‘How easy it is to shake convictions.’
‘All I meant,’ I protested, ‘is that possibly I would be better employed in fighting inequalities from a position of strength. Some of comrade Tuohy’s ideas . . . I approve of them, of course . . . I mean, they’re sound enough in theory . . .’
‘But it might be more advantageous to join the system rather than oppose it,’ Scurra prompted.
I nodded.
‘From the highest of motives, of course.’
‘Yes, indeed—’
‘No doubt you plan to improve working conditions. Perhaps you envisage recreational halls, cricket pavilions—’
‘Yes,’ I replied enthusiastically. ‘Yes, exactly,’ though until that moment such things hadn’t crossed my mind. A vision of a garden city came into my head – thatched cottages, a hospital, playing fields, a cemetery with angels spreading plaster wings above tended graves.
‘If you ever did get that far,’ Scurra retorted, ‘you’d be damned disappointed at the outcome. It would soon be brought home to you that the profit motive, which you now consider so venal, is no more than common sense—’
‘Never,’ I cried out.
‘After you’ve paid for the doctor’s surgery . . . the school . . . naturally, you’ll want to endow an orphanage . . . and the buildings have become fixed in time . . . the planting of ivy against the foundations is of great help in the fostering of this deceit . . . you’ll come face to face with ingratitude . . . hostility even . . . murmurings of discontent amongst the very people you’ve endeavoured to help. Inevitably there’ll be a demand for higher wages . . . and why not, seeing it will have become apparent to