Every Man for Himself - Beryl Bainbridge [52]
Scurra’s voice said, ‘No, Morgan. No.’ He spun me round. I couldn’t read the expression in his eyes because the lamp-light glittered on his spectacles, but for once he no longer smiled and the set of his riven mouth, so lewdly employed but twenty minutes before, was grimly purposeful.
He wouldn’t let go of me, though I tried to shake him off. ‘No,’ he said again, and tightened his grip. I believe he thought it was myself I wanted to be rid of.
‘It was cruel of you,’ I shouted. ‘It was you who encouraged me to approach her.’
‘My life has gone in a flash,’ he said. ‘As yours will.’
‘Words,’ I crowed. ‘Just words.’
‘How else are we to be understood?’ he demanded.
‘I loved her,’ I whined. ‘I wanted to please her.’
‘We have but a short time to please the living,’ he said. ‘And all eternity to love the dead,’ and with that he prised the painting from my grasp and rubbed at her face with his sleeve. ‘Come inside,’ he implored. ‘There’s a good chap. It’s cold out here.’
‘You had no right,’ I muttered. ‘It was not the behaviour of a friend.’
‘My dear boy,’ he said. ‘Have you not yet learnt that it’s every man for himself?’
FIVE
Sunday, 14th April
Nothing lasts, neither joy nor despair. Having retired to bed considerably the worse for drink and hoping to die, I woke refreshed and full of optimism. Memories of the latter part of the previous night eluded me, though I remembered telling someone – either Hopper or Charlie – of my amorous encounter with Wallis in the foyer and receiving an assurance that when next we met she would behave as if nothing had happened. Indeed, I seemed to recall standing near her in the elevator when I was taken up to clearmy head, and she was smiling; this was probably wishful thinking. As for the earlier half of that momentous evening, beyond a slight twinge of guilt at having smeared that obscene verb on the bathroom glass, I’d banished the whole shameful business from my mind and resolved never to dwell on it again. Here, Sissy came once more to the rescue – she’d taught me long ago that if ever a frightening picture flew into my head I was to imagine a giant foot coming down to stamp it flat.
When McKinlay came in with the tea he unaccountably carried the painting of my mother under his arm. He said an affable gentleman in spectacles had given it to him first thing that morning. He made to replace it on the wall but I told him to leave it propped against the skirting board.
‘I hear we won’t be docking now until Wednesday morning,’ I said.
‘That was the case yesterday, sir. I understand our speed has increased since then and we might yet make it by Tuesday night. Of course, it’s not an easy matter to berth a ship of this size in darkness.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘But Captain Smith’s the man to do it, sir. I’ve sailed with him four times on the Olympic and believe me it’s an education to see him con the ship at full speed up the channels entering New York. There was one particular time, very tricky it was, sir . . . it could have ended badly. It made one flush with pride the way he swung her round, judging his distances to a nicety, she heeling over to the helm with only a matter of feet to spare between each end of the ship and the banks, and him standing cool as a cucumber with his wee dog at his side.’
‘I’ve noticed he doesn’t drink,’ I said. ‘Not even wine with his dinner.’
‘Not a drop, sir. But then, a man with drink in him is mostly out of control.’ I thought he looked at me too boldly and was about to remind him that he hadn’t been too steady on his pins the other afternoon when there was a knock at the door. It was Charlie, at which McKinlay, gathering my clothes up from the floor and holding them ostentatiously at arm’s length, left.
Charlie had come expecting to find me prostrate. ‘You were terribly squiffy last night,