Every Man for Himself - Beryl Bainbridge [58]
I was pleased for the tailor; he was not just a flash in the pan. Nor was Adele. The two would rise together. There were some, Hopper for one, who thought the whole caboodle smacked of vulgarity. Nor could he think what we saw in Adele. She was pretty enough, but far too tall for a woman. And where the devil did she go to after her spectacular appearances?
‘No, she wouldn’t do for you,’ drawled Wallis. ‘But then, you’re on the small side, aren’t you?’
The dinner dragged on. If anything, not drinking was having an hallucinatory effect on me. I had the curious impression I was part of a group seen from without. I had to go on eating because if I looked up I might see faces pressed to the window, hands clawing the glass. The noise too was outside, a dull intermingle of shrieking voices and clattering china. And there was another sound, a high-pitched whistle such as the sand at Singing Beach gave off when stepped upon. I turned, opened my mouth to tell Molly Dodge I thought of the North Shore near her home, but she wasn’t there. Ginsberg was slicing a peach in two, preparing to gouge out the stone with his knife. He glanced up and the reflection of the candles leapt in his eyes. The table tilted. The next thing I remember I was in the outer room, crouched on a wicker chair, Hopper pushing my head down between my knees, a lump of ice melting on the back of my neck.
Ida said it was the heat. All the windows were tightly closed because of the intense cold outside. She tugged my head up and prised out the stud of my collar. I jerked like a rabbit in a trap as the sliver of ice slid further down my spine. Hopper was worried about the clout he’d dealt me with his racquet. In Melchett’s opinion it was a delayed reaction to my excessive drinking of the night before; judging by the disdainful glance bestowed on me by Mrs Carter, just then leaving the restaurant with Mrs Brown, it could be reckoned I was in the middle of a repeat performance. That good old sport Mrs Brown winked as she passed by.
I recovered quickly enough, physically, that is, feeling no longer sick and being quite steady on my feet. Mentally, something was wrong. As I walked to the smoke-room, Hopper and Melchett at either elbow and Ida faffing along behind in case I took another turn, I distinctly heard voices uttering sentences that didn’t finish. An hour and a half. Possibly . . . Hadn’t we better cancel that . . . As we have lived, so will we . . . If you’ll get the hell out of the . . . I shook my head to get rid of them and they trailed off like mist pushed by the wind. Once in the smoke-room, Hopper urged me to down a small measure of medicinal brandy, which made me shudder. As soon as I could I got away from him, insisting I needed to go out on deck, alone. I promised I’d be back in a jiff, and if I wasn’t he should come in search of me.
He was right about the cold; the air stung my lungs. I was about to dodge back inside when I saw Riley sauntering towards the companionway up to the officers’ house. I called out his name, clapping my hands together to keep them warm. When he’d come close enough, I said, ‘Look here, I want to explain myself.’
‘Is that so?’ he replied. ‘And why would that be?’ He stood there, his face sinister in the lantern light, breath steaming.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said, and I wasn’t. ‘Something bothers me. Can’t we talk?’
He said, ‘That we can’t, sir. Piss off,’ and with