Every Man for Himself - Beryl Bainbridge [61]
‘I have,’ I said.
‘Keep it with you,’ and with that he went inside.
The crowd had dispersed when I crossed back through the foyer. Most of the men had returned to the smoke-room bar; judging by the noise they were in boisterous mood. Ginsberg and Melchett were at our old table, Ginsberg occupied in building a house out of the pack of bridge cards. This surprised me. I had thought he’d be in the thick of it, spouting his opinions about a lost propeller to all and sundry. I sat down feeling important.
‘Look here,’ I began, ‘I think it would be best if we went out to give a hand with the life-boats. Most of the crew will be needed for other things.’
‘You’ve experience of davits and such like, have you?’ asked Ginsberg. ‘I mean you’ve been through the drill?’
‘Well, no . . . but—’
‘Then you’ll be a lot of use, won’t you?’
‘We won’t actually be getting into the boats,’ scoffed Hopper. ‘It won’t come to that. Why, the women would never stand for it. It’s too cold.’
I said, ‘I happen to know that it’s more serious than you think. I have it on the best authority that things are looking pretty bad. There isn’t a great deal of time.’
‘Time for what?’ Hopper asked.
‘For us to get into the boats,’ I said. ‘It’s essential we put on more clothes.’
‘I think not,’ Ginsberg said. ‘I doubt we’ll be getting into any boats, not unless the clothing you have in mind includes petticoats.’ He was still playing with his house of cards, his tongue caught between his teeth with the effort of laying on the roof. Hopper looked mystified. There’d been a time, years ago, when I too had gone out of my way to baffle him.
‘Look here,’ I shouted, ‘this isn’t a game, you know.’ I tugged at Ginsberg’s elbow to make him listen and sent his cards in a heap.
‘How many boats did you say there were?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t,’ I retorted. ‘But as a matter of fact there are sixteen, plus four collapsibles.’
‘Capable of carrying how many? Fifty at the most?’
‘More like sixty,’ I snapped.
‘And how many of us would you estimate are on board?’ He was watching me through half-closed eyes, waiting. A burst of laughter came from the direction of the bar. A voice began to bellow the ‘Eton Boating Song’. What a fool I am, I thought, and the elation which had buoyed me up drained away and I was left swirling the cards round and round on the table-top in imitation of a whirlpool to stop my hands from shaking.
Just then Rosenfelder rushed in, his expression deeply gloomy. As always, he was looking for Scurra. A steward had come into the Palm Court, where he and Adele had been drinking high-balls with the Duff Gordons, and ordered them to their quarters to put on life-preservers before going up on deck. They had asked what luggage they’d be required to take with them and been told they couldn’t take anything, nothing but the clothes they stood up in. What was he going to do about his dress? He wasn’t allowed to carry it in its box and it was unthinkable that Adele should wear it in a life-boat. ‘There is the oil,’ he wailed, ‘the dirt, the salt-spray . . . it will be ruined. Where is Scurra? He will use his influence. Where are his rooms?’
None of us could tell him. Hopper had seen him in the passageways of both A and C decks. Ginsberg had bumped into him along the main corridor of B deck, but he could have been coming from anywhere. Rosenfelder looked at me. ‘I’ve not been to his room,’ I told him. ‘My steward hasn’t even heard of him.’
‘Then he’s one in a million,’ said Hopper.
‘Why not ask Wallis Ellery,’ Ginsberg said. I noticed his voice was unsteady. He seemed to be having difficulty with his breathing. I fancied he was more alarmed than he let on.
‘She is not to be found either,’ Rosenfelder moaned. ‘Adele’s clothes are in her room. I have