Every Man for Himself - Beryl Bainbridge [68]
I was making for the companionway to the upper deck when Rosenfelder approached. He urged me to come with him to find Adele who had gone to her cabin determined to rescue her Madame Butterfly costume. For some extraordinary reason he twice addressed me as lamb chop, once when we were rounding the landing on C deck and again when I made a wrong turning on level F. ‘You are going backwards, lamb chop,’ he scolded. ‘Please concentrate.’ I guess he was being affectionate.
There was terrible confusion below, the passageways jammed with people, their possessions stowed in pillowcases slung across their shoulders. We saw not a single officer or steward as we forced our way through. A boy riding a home-made hobby horse with a skein of red yarn for a mane scraped my ankle; his mother scurried behind carrying an infant, a shawl over her breast, the tiny fingers of the child caught like a brooch in the wool. In the public lounge an untidy circle of men and women surrounded a priest reciting the rosary. Some knelt, others rocked backwards and forwards as though the ship rolled beneath them. The priest was a bear of a man with a great splodge of a nose and he gabbled rather than spoke, the responses swirling about him like the hectic buzzing of disturbed bees. Coming to a bend in the passage near the dormitories, we had to flatten ourselves against the tiled wall as a dozen or more stokers, faces black with grease and some carrying shovels, swept headlong past. The fans in the ceiling had stopped spinning and it was uncomfortably warm. I couldn’t help contrasting this subterranean hell with the Eden above, where, under the twinkling stars, they paced to the swoon of violins.
Moments later we spotted Adele coming from the direction of the kitchens. One hand balanced aloft a cheap suitcase, a loaf of bread teetering on top, the other hitched up the skirt of Rosenfelder’s dress, exposing her handsome legs to the knee. She wore a black cloak lent by Lady Duff Gordon; even so, we could clearly see the edges of that waterfall train had become trimmed with dirt.
‘My God,’ cried Rosenfelder. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his honey-coloured fur and, sinking to the floor, frantically dabbed at the material. He was knocked sideways by the blundering run of a middle-aged man carrying a dinner plate rattling with spoons. I was ashamed on Rosenfelder’s behalf – so much more was at stake than a ruined gown – and dragged him to his feet. Adele said, ‘There’s sea water trickling across the floor of the kitchen. My shoes have turned crusty,’ and sure enough, her ivory slippers were stained yellow at the toes.
We escorted her to the boat deck, starboard. A boat was being prepared for lowering. Either the ropes were too new and too stiff or the cleats weren’t oiled sufficiently, but the handlers were having a devil of a job getting her down from the davits. There was no sign of Ginsberg and the girls. Astor and his wife were standing nearby, not touching, he looking out into the night, she drooping beneath the studded sky. He had brought up his dog; yawning, its breath curled like smoke. Mrs Brown was there too with the Carters and Mrs Hogeboom. Mrs Carter said she was worn out traipsing the stairs from one deck to another and would be glad to sit down. While we were waiting I strolled towards the stern. Ahead of me an officer hurried towards two women coming from the port side in the direction of the gate separating the first and second class. He held up his arm. ‘May we pass?’ one of the women