Every Man for Himself - Beryl Bainbridge [72]
I wasn’t cold any more, that’s for sure; the sweat ran into my eyes. Hopper had a split lip. We went up top to see what more could be done and found a collapsible had been hitched to the empty davits where the Duff Gordons’ boat had hung. Mr Carter and Bruce Ismay stood beside it. They had their hands cupped to their mouths and were bellowing for women to come forward, but there didn’t seem to be any in sight. I shouted that there were plenty on the decks below and with that the officer helped Mr Carter and Mr Ismay on board. Mr Carter called out for Hopper and me to join them, but we shook our heads. I can’t know for certain what Hopper was thinking, yet I guess we both felt it would be an unmanly thing to do with so many women still stranded. Mr Carter wasn’t a bad old stick and I didn’t want him to feel we’d shown him up, so I ran to the rail and wished him God Speed and said I hoped to see him and Mrs Carter before long. Such was the list of the ship that as the collapsible dropped it banged against the hull and they had to lever it away with the oars for fear the rivet-heads tore the canvas. We could hear Ismay yelling for Mr Carter to put his back into it.
We were hurrying aft when Hopper spied Charlie sitting on a bench at the base of the second funnel. He was cradling Wallis in his arms. ‘She won’t stop shaking,’ he said. ‘Rosenfelder’s given her his coat but it hasn’t made any difference.’ Guiltily, I remembered my promise. I told him not to move from the spot, not unless he could manage to get Wallis into a life-boat. He pursed his mouth and said that was unlikely. He had tried to do just that ten minutes before and she’d bitten his hand.
Scurra was still in the Palm Court. The man with the bottle of Gordon’s gin had joined him; he was middle-aged and had mild, if somewhat inflamed, blue eyes. The bottle was almost empty but Scurra hadn’t been drinking.
‘Wallis needs you,’ I said. ‘She has to talk to you.’ There didn’t seem any point in beating about the bush.
‘About anything in particular?’
‘Come now,’ I cried. ‘You know damn well what I mean.’
‘Is this a private conversation?’ asked the gin drinker.
‘What would you like me to say to her?’ Scurra said. ‘What would you advise?’ His expression was grave, which took the steam out of me.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could pretend to—’
‘If it is,’ our table companion interrupted, ‘I can always go away. I’m used to going away. I can tip-toe away like a fairy.’
‘Pretend what?’ Scurra asked.
‘To care,’ I said.
‘It’s dangerous to pretend—’
‘But if it gets her into the boats—’
‘And what if she should survive?’ he said. ‘No doubt I would then be faced with a breach of promise case.’ Now he shook with laughter, but I reckoned it wasn’t genuine.
‘Perhaps all she wants is for you to say goodbye.’
‘Just say the word,’ muttered the drinker, his head sinking to the table.
‘There’s not much time,’ I said. ‘She’s sitting up there, refusing to enter the boats. Do you want her on your conscience?’ He said slowly, ‘I’m not entirely sure I have one.’ He looked away, trying to find an argument. I couldn’t force him to go with me, I knew that. The drunk was dreaming, snorting. Scurra patted his head like a mother.
I was prepared to give up when he said, ‘I’m not as cruel as you think, you know. I do have my feelings, though they appear to be different from those generally considered suitable. There are many women on this ship who would have granted me their favours, just as there are many men who stepped into the breach once it became obvious I was not available. I say this without vanity, hard as it is for someone of your age and disposition to believe.