George said, "All right, I believe you. Now, will you please help me up? I think you've broken my back."
FORTY-ONE
At dinner that evening, it was announced with regret that Miss Catriona Keys was "indisposed, from seasickness." There was no reason for any of the first-class passengers to doubt the truth of the story, since fewer than two-thirds of them had found the stomach to turn up for what had been advertised in the ship's newspaper as "a gastronomic celebration in the French style". Even to those who had summoned up the strength to dress in evening gowns and tailcoats, the prospect of sitting down to a menu which included la feuillete de queues d'ecrevisses, le souffle de truite au homard and cote de boeuf St. Christophe au fleurie a la moelle was almost more than their equilibrium could stand. Especially since the Arcadia was still rolling, less violently, but still distinctly, through that humped and glassy-looking ocean that so often follows a storm. Many passengers had only to be reminded that they were on board ship to feel distinctly unwell.
Mark Beeney escorted Marcia Conroy in to dinner. George Welterman did not appear until le rissole de foie gras Perigourdine, and even then was unusually quiet. Still, that didn't matter. Douglas Fairbanks was doing most of the talking, describing with cheerful self-deprecation how he had twisted his ankle. He didn't mind telling his fellow passengers the truth, as long as the press headlined his injury as the result of an "heroic attempt to rescue a doomed young heiress."
Maurice Peace was there, at Rudyard Philips' table, eating with the amiable relentlessness of the born freeloader. Baroness Zawisza had been through a fierce argument with her gigolo Sabran after the storm, and so now she was eating alone, with exhibitionistic sparseness, leaving her crayfish tails untouched, and her goose-liver rissole nothing but nibbled, in the hope that Sabran would see how much she was suffering. At the same time, however, she was raising and lowering her finely plucked eyebrows at Claude Graham-White, who was sitting opposite. She didn't realise that Claude Graham-White was attempting to remember the whole of "The English Flag" by Kipling (What should they know of England, who only England know?") as a means of neutralising her blatant eroticism.
Lady Diana FitzPerry was sitting at Dick Charles' table, and she didn't take her eyes away from him for a single moment, even when she was sipping her creme de tortue blonde d'Alexandre Dumas, based on a speciality served at Maxim's, in Paris. Dick Charles, however, was reassured by her attention, rather than disturbed, and he managed to join in the conversation at the table with only a few random stutters. He had been alarmed and confused by her sexual sophistication at first, but now that it was evening again and the storm had subsided, he suddenly began to feel rather warm and rather blase about their whole peculiar night of love, and even to think about Corkies as something he might like to try again.
The extraordinary man in the toupee was also sitting at Dick Charles' table, at the far end, although he said nothing to any of his fellow diners, and sucked at his turtle soup so noisily that the lady next to him was finally constrained to say to the steward, "Do you mind taking this gentleman's soup away? I can't hear the orchestra."
Nobody saw the quick looks that the man in the toupee gave to Lady Diana; or, if they did, they kept it to themselves. They were looks not so much of flirtation, or even of curiosity. They were the half-interested glances of someone who is already aware what is going on and simply wants to keep themselves abreast of events. But Lady Diana was obviously his sole preoccupation, because he fended off any attempts at engaging him in conversation with a one-word answer and a shake of the head.
The centrepiece of the evening, however, was the continuing contest between Mr. Joe Kretchmer and Mr. Duncan Wilkes. After a light tea of cucumber sandwiches, potted shrimps, scones, fruit cake, and cream-filled meringues, they were now addressing themselves to the entire Wednesday-evening dinner menu; turtle soup, goose-liver rissole, trout souffle, and beef and everything, washed down with Riquewihr, Tain-L'Hermitage, La Chapelle-de-Guinchay, and (with the souffle aux fraises) a bottle of Philipponnat champagne.
Both men (to the completely undisguised delight of Maurice Peace) were sweating like hogs, and crimson in the face, and Duncan Wilkes in particular seemed to be finding it increasingly difficult to push each forkful of food into his mouth. He chewed each piece endlessly, frequently covering his mouth with his hand as he belched, and he drank bottle after bottle of Perrier water to aid his digestion. The thought that both of them would rise from three hours of dinner, only to be faced within twenty minutes by a supper of devilled kidneys, calves' brains in black butter, toasted Cheshire cheese, grilled mushrooms, ices, and fresh fruit, was almost more than Maurice could relish. He had taken nearly 4,000 pounds in wagers, and was hoping to clear at least half of that as profit.
Sir Peregrine had taken Dame Clara Butt into dinner, and appeared to be on top form—witty, courteous and full of scandalous little anecdotes about some of the famous and infamous people who had travelled on his ships. He claimed that he had once surprised Lord Curzon very early one morning on the first-class promenade deck, attempting to ride a one-wheeled cycle. He also claimed that one very eminent statesman (whose name he refused to divulge) had missed his way back to his cabin after a particularly bibulous dinner, and had climbed into bed with the elephantine wife of the German Ambassador in New York. He had only discovered his mistake when he awoke the next morning, but the ambassador's wife had been far from upset about it. "I only just managed to escape with my dignity intact," the statesman had told Sir Peregrine. "I also learned the meaning of Achtung!"
Harry Pakenow, in a dinner suit that was only one size too large, had been placed next to Monty Willowby, so that the purser could take care of him. He was beginning to enjoy himself, in spite of his convictions. His cabin was small, but very plush, with its own bath and a small curtained bed instead of a bunk. At first he had considered that he would be betraying the proletariat if he accepted the hospitality of the rich; but then he had thought, I'm going to sink them all soon, why not soak them for all I can get out of them?
What was more, everybody was being so nice to him. Gentlemen passengers had come up and shaken his hand and congratulated him, and some of the younger girls had fluttered their eyelashes and patted their bobbed hair and giggled at him so flirtatiously that he had blushed. Harry had expected to be patronised, but he wasn't. Everybody talked to him as if he were one of the chaps. At least, it seemed to him as if they did. What he didn't understand was that everybody in cabin class was used to being pleasant to their servants (especially these days, when a cook could cost 240 pounds a year) and that he was actually being treated as if he were a chauffeur who had rescued the children of some titled family out of a runaway dogcart.
To Monty's discomfort, Mr. Fribourg had also contrived to sit at his table, and just after the soup he leaned over and murmured, "How are the seats coming along?"
Monty glanced uncomfortably around at his guests. "I have five," he said, quickly raising the fingers of one pudgy hand.
"Five? I need at least fifteen."
"It's not easy," said Monty. "I tried to get Sir Alan Cobham's this morning, but he was sitting at the time."
"It has to be fifteen. For fifteen famous seats, I could make a fortune."
"For God's sake, Fribourg, this whole thing is ridiculous. Why not buy the seats at a plumber's and just pretend they've been sat on by famous people?"