Rudyard Philips rubbed at the back of his neck. "Well, the situation's completely hypothetical. But the maritime laws governing that kind of emergency are quite specific. There's even a law which tells you what to do if all your passengers decide to drink seawater and go insane."
"You're very cagey," smiled Catriona.
"You're the mistress of this shipping line, Miss Keys. Sir Peregrine's the commodore. I don't know how else you expect me to behave."
"I don't know either, Mr. Philips," said Catriona. "I really don't know. Do you?"
What Rudyard Philips had failed to grasp, of course, was that Catriona wasn't in the least bit interested in how loyal he might be to Sir Peregrine; or whether he might run the Arcadia on to the nearest shoal of rocks just to show the commodore up for a blundering drunkard. She was simply playing that silly, merciless, question-and-answer game that she used to play with her theatrical friends in London. What would you do if you caught your sister in bed with a blackie? How would you feel if you caught your best friend stealing from your purse? Would you ever sleep with an Old Wykehamist (Answer: No-oo-o -they invariably smell.)
Catriona was only provoking Rudyard Philips, the way that she and Nigel and Bunny Smythe had all provoked each other on those hungover Sunday mornings in Chelsea, mornings of gin slings and mah-jong and "Tiger Rag" on the gramophone.
"I'm afraid you're going to have to excuse me," said Rudyard Philips. "I have to do the rounds of all the cabin-class staterooms by noon. Welcome the paying customers aboard, that kind of thing."
Catriona stood up, and walked across the room trailing smoke behind her. Beneath her feet, the liner was already beginning to roll very slightly and the vase of orchids on the sideboard was vibrating with a hollow rattle. Some ocean liners vibrated so violently that their stewards could only fill the wine-glasses half-full, in case the wine jumped out on the table.
"Are you married, Mr. Philips?" Catriona asked him.
Rudyard Philips slowly raised his eyes. By instinct or by accident, Catriona had touched on his most sensitive emotional toothache. In a curiously congested voice, he said, "Yes. Well, yes."
"Couldn't your wife have come with you? Some of the officers" wives have."
"Yes, I—But, no, she couldn't. She has the two youngsters to look after. She's Chinese, you know. Well, you wouldn't have known that. I met her in Hong Kong, on shore leave from the old HMS Superb. She lives in Runcorn now, with my sister's family. Her real Chinese name is Surprise-Bloom Flower, but I usually call her Toy."
"Surprise-Bloom Flower? That's pretty."
Rudyard Philips gave an odd, brass-band sort of laugh. "Silly names, these Chinese."
Catriona said, "Are you happy, Mr Philips?"
He frowned at her, unsure of what she was actually asking him. But he found it difficult to hold her gaze for long. "I'm content with my commission, thank you," he said, rather stolidly. "I won't pretend that I wasn't disappointed that I didn't get the Arcadia for myself. But, well, she is the new company flagship, and I suppose it was only right that she should go to Sir Peregrine."
"You seem rather down, Mr Philips, that's all," said Catriona.
Rudyard Philips" face betrayed a fleeting wince, a jumbled expression of something overwhelmingly painful; but then he managed a smile, and said, "Everything's very well, thank you, Miss Keys. And I really must be going. Perhaps you'd care for a guided tour of the ship after luncheon? You really ought to see what a fine oceangoing lady you've inherited from your father."
"I'd like that," said Catriona, and then, "Mr. Philips?"
Rudyard Philips by now had already collected his cap and was backing out of the stateroom. "Miss Keys?"
She was trying to say that she was sorry, that she hadn't meant to upset him, but the words remained unspoken in her mouth like tough half-chewed beef that couldn't be swallowed. Instead, she said, "Half past two would be perfect."
Alice, coming out of the bathroom with an emerald-green Turkish towel, said "I've drawn your bath, Miss Keys."
Catriona stood where she was, finishing her cigarette, while Alice waited. She felt really quite rotten for what she had said to Rudyard Philips, although she wasn't exactly sure why. She had upset him, of that she was certain; but whether it was because of the impertinent question that she had asked him, or whether it was because the very mention of Sir Peregrine was enough to make him feel as if his uniform was crowded with itching powder, or whether it was because he was going through a difficult time at home, she just couldn't be sure. Did she really care? Well, perhaps not. He was only a ship's officer, after all, and although Trimmer had said tint on his own ships he was very popular with the ladies, especially the Americans, he seemed to Catriona to be pretty dull. The only trouble was, he had somehow made her feel guilty and cruel, and she didn't like feeling guilty and cruel one bit.
As she went into the bathroom and loosened her sash, she wondered if that was why Nigel hadn't come along with her—because she was too young and merciless. A tease. And yet she couldn't help herself. Teasing amused her, and more important, it was really the only way you could find out the truth about people. It didn't mean that she didn't love people, either.
Stepping into the bath, she caught the aroma of this morning's love making between her thighs. Surreptitiously, like a shoplifter, while Alice was busy setting out the soap and the loofah, she cupped her hand down there, and then lifted her fingers to her nostrils so that she could breath in that mingled musky smell of Nigel. She found it ridiculously arousing.
She closed her eyes while Alice soaped her with magnolia-scented soap—firm slippery fingers massaging her shoulders and her breasts. Then she stood up again, holding on to the art-deco handrail, while Alice meticulously washed away Nigel's last memory. The bathwater sloshed a little as the liner changed course across Liverpool Bay.
After the bath, she sat in the bedroom while Alice combed her hair, sipping at a very cold gin fizz and feeling that flat let-down feeling she always got when she nearly managed a climax but not quite. She wondered how she had ever grown up so outspoken and so unlovable.
TWELVE
Rudyard Philips had gone straight to the officers" promenade deck on the port side of the boat deck next to the gymnasium, and lit up a cigarette, Wills Gold Flake. He had drawn the coarse tobacco smoke deep into his lungs, held it, and then exhaled it into the wind with all the fierceness of a fire-eater. He felt steadier now, although he was still trembling. His breakfast of sausages and fried eggs and grilled tomatoes was lying half-digested in the whisky he had drunk when he came off watch in the early hours of the morning. He felt like vomiting; but with several first-class passengers already strolling on the adjacent deck, that was the last thing he could allow himself to do. Contrary to company literature, ship's officers were quite often seasick, but never in front of the passengers.
The Arcadia was making her stately way across Liverpool Bay, leaving her home port behind her in the shining haze of a summer day, and sailing parallel to the north coast of Wales. In a little while she would be passing Prestatyn, and then skirting Anglesey on her route across the Irish Sea to Dublin. There were still crowds of yachts and steamboats and pleasure-craft all around her, their crews waving handkerchiefs and cheering and taking photographs with box Brownies, and the holiday mood was infecting everyone. From the Palm Court on the first-class promenade deck, where some of the mid-morning strollers had already paused for champagne, ham sandwiches, eight different varieties of English cheese, celery, olives and Bath Oliver biscuits, came the warbling of a jazz clarinet, and the strumming of a hot banjo; and the voices of the steerage could be heard against the breeze, singing that old American comic song "Under the Anheuser Bush."