Catriona said, "Did you know my father?"
"Of course. Everybody in shipping knew your father."
"But did you know him well?"
George Weltennan eyed Catriona cautiously. "As well as anyone, I suppose. We once sailed up the Irrawaddy together."
"And do you think that he would have sold out everything to IMM, just because the company was finding things difficult?"
"I think you're misunderstanding the situation, Miss Keys. If your father had still been alive today, then the difficulties which you are facing would not have existed. Perhaps if your father had had a son, who could have taken over the company and rallied the confidence of the banks and the stockholders... But, sadly, the problem which Keys Shipping faces is that your father had only one child, and that child is a girl."
"You're trying to say that the company is going to have to be sold because of me?" Catriona felt empty, and shocked. It simply hadn't occurred to her before that Keys Shipping was in jeopardy because the company's creditors had no faith whatsoever in a young woman's ability to be able to keep the company going. And, in a way, she felt that she had let herself down, too, by acting so nonchalant and flippant and half-baked and forgetting that she could have shown Edgar and Percy Fearson and all of the company's creditors that she was seriously interested in keeping the family business running.
George Welterman tugged at his sharp white cuffs. "Your poor father's luck was always a little like that. And it was the same to the very end, wasn't it? He built this wonderful ship with every ounce of energy he could muster, not to mention credit. And he never even got to see it sail. He should be with us now, you know. Such a tragedy."
Catriona said, "I only want to do my best."
"Of course you do, my dear," smiled George Weltennan. "I know that."
"But I'm still not sure that selling out is the right thing to do. Philip Carter-Helm said that it could be possible to sell only the Arcadia—I mean, not that I want to sell her—but he said that she should raise enough money to keep the rest of the line going."
"Who's Philip Carter-Helm?" asked George Welterman suspiciously.
"Well, I don't know, really. But he's a friend of Mark Beeney."
"And he said that you could sell the Arcadia alone—I presume to Mark Beeney?"
"Oh, of course. I mean, he did make it clear that he was Mark Beeney's friend."
"He said that you could sell the Arcadia alone, and make sufficient profit to keep the rest of the fleet afloat?"
Catriona nodded.
George Welterman slowly shook his head. "No, no, my dear. You can see what he's trying to do, but it won't ever wash. I've been through the Keys accounts for the past five years, and believe me there isn't any way in which four million pounds could give the company sufficient working capital to revive its fortunes. Not without your father at the helm, that is. He did it once: when the Arcadia was first planned. He was very short of capital then, but he was able to drum up enough to lay down the keel, and every plate that was riveted into place afterwards gave the banks more confidence, and the stockholders more tolerance. An exceptional man, your father. But you won't see the like of him again. He was one of the old school."
He paused, picking his teeth with the edge of his fingernail. Then he asked, "By the way, what does he do, this Philip Carter-what'shis-name?"
"I don't really know," Catriona confessed. "I think he's in marine insurance."
"Probably a salesman, if you ask me," commented George Welterman. He had worried out the offending shred of meat, and now he was inspecting it closely on the end of his finger. "Some of them do nothing but sail continuously from one side of the Atlantic to the other, selling life insurance to passengers. Well, they have a captive audience, after all; and everybody feels a little vulnerable when they're at sea."
"He didn't seem like a salesman," Catriona remarked.
"They're the best kind," said George Welterman.
Catriona watched a mannequin hurrying down the steeply-angled runner in a tartan afternoon coat by Drecoll, but she hardly noticed the style or the cut. "My father cared so much for the people who worked for him," she said. "If you do buy Keys, you will look after them, won't you?"
George Welterman laid a hand on her arm and leaned so close that she could smell his Euthymol toothpaste. "I have already explained to Edgar Deacon that IMM would regard the acquisition of Keys as a sacred trust. A trust to preserve your father's dream of what this shipping line should always have been, and a trust to protect all the thousands of people who depend on Keys for their livelihood. We know what it would do to Liverpool and Formby if Keys were to close; and that's partly why we're making our offer. A collapse in the shipping business wouldn't do any of us any good."
"Then what would I have to do?" asked Catriona. "To show that I approved of the sale?"
George Welterman beamed like a man who has just taken a mouthful of gritty spinach. "All you have to do is tell Edgar. Edgar will know what to do."
"And you really think that there's no chance of Keys being able to survive on its own? Supposing we take the Blue Riband? Supposing the Arcadia is booked up all winter?"
George Welterman shook his head in what he intended to be a gesture of avuncular kindness. "I'm sorry. I've been through the accounts and I just don't see it."
The Arcadia was rolling very badly now, and there were scarcely any ladies left in the fashion show audience. A last lone mannequin struggled up and down the heaving floor, showing off a honeycomb-patterned Molyneuz cape, but then Monsieur Delain fought his way out of the curtains and announced that the parade was over. There was a smattering of applause, and the string quintet struck up a doleful version of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow."
Edgar came up and leaned over Catriona's chair. He gave her a tight humourless beam. "Fruitful, was it?" he asked her.
"Mostly banana oil, if that's what you mean," she retorted. "Banana oil" was a fashionable alternative to "bunk'.
George Welterman suddenly, unexpectedly, let out a loud laugh, and gripped Edgar by the wrist. Catriona could tell by the expression on Edgar's face that the grip actually hurt.
TWENTY-EIGHT
During the fashion show, Mark Beeney and Marcia Conroy were I a screaming match in March's stateroom.
Mark had knocked at Marcia's door to explain about the previous night, to tell her that he hadn't taken Catriona to bed, that he wasn't I about her, and that he hadn't meant to humiliate Marcia so openly. The truth was that he hadn't heard from Catriona all morning, that he hadn't dared to send Philip Carter-Helm around to her stateroom again, and that he was pretty certain that their flirtation was over and out. He still had a crush on Catriona. There was something about her which made his blood race around like two bees in a buggy. But he had to face up to facts—and the facts were that Catriona didn't appear to have responded to Philip playing Cupid, nor to Alice's highly-paid assurances that Mark Beeney was a desirable man on board, and Mark's father had always told him that it was no good flogging a dead horse, even if it was only two feet away from the winning-post.
Marcia was puffy-eyed and pale. She smoked a pink cocktail cigarette as furiously as if she were falling behind in a cigarette smoking race, and tried to look everywhere, except at Mark. Her stateroom was decorated in the style of "Spring', with a mural of orange grass and black silhouetted poplars, and she complemented the theme by wearing a white crepe-de-chine teddy with ruffled pink stars and bows.