"What a huge girl!" said Beresford. It was his first cruise in the Alcestis, and he had not yet encountered the Beddingtons. "I'd hate to go ten rounds with her."
"I'd hate to go one of anything with her," said Fleming. "I tell you, that girls dances like a ton of steak-and-kidney pudding."
"But lots of money," said Blantyre. "Old man Beddington makes hearing aids."
"The news falls on deaf ears."
"You'd think that someone would marry her."
"There are times when you can't give it away."
Tim Mansell fingered his passenger-list, and then looked along the quay towards the customs sheds.
"I hope that isn't all," he said anxiously. "We really must do better than this."
Captain Harmer paused before knocking at the door of the Princess Suite, and listened to the sounds of his ship. They were not sea-going sounds, the best sounds in the world, but they were at least the noises of departure, and these—even if it was only departure on a cruise— were still heartening to a sailor who loathed the land. There was the usual internal hum of any ship—the dynamos, the forced-draught ventilation. There was the scurry of baggage-porters with trolleys of luggage, stewardesses with flowers, stewards with telegrams; there were people wandering up and down the corridors, greeting their friends, comparing their cabins with others. There were early good-byes being said, and the sound of an orchestra, two decks above, playing selections from H.M.S. Pinafore. There was above all the smell of a ship—salty, painty, exciting; the warm smell of boilers, the warm whiff of oil.
No matter how many times it happened, thought the Captain as he raised his hand to knock on the cabin door, sailing time was the best moment in all the world.
The voice which called "Come in!" was forceful, and the man who turned towards him as he entered was forceful also. At a swift glance, Tillotson was almost a caricature of American power and prosperity. He was small and compact; the wiry grey hair was crew-cut, the jaw Prominent, the blue eyes direct and level. Any whisky advertiser would have been glad to feature him (head and shoulders) as a Man of Distinction. At the moment he was holding a tiny microphone in his hand, and dictating into a small portable tape-recorder. He finished a sentence—"I do not agree, and therefore do not choose to proceed with it" were the final words—before he stood up and gave attention to his visitor. But then, as he glanced down at the four rings on the Captain's sleeve, his expression altered on the instant, from one of preoccupied arrogance to a hearty good-fellowship, and he held out his hand with a smile.
"Afternoon, Captain."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Tillotson," said Harmer, shaking hands. "I just looked in to see if you were comfortable."
"Very good of you. I appreciate that." Tillotson turned, and raised his voice slightly. "Honey! Here's the Captain come to see us."
"Well, isn't that nice?" came an answering voice from the adjoining cabin, and within a few seconds Mrs. Tillotson appeared. She was as the Captain had imagined her; the wife of a very rich man who had not been rich, thirty years earlier. She might have been pretty in those early days; now, in middle-age, Mrs. Tillotson was simply a work of art—the conformist art of the cosmetician, the hairdresser, the masseur, the makers of perfume and foundation-garments and shoes and jewellery. She was small, plain, undeniably plump; she gave the impression of being held together—by her clothes, by her tight blue-grey curls, by dollar bills. But she was simple and pleasant at the same time, and the Captain warmed to her as she came forward, with a rather shy smile, and said:
"Well, isn't this the nicest thing... ."
"Just looked in to see if you were comfortable," said the Captain again, on a more gallant note. He waved his hand round the panelled magnificence of the Princess Suite. "I hope you like your quarters."
Mrs. Tillotson nodded vigorously. "It's the most elegant thing I've seen in years! Those chair-covers are just a dream! And the bathroom!" She giggled, eyeing the Captain uncertainly. "You can tell I'm just a home-maker. . . . We always heard the Alcestis was wonderful. But my goodness!"
"She's a fine ship, Captain," said Tillotson, plainly impressed.
There was an agreeable deference in both their voices which Harmer, though he had heard it countless times before, always reacted to. Ashore, Tillotson could probably buy the Alcestis five times over, just by initialling a contract, while he himself was a poor man who would never have got past the chairs in the outer office of Steel & Tool, Incorporated. But once on board, the roles were reversed; passengers were only people, but the Captain was the Captain, and Tillotson was a big enough man, and a simple enough man, to recognize the fact.
Harmer, on an impulse, said: "I've arranged for you to sit at my table, if you'd like that."
"We'd be honoured, Captain," said Mrs. Tillotson, and her husband nodded.
"Excellent," said Harmer, and turned towards the door again. "Well, I can see you're busy," he said to Tillotson. "And even I have one or two things to see to." It was a mild joke he had used innumerable times before, and it was answered according to the usual pattern.
"Well, I should just think so," said Mrs. Tillotson, with a laugh.
"You go right ahead," said Tillotson heartily. "You must have a whole raft of things to do. . . . Thanks again for visiting with us."
"We'll meet later, then," said the Captain. It was a good moment to trot out another hallowed joke. "But if I'm not down to dinner, don't worry. Someone's got to point the ship in the right direction. And to begin with, it has to be me."
Their appreciative laughter followed him as he closed the cabin door. So far, so good. . . . He had liked the Tillotsons on sight, and he was glad that they had been given the best suite in the ship.
He was even more glad a few moments later, when he made himself known to Sir Hubert and Lady Beckwith in Suite A6 next door. This time it was a woman's voice, harsh and irritable, which answered his knock; and the fact told him half the story, just as the first few moments with this infinitely sordid couple told him the rest. Part of his sudden liking for the Tillotsons had sprung, he realized, from the fact that, though inordinately rich, they had been impressed by their surroundings, and deferential to him as the Captain; now he had the feeling that if both the Beckwiths had fallen on their knees as he entered, he would still have found them intolerable.
Lady Beckwith was a grim-looking woman with the kind of ravaged face sometimes to be glimpsed over other people's shoulders at nightclubs. If she had been beautiful when young, no trace of it now remained; her expression alone—supercilious, selfish, almost vindictive in its air of settled boredom—must long ago have destroyed all elements of grace. She was clearly very rich; everything about her—the wonderful chinchilla stole, the open jewel-cases spread on the table, the masses of flowers that filled one entire wall of the cabin—proclaimed an almost frantic opulence. But her manner proclaimed, with equal clarity, something else: that the opulence was all hers, and hers alone. A single glance at her husband confirmed the fact abundantly.
Sir Hubert was a type, an English type; the Captain recognized it, and him, with an immediate sinking dislike. He was tall, grey-haired, beautifully tailored; he had an ex-Army air, a touch of polo, a whiff of India before the coolies took over. At a first glance, he seemed to have everything: monogrammed shirt (he was for the moment coatless), boned shoes, heavy gold cuff-links, a platinum watch-chain, an elegant topaz signet-ring. But then suddenly, at a closer look, he had nothing, nothing at all. A few seconds' inspection made it blindingly clear that he was a dependant, a creature of another's whim; as clear as if everything he wore had been shamefully labelled "hers". He had been rented, hired at the price of the things he wore, the money he jingled.