From Rio to Cape Town, people grew bored; feuds came to a head, complaints multiplied, everyone quarrelled. There was always a time, on any voyage, when any given passenger would make any given remark; this, for the present cruise, was it.Alcestis's only manslaughter to date—a heavy bottle through a light skull—had occurred on this section of the trip.
With no shore excursion to break the monotony, with nothing to look at save those dear familiar faces, this was where the passengers really started to wonder if they had thrown away their passage-money; and it was here, possibly, that the Alcestis could have done with a cruise-director—preferably a very funny one who could sing, dance, and juggle for twenty-four hours a day.
When his round of drinks was brought, the Captain raised his glass. In the murky, somewhat Latinized atmosphere of Sacha's, he was as trim and as English as a cold cut of beef.
"Gentlemen," he said. (They could always tell when the Captain was two or three drinks on the way; he started all his sentences with the word "gentlemen".) "Here's to a successful second half of the voyage."
They all drank; the Chief Engineer, the Purser, Tiptree-Jones, Blantyre; and farther down the table Beresford the apprentice, the girl from the hairdressers, Fleming the young engineer, Tim Mansell, Faith Bartlett who had been Mr. Simms's nurse, and the plain girl from the Purser's Office who was universally known as Good Old Joan. It was a mixed party, with expansive confidence at the top, a wary good behaviour in the middle, and unpredictable reactions at the lower levels. Mr. Cutler the Purser, for example, was in a genial story-telling mood; Tim Mansell, on the other hand, was sad, slightly tight, and resigned to a lifetime of lonely insignificance. It was he who, responding sotto voce to the Captain's toast, murmured:
"What was so successful about the first half?"
"Now don't be like that!" said Faith Bartlett, a wayward character who was demonstrably not like that at all. "Cheer up! Have fun! We're all going to South Africa. Remember?"
"I remember," answered Tim Mansell morosely. His eyes followed Kathy as she danced with Sir Hubert Beckwith. "What's the good of South Africa to me? I've been to South Africa. It's not going to make any difference."
"You could always get a soft shore job," said Fleming. "Cape Town agent for Myth Lines. A hundred pounds a month, and all the coloured girls you can eat."
"I think it's disgusting," declared Good Old Joan, with a shiver, "the way you men talk!" She lived, indeed, in a state of perpetual dismay; no personal hazards came her way, only second-hand accounts, filtering through the ship's grave-vine, of maidens overthrown, young men fleeing without their trousers, old men caught in the hard-won throes of carnal knowledge. "Why can't you be normal?"
"We are," said Beresford, an indubitably normal young man. "In fact, you're sitting at a table with the only normal characters on board." He nodded towards the Captain and his entourage; his voice dropped, theatrically. "All they do is talk about it. Wedo it!"
"I don't know what you mean," said Good Old Joan.
"Neither do I," said Faith Bartlett, with a different kind of authority. "No one's done it to me, I can promise you." She nudged Tim Mansell. "Did you hear that, Fourth?"
"Don't call me Fourth," said Tim.
"But everyone calls you Fourth."
"Not girls."
"What do girls call you?" asked Fleming, now speaking over his shoulder. He was busy on his long-term pursuit of the hair-dressing girl, an unclassifiable blonde called Estelle. Their knees were glued together, their hands intertwined like plaits, but she wore, even now, the same totally preoccupied look with which she dealt with finger-waves and incipient dandruff. Her husband was a Brooklyn detective, long estranged; she did not even like men, only hair problems and the small, minutely growing savings account which would one day give her independence. "What do girls call you?" asked Fleming again, dropping his free hand on to Estelle's thigh. "Just so as we know."
"Oh, cut it out!" said Tim Mansell irritably. "If you want to be funny, practise on somebody else."
"My goodness," said Good Old Joan. "You are in a bad way! Crossed in love? Is that it?"
"Of course he's crossed in love," said Faith Bartlett. Her roving, somewhat spiteful eyes rested for a moment on Kathy, as she swam past in the arms of Sir Hubert. "Your girl friend's doing all right for herself," she said, in a lower tone. "None of my business, and don't think I'm worrying. But if you really want to make good, you'd better hurry it up."
Kathy danced with Mr. Tillotson. She knew hardly anything about him, as a man, and he still gave little away. It was only a thought that she had had, buttressed by the briefest of indications, fed by tiny hints, by nudges of instinct. In the past weeks, they had sometimes mingled eyes; she had intercepted a stare, she had noticed a devious manoeuvre which placed him next to her at parties or at film shows. But even now, as he danced, he was not committing himself; the arm round her waist, though strong, was not a confessional arm, nor an intrusive one. He was either very shy, or he could not make up his mind, or he was resisting temptation for severe moral reasons, or else she had mistaken her man altogether. But she did not think so.
She liked him, as did everyone else on board. Gossip invariably tagged him as the richest man in the ship; but, save for a certain crisp command when he wanted attention, one would not have guessed it.
He had the small man's compact strength without the small man's cockiness; it seemed likely that he had got where he was by merit and luck, not by swindling or manipulation.
Kathy found it impossible to guess, except at a very crude level, why, at this stage of his life, Tillotson should have become vulnerable to physical urges and needs; it could not spring from any deep division between himself and his wife. Mrs. Tillotson was, by common consent, a darling; sweet-tempered, gently-spoken, a repository for everyone else's confidences and problems. The two of them seemed ideally suited, obviously happy; no hint of a quarrel, no sign of impatience or frustration, had ever become apparent. And yet, and yet . . . Kathy still had an absolute certainty that Tillotson wanted something from her; perhaps a brief excitement, a mere pleasurable spasm which would touch him not at all, perhaps something deeper and more fundamental—a reassurance, a flattering renewal of his youth.
There were men who, in middle age, appraised the years ahead against the years behind, and sought to prove that they could still kill a bottle, raise plenty of hell, lay any pretty girl they wanted to, just the way it used to be. . . . In men of quality, it was always a surprise. But it did happen.
Tillotson moved away from her, holding her at arm's length for a moment. His eyes below the crisp grey hair were quizzical, his firm mouth amused.
"Penny for them," he said.
Kathy smiled. "Oh, I was just thinking."
"I know that. You looked as if you were a million miles away."
"No, indeed. The exact opposite."
His eyebrows went up a fraction. "Thinking of me?"
She nodded. "Just that."
On the verge of saying something in answer, he changed his mind, and his expression grew non-committal again. He drew her gently towards him, but it was not an approach, simply a return to normal. She realized that, even in that modest moment of invitation, she had moved too fast. He was not ready yet, and he was not going to be rushed.
She made up her mind. Tillotson would keep, perhaps for ever. Sir Hubert now stood at the head of the menu.