She went to call Luella Hennessey, leaving Rosemary to thrash on the floor.
Cubby Hubbard’s thoughts were with Rosemary. He was remembering the first time he had seen her, at her sister’s party in London. He’d glimpsed her across the room, so pretty and yet looking overwhelmed by it all. Her eyes were beautiful, but somehow blind. And when he’d asked her to dance, she’d seemed astonished. Later, she’d told him that men never asked her to dance, at least not a second time. They seemed frightened of her. Sometimes they laughed and said cruel things behind her back.
He’d been astounded by her, once he’d got close to her; by her beauty, her innocence, her vulnerability. He’d been filled with a powerful need to protect her. He could think of little else from then on.
She didn’t just need protecting from the world, from the predatory men he’d soon learned about; but from her family, too – those arrogant Kennedys, to whom she was an embarrassment, to be hidden away. With all the boys heading for Washington, a crazy sister was not an advantage. So they kept her locked up like something shameful. What did they think was going to happen to her? Did they think she’d be happy to rot in an ivory tower the rest of her life?
He sat at his breakfast table now, staring at the starched white linen in front of him. Getting Rosemary away from the Kennedys would not be an easy task. She was like some princess in a fairy tale, protected by dragons. But once they were married, she would be his, his alone. There would be nothing anyone could do to come between them or take her away from him.
‘Mr Hubbard?’
He looked up. Mrs Joseph P. Kennedy was standing at his table, wearing a severe grey wool suit. Her face was stony. He rose to his feet. ‘Good morning, Mrs Kennedy.’
‘Come with me, please.’
He had just ordered his breakfast, but he didn’t think fit to mention that. ‘Sure.’ He followed her out into the street. It was a wet morning, and the doorman gave them a large umbrella. He opened this and held it over Mrs Kennedy’s head as they walked along. She was a thin, brusque woman, and she walked fast. He had no idea where they were going.
‘I understand my daughter visited you in the night,’ she said.
Hubbard felt his face flush. ‘I’m not going to lie about that.’
She could see the bite on his neck, inflicted by her daughter’s teeth in the throes of copulation. She felt nauseated. ‘You realise that I could go to the nearest policeman and have you arrested?’
There was, in fact, a large policeman standing on the street corner, majestic in a shiny cape. ‘Look, I’m glad of the chance to talk to you about Rosemary. I care about her very deeply.’
‘My daughter is at present suffering a violent seizure on the bathroom floor. That is what your “caring very deeply” has done for her.’
‘You mean that you’ve driven her half crazy,’ he retorted angrily. ‘Have you called a doctor?’
‘Don’t presume to instruct me in what I should or should not do with my own daughter.’ Her face tightened. ‘What will it take to get you to leave Rosemary alone?’
‘What are you talking about?’
She didn’t look at him, but kept her face averted, even though he was hurrying close beside her with the umbrella. ‘How much?’
‘How much what?’
‘How much money, if you force me to be crude.’
He was astonished. ‘I don’t want your money.’
‘Everybody wants money. You’re an itinerant musician – which would never allow you to give Rosemary the kind of life she’s accustomed to, let alone the nursing care she will require all her life.’
‘I do okay. But I believe that Rosemary only wants one thing in life, and that is love.’
‘A very pretty speech. If you’re not in this for the money, then you’re a fool as well as a knave.’
‘You can insult me as much as you please,’ Cubby replied. ‘It won’t make any difference to my feelings for Rosemary. I’ve already told you that I love her. I told your son the same thing. I would rather have your blessing.’
‘You will never have that.’
‘Then I’ll do without it.’
He was a little out of breath. Mrs Kennedy was a good walker. They had been making brisk progress up the hill, and had now reached a church, which was (to Hubbard’s eyes) a hideous Victorian structure of blackened brick. Workmen were boarding up the stained-glass windows against German bombs, and laying sandbags around the foundations. She turned to him, her eyes the same colour as the autumn sky. ‘And that is your last word?’
‘It is.’
‘Then we part as enemies, Mr Hubbard.’ She reached out her gloved hand. He thought she wanted to shake hands for a moment, but she only wanted the umbrella. He gave it to her. She turned without another word and went quickly into the church. He made his way back to the hotel, turning up the collar of his leather jacket against the rain. Her last, ominous words rang in his ears.
Le Havre
His head full of tumult, a roaring in his ears, Arturo Toscanini strode the deck, muttering to himself. His fellow passengers had by now learned to keep out of his way. There had been some collisions and furious altercations at first. But even though the ship grew more crowded daily, promenaders had learned caution.
Toscanini himself was oblivious to everyone around him. He paced all day and he paced all night. He had neither visited his cabin nor slept. As for food, he had kept himself alive by bursting into the kitchen at odd hours (he had not revisited the Comanche dining hall) and tearing at whatever he could find – stale bread, slices of beef. It was the way he had always eaten, on his feet.
Carla had not appeared. Carla was lost somewhere in the swarming ants’ nest that was Europe, while Hitler’s armies battered down the gates. But the tension was terrible. La forza del destino, inexorable fate that drives me on to a foreign shore! Orphan and wanderer, tortured by fearful dreams! Weeping, I leave thee, beloved homeland! Farewell! Only Verdi could capture the pathos, the horror.
A sudden gust of wind swept the hat from his head. Toscanini snatched at it unsuccessfully. It bowled along the deck, scurrying between the passengers, some of whom made efforts to catch it. But it was too cunning, and evaded all grasping hands, rolling along on its brim until it came up against an immaculate pair of spats. A long-fingered white hand picked it up. It belonged to none other than Igor Stravinsky, who was walking the deck with a teenage boy who appeared to be wearing the uniform of the Hitler Youth.
Stravinsky restored the errant hat to its owner. ‘Good morning, maestro. We had heard you were on board.’
Toscanini clutched the fedora. ‘When do we sail, Igor? Have you some idea?’
‘Not today, at any rate,’ Stravinsky replied. He indicated Manhattan’s red, white and blue funnels, which towered silently over them. ‘The engines have not yet been started, and the stewards tell us that the bunkers have not yet been filled with fuel, either.’
‘Incredible,’ Toscanini burst out, ‘that they cannot say when we sail.’