‘A champagne haze is a wonderful thing,’ Fortescue thought as he glided slowly across the polished wooden floor of the Verandah Café. The band were still playing, a quiet, slow number dominated by a subdued piano motif, a low trombone and a single viola. He was alone with Frieda. The other guests had trickled away, Marcus, the last to go, his face filled with pleasure, eyes bright, proud and humbled at the same time. Fortescue had decided that Marcus was a jolly decent sort and had told him so at least twice a short while before the young man had retreated across the room swaying slightly.
Then suddenly the music was over, and the musicians were standing up and beginning to pack away their instruments. Frieda went over to thank them warmly and to give each a sovereign. Fortescue saw the bandmaster bow slightly and smile, then she was back in his arms even though there was no music playing.
After the silence fell the room seemed a little forlorn. The corridors back to the First Class cabins and suites were quiet, the lights dimmed. Frieda and Marcus had small suites on B-Deck. Fortescue stood at the door to Frieda’s and looked into her eyes. In that moment, he believed he was the happiest he had ever been in his life. All the anxieties that had hung over him seemed now to be of little importance. The coming war, if such a monstrous thing should happen, seemed a distant shadow. His work he loved, but at this moment he could no more focus on that than walk to the moon, so why bother? ‘Float,’ he told himself, ‘just float.’ And then Frieda was opening the door and pulling him into the room.
Her lips tasted of candyfloss. It was the most wonderful flavour in the universe and he knew something of the universe.
Frieda’s hands were on his face, her tongue searching inside his mouth. He felt her narrow waist under his palms and she leaned into him provocatively, the swell of her breasts against his shirt.
They seemed to melt, to merge together as if they were a single being. He was between her naked thighs, her hand reaching down, pulling him out of his dinner-suit trousers, ripping buttons and cloth. Then she had him in her hand and he had never felt so aroused in his life. Her warmth hit him, and the scent of her. He thought he would come straight away, but he managed to rein himself in and to move inside her, hearing her moan in his ear, urging him on. She wanted it quickly and he let himself go.
25
The merest tease of orange had appeared above the eastern horizon. Fortescue walked along the poop deck towards the stern. He could hear the churning of water as it slewed through the propellers, and with it a deeper sound — the throb of the massive engines producing the 50, 000 horsepower that propelled the ship through the ocean.
There was a bite to the air, a predawn chill and something extra, the first tendrils of cold from the icefields to the north. But wrapped up in a thick greatcoat over his dinner suit, a woollen scarf about his neck and good-quality leather gloves, Fortescue was feeling warm.
He had left Frieda in her room, her blonde curls decorous on her pillow, shadow and light cast across her face as she slept. She looked utterly exquisite, an angel in repose.
Alone now in the predawn, his mind was awash, a clash of intellect and emotion he had never felt before. Less than a week ago he had been in Manchester with Rutherford. The meeting with the prime minister lay behind him, the plans set in motion, his destiny decided for him by the great men — Asquith, Churchill, American politicians. Now, he was at sea… all at sea! He was in love, he was sure of that. But at the same time he was on fire… In love and on fire, what a combination,
he mused. His mind was racing: formulae, Frieda’s thighs, numbers, her breasts, powers of ten, the power of her scent, exponentials and flawless skin. It was intoxicating.
He took a deep breath. The salt and the oxygen, the spray of the ocean foam and he was imbued with — what would he call it — power? Yes, power; a strange power… It made him believe there was little he could not do.
Sitting down, he withdrew his pen and sheets of headed notepaper, glanced for a moment at the water as it was sucked down by the ship’s giant propellers, churned and tossed around, and he started to write his formulae, emptying his mind.
The symbols flowed, a torrent of numbers, letters, expressions. Swept up in the commotion of mathematics, he could barely breathe. He paused, looked at what he had written and felt a wave of excitement. ‘This is special,’ he whispered, the sound caught in the air. ‘This is really special.’ He began to cover page after page until he felt drained.
He heard a shuffling sound from behind him and turned to see the young kid, Billy O’Donnell.
‘Well, hello there,’ Fortescue said, tucking his papers into his jacket pocket. ‘What are you doing up so early?’ He looked at his fob watch. ‘It’s barely six o’clock.’
‘Can’t sleep,’ Billy replied. ‘I’m sharing a bunk with another kid. Three families in the room and the men all snore like hogs.’
Fortescue laughed, but then saw Billy’s serious expression and nodded. ‘Can’t be very nice.’
‘So what brings you here, Mr Wickins?’
‘I couldn’t sleep either, Billy. Wanted to get some air. What’s the book?’ He noticed a tatty volume under Billy’s arm; the cover was half off and the front scuffed and oil-streaked.
‘I was tellin’ you about me maths. This is me prized possession. ’ He lifted up the book. ‘I’ve read other maths books in the library but this is me favourite; I take it with me everywhere I go.’
‘May I?’
It was a copy of Euclid’s Elements. Fortescue opened the front cover and glanced through the book that was so familiar to him from his own teenage years. The margins were covered with untidy scrawl, question marks, comments and calculations. ‘You understand any of this?’ he asked.
The boy looked affronted. ‘Yes!’
‘Who wrote in it? Your schoolteacher?’
Billy laughed. It was the first time Fortescue had seen him produce more than a brief smile. He had three teeth missing. ‘Told you yesterday, ain’t been to school for a long time. It’s my writing. I have lots of questions, see.’
Fortescue turned back to the book and read a comment. ‘This Euclid fella knows a thing or two.’ He smiled and turned the page. ‘Don’t get this… oh, yes, right… correspondences.’ Fortescue was staggered and looked up to see Billy staring at him earnestly. ‘So how far through are you?’ There was an edge of scepticism to his voice.