Dancing Backwards (13 page)

As Vi was leaving the King Edward Lounge, Des caught her at the door. ‘You never danced, Mrs Hetherington.’

‘I’m sorry, Dino. I was talking to Doctor Lincoln.’

‘While I danced with his lovely wife.’

‘She told me to tell you that you’re a neat dancer. You’ll have had a much better time with her. She seemed to know all the steps.’

‘She is a very good dancer. But you will be a very good dancer too, Mrs Hetherington, with practice. Believe me, I know. I hope you will come to the ball tonight.’

‘When is it and where?’

‘In the Queen Victoria Salon, Deck Eight, nine till midnight. You may want heels, though maybe not if it gets any rougher.’

‘I’ll do my level best to rise to heels.’

When she returned to her room a bowl of crystallised ginger was on the desk, with a note propped against it:
Madam, for see sickness
.

As far as Vi was aware she had never in her life suffered from seasickness but she was grateful for the ginger. Her mother had liked ginger and consequently it was another thing her father would never have in the house. Vi had often bought her mother chocolate ginger for her birthday, August
the second, the day after they were to dock in New York. She tried to open the doors to the balcony but they blew back in her face so that she had to lean all her weight against them to force them to open.

White spume was riding crazily along the tops of racing waves below and gobbets of foam were being thrown about pell-mell by a wind sweeping the face of the water with the long arm of an angry demon. She dragged over a chair to prop open the doors.

‘It’s your life,’ Edwin said. They were in the park. Cleopatra was sniffing round the roots of the horse chestnut down from which occasional conkers were plummeting softly to the grass. Edwin picked up a couple, still half encased in their pithy green armour. He peeled away the spiked overcoats and extracted the gleaming mahogany conkers, balancing them on his palm.

‘They’re like us,’ Vi said. ‘Immaculate and beautiful and shining in glory when they emerge but very quickly dulled.’

‘In my day these would have been baked in the oven to be strung on strings for lethal battles. Boys are no longer boys.’

‘The world is going to the dogs.’

‘Speaking of which, if fair was fair, which we know it never is, you would dedicate your book to Cleopatra, not to me.’

Cleopatra who had found a molehill was exploring it busily but not too effectively.

‘I would never have written a line but for you, Ed.’

‘You would so.’

‘No, you have to accept that. You and my mother made me write.’

‘Then you should dedicate the book to her.’

‘She’s dead,’ Vi said. She tossed a conker high into the bright autumnal sky and caught it in one hand. Conkers always reminded her of the silky heads of newborn babies. She tossed the conker up again, in an arc over her head, and caught it, like a novice juggler, not quite ambidextrously, in her left hand. ‘Anyway that would upset my father. He can’t bear for her to be mentioned.’

‘And this won’t upset Bruno?’

‘I can’t dedicate the book to Bruno.’

‘Is that why you are marrying him?’ He looked at her in his quizzical unblinking way.

‘I love him.’

Nonsense, said the voice.

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Edwin said. ‘I am no expert and I am quite certain I don’t understand love, especially not love between a man and a woman. But who says you have to marry someone because you love them?’

‘Bruno’s seemed to want it.’

‘And that’s a good enough reason?’

Of course it isn’t, said the voice.

‘I can’t put it off now. It’s all planned.’

‘What is planned? A brief registry office performance somewhere in the Marylebone Road, with me and Tessa Carfield as witnesses and lunch after. It’s hardly holy writ. I bet the lunch hasn’t even been booked.’ Vi whose job it was to arrange the wedding breakfast looked guilty. ‘It hasn’t been, has it?’

‘But you’ve come down specially.’

‘For God’s sake, Vi. I can go away again. You cannot make my presence in London a reason for marrying.’

Listen to him, said the voice.

‘I thought Bruno was your oldest friend,’ Vi said.

The wind was working up a plaintive howl. Vi opened her notebook and took out the small card with the picture of violets on it. ‘To my Violet by a mossy stone.’ She tore the card into very small pieces and threw them overboard. A shred of violet blew back on to the balcony. She took it inside and burned it in an ashtray. Then she read the poem which she had written, in Edwin’s dressing gown, in the draughty bathroom of that old flat. A flat now worth several hundred thousand pounds. She had driven past the house, done up in an extraordinary candy pink, quite recently. But even the vast shift in the flat’s monetary value did not come near to the distance she felt from the girl who had written the poem. She had no idea any longer whether the poem was any good. The best of it was the opening line that she had stolen from Shakespeare:
Sometimes we see a cloud that’s dragonish.

Antony, at the close of his life, contemplating his love for Cleopatra, who has deceived him, fatally; contemplating the mutability of love, the mutability of everything apprehended by human consciousness with its power to affect the shape of reality, its aptitude for perceiving the reflection of its own desire and not what is really there.

But what
is
really there? she called out, in the face of the demon wind, to the unanswering, unanswerable sea.

In the wardrobe, beneath the line of hanging frocks, stood a pair of shoes with heels a good six inches high. Vi put them on and appraised her lengthened image in the mirror. Annie would approve. It was thanks to Annie, who had insisted on supervising her packing, that she had packed them at all. There was also Annie’s old silver strapless ball gown, passed on to Vi when it no longer fitted Annie and never yet worn. That would do nicely with Ted’s diamond. But the diamond was in the safe where Renato had locked away her rings and she
hadn’t bothered to ask him for the number. She rang the steward’s line and getting no response left a message.

Dinner that evening was a muted affair. Aside from Vi, only Baz and Martha, the captain and the critic were at the table. The rest of the company had presumably retired to their rooms to batten down. Towards the end of dinner, Miss Foot arrived and ordered a bowl of chicken broth. ‘I am fairly well acclimatised but it is advisable to take some light nourishment in the face of any physical perturbation.’

‘A glass of wine?’ offered the critic. He had ordered a very superior claret for the whole table which only he and Vi were drinking. Martha had abstained to keep Baz company and the captain had explained that you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks and if they didn’t mind he preferred to stick to lager.

Miss Foot calmly accepted the wine. ‘Claret is a good tonic for the stomach.’

Baz said to Martha, ‘You’d better have a glass then, sweetheart. It might keep you from throwing up,’ and winked, which made Martha laugh.

‘I assure you, it is a proven prophylactic,’ said Miss Foot, misreading their mirth.

‘A little wine for thy stomach’s sake,’ agreed the critic, smiling with his customary seeming-benevolence.

Miss Foot turned her head. ‘I don’t know if you are familiar with the work of Rudolph Steiner?’

The critic, under the influence of the excellent claret, allowed that he had heard something of the spiritually-minded Russian educationalist but would be intrigued to hear more. By the time the claret was finished, Miss Foot, with the ruthlessness of the innocent, was still expounding the principles of anthroposophy.

‘May I get you more wine, sir?’

‘Thank you, no,’ said the critic. He was looking a little pale. ‘I think I’ll go to my room.’

Dino waited respectfully while the critic excused himself from the table. Vi also pushed back her chair.

‘Hoist with your own petard?’ she suggested quietly as, stag-gering slightly from the motion of the ship, he began to weave a progress through the tables.

The critic grinned at her, not a bit benign. ‘Cow.’

‘Shall you be coming to the ball later, Mrs Hetherington?’

‘If there is still to be one, Dino. In this weather surely it will be cancelled.’

‘Oh no. We will be available for any of our guests who want to dance.’

‘Come hell or high water?’

‘That’s us, Mrs Hetherington.’

‘Excuse me,’ Miss Foot had also risen and, clinging to the chairs at the next table, was making her way awkwardly round to where they stood. ‘You don’t know the number of that man’s cabin? He’s remarkably in touch. I have some literature which he might enjoy.’

Dino said he was so sorry, he didn’t but in any case they were not permitted to divulge passengers’ details. Vi, when appealed to, regretted that she didn’t know the number of the critic’s room either.

‘I’ll leave a note for him at the purser’s office.’

The two women left the dining room together. Miss Foot took Vi’s arm. ‘I heard you mentioning dancing just now. Perhaps you have heard of Doctor Steiner’s system of dance. He was a great advocate of the curative potential of movement, to balance the forces within.’ Waiting for the lift, she added, ‘I see that your aura has altered.’

‘Really? In what way.’

Miss Foot stepped back a little, apparently scrutinising a point just above Vi’s head. Her eyes, Vi observed for the first time, were, disconcertingly, somewhat the green of Bruno’s.

‘It’s brighter,’ Miss Foot concluded. ‘Brighter and clearer. Indigo, perhaps verging on violet.’

Vi’s walk back to the cabin was unsteady and therefore laborious. The ship had begun to roll and plunge in earnest so that it was difficult not to appear drunk—in fact it was possible that in such conditions only those who were habitually drunk could readily negotiate a straight path. When she reached her room she found a note propped on the desk:
Madam, have unlocked safe. To close plese use own number. See card
.

Reaching into the safe Vi brought out the ashtray in which the conscientious Renato had placed her rings. She tipped them out on to the gold counterpane, all of them, save the solitaire diamond.

She got up again to search the safe, groping in the corners. Nothing to be found but an old black hairgrip.

A strange feeling of lightness came over her. I have lost it, she said to herself. I have lost Ted’s ring. And a part of her thought, Oh well, never mind. But not to mind was disrespectful to Ted. Anyway, she was planning to leave it to Harry’s wife, when he had one. If he were to marry, she supposed she should say.

Rather shakily, she went to the phone and rang Renato.

‘Renato, sorry to bother you but could you come?’

‘Of course, madam.’

He was with her in a moment.

‘Renato, I can’t seem to find my diamond ring.’

A look of quite appalling terror ran like a live current around Renato’s face. ‘I have not seen it, madam.’

‘No, look, it’s OK, I’m not accusing you of anything…’

‘There was no diamond when I put your rings in the safe, madam.’ The pupils of his dark eyes had contracted alarmingly.

Vi tried to take hold of the situation. ‘Renato, please. Of course I know you have not taken anything. I simply need to establish—to find out when the ring disappeared.’

Renato darted to the safe and began frantically fishing about. ‘Look no diamond. Nothing in here.’

‘Yes, I’ve looked.’

He dropped to his knees and began rummaging under the bed. ‘We move the bed.’

‘OK.’

Together they shifted first the extraordinarily heavy bed and then the sofa. Renato trawled the floor on his knees and then searched the balcony up and down and the bathroom. ‘It not go down the plughole?’

‘It’s too big, I think.’

‘I have the plumber look in the pipe.’

‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’

‘I fetch him now, madam.’

In no time, Renato was back with a man in a boiler suit, a yellow protective helmet, a bucket and a roll of tools. Vi sat on the bed, trying not to mind this well-meant invasion. ‘Renato, I am going down to the dance soon.’ The awful truth was she would rather not have to bother to search for the ring, though she was ashamed of this and knew it to be wrong-headed.

‘No dancing,’ said Renato. ‘Ship moving too much.’ As if to a backward or wayward child he made a see-sawing gesture with his hand.

‘I’ll go down to see what’s going on.’

‘No dance tonight, madam.’

Oh dear, Vi thought. We’ve got into one of our tug of wars but now I seem to be on the other side.

The plumber had unscrewed the U-bend under the washbasin and retrieved nothing more substantial than a toothpick and a mass of dental floss. Renato began to try to persuade him to delve into the plumbing beneath the bath.

‘Honestly, Renato. It wouldn’t go down a plughole. I know that ring very well. It was my engagement ring.’

This admission was a bad move since it brought on a further flap.

‘Oh madam, your engagement ring. We find it. I promise. I promise we find it.’

‘Renato, I am going to dress for the dance and then I shall go down and report the ring lost at the purser’s office.’

But this only threatened to make matters worse. ‘Madam, they will ask me about it. They will think…’

‘It’s all right, Renato.’ It was necessary to become firm. ‘I shall not mention you at all. I shall explain that I put the rings in the safe myself.’

Renato seemed a little mollified. ‘Thank you, madam. And I look around your room again. Undo the bed in case the ring in mattress.’

Vi, carrying the heels for balance, and walking warily in Annie’s strapless dress, called in at the purser’s office on Deck Three. The business of reporting the lost ring was, as she feared, lengthy and tedious. Since she had decided, for her own sake as much as for Renato’s, not to involve him—for really she could not bear to provoke any more anxiety—her account, speedily improvised, created certain problems. Yes, her jewellery (she did not own up to the shoe bag in the
suitcase) had all been locked in the room safe, but since she had removed all the rings and placed them in the safe without checking them it was possible, even likely, that the diamond had been lost before this. Did anyone other than herself have the safe combination number? Not as far as she knew. Could she give some indication of the number in case they needed to check on security? In view of the loss, she felt it best not to reveal these details for the moment (memo, remember to ask Renato what number he used). When was the last time she was aware of wearing the ring? She had no idea but would try her best to recollect. Was the ring insured? Oh Christ, thought Vi, I don’t believe it is, for when, after Ted’s death, she had discovered how much he was insuring it for she had let the insurance lapse.

This is the story of my life, she decided, taking the lift up to Deck Eight. I let all insurances lapse.

At Deck Five Ken, in evening dress, got into the lift. ‘Ken, how dashing.’

‘You too, Vi. You look sensational.’

‘I’m off to the ball.’

‘You
shall
go to the ball,’ said Ken. ‘Jen’s in bed, stuffed to the gills with seasick pills. She said I was getting on her nerves. She insisted I come dancing.’

‘Well, I’m sorry for Jen but very glad for me. I need an ally. I’m a complete novice at dancing but I am rather loving it.’

‘It will be a pleasure, Vi. I’ll need protection from some of those single ladies. I don’t feel quite safe. Some, I swear, have beaks.’

Vi, relieved not to be thought to have a beak, said she could do with some protection too. ‘A nice man at my table in the Alexandria, who studies traditional African healers, says that his healers prescribe lion’s fat for courage.’

‘You don’t need lion’s fat, Vi. You’ve got me.’

Because she was grateful she told him about the ring.

‘That’s terrible. I hope you’re insured.’

‘Well, that’s the thing, Ken. I’m not sure I am.’

Had the missing ring been Jen’s Ken could hardly have looked more aghast. However, not even mutely did he convey reproach. The world, thought Vi, might be divided into those who on receipt of news of any personal disaster reach for reproach and those who reach first for sympathy. It occurred to her that that was what had been wrong for her with Ted. For all his kindness, he could never resist saying I told you so. He was saying it even now from the grave.

‘It was my engagement ring,’ she went on. ‘It is so valuable that I couldn’t bear to think about it, you see.’

Ken, who didn’t at all see, nodded but his forehead was still furrowed in the odd V shape that in a man denotes real concern. I mustn’t spoil his evening, thought Vi.

‘I expect it will turn up. My poor steward is even now on his knees, I would bet, going over my room with a fine-tooth comb. A strange thing to search with, don’t you think?’

Ken was not so easily distracted. ‘When do you remember wearing it last?’

‘I’ve been racking my brains. But my mind’s a blur.’

‘That’s shock,’ said Ken, glad to have found a handle on the situation. ‘Come on, you need a brandy.’

He marched her to the bar and ordered two large brandy and sodas.

The numbers toughing out the weather were noticeably sparse. Most were downing folk remedies against potential sickness, Fernet Branca, for example, or drinking with the bravado of those hell-bent on throwing caution to the winds.

‘You wouldn’t like a Fernet Branca, Vi?’

‘Frankly, Ken, Fernet Branca is more likely to make me sick.’

‘You’re a good sailor though, you said.’

‘Well, that’s my boast. Though I suppose I’ve never been thoroughly tried.’

Despite the weather, the dance had drawn quite a number of people in evening wear especially dry-cleaned for the occasion and eager to get their money’s worth. When Vi and Ken reached the salon, the ball was in full swing.

‘Righty-ho, then, Vi. Time to face the music. Shall we waltz?’

‘I can just about manage that.’

‘Put yourself in my hands. Dancing’s a man’s responsibility.’

Ken, as she might have expected, turned out to be a first-class dancer. They danced a waltz and then a foxtrot, over which, recalling her dance with Dino, she managed not to make too great a fool of herself. At Vi’s request they sat out a couple of dances but, seeing Martha Cleever hovering at the edge of the room, Vi said, ‘Ken, come and meet Martha. You must dance with her. She’s a champion.’

Martha said, ‘Hey, I’m really just poking my nose round the door. Baz has gone to bed with a book and I was wakeful and kind of drawn by the music.’

‘It’s as well you’re here or poor Ken would be saddled with me for the duration.’

‘Very happy to be, Vi.’

‘Yes, but you should be dancing with an equal.’

‘I’m not properly dressed. I can’t dance in tracksuit pants and these.’ Martha looked down at her rubber flip-flops.

‘Oh go on,’ said Vi. ‘What does it matter? What size are you? You can borrow my shoes if you like.’

Vi, barefoot, watching Martha, proficient on the borrowed heels and the other women, more splendid but maybe less original in gauze and satin and sequins, the chandeliers making
an artist’s brightness of their hair, was overcome by a fugitive exuberance. Only the thought of Renato searching, she feared fruitlessly, for the diamond brought on a lowering of spirits. What ever could have happened to it? She knew in her bones that Renato had not pocketed it. And no one, the purser’s office had assured her repeatedly, had handed in jewellery of any kind.

‘Mrs Hetherington?’

‘Dino.’

‘It’s the cha-cha-cha next.’

‘But look, I have no shoes.’

‘You must dance the cha-cha-cha. Mrs Hetherington. I insist.’

Martha passing Vi on the tilting floor cried out, ‘I must give back your shoes,’ and Vi in reply called, ‘It doesn’t matter,’ which was as well since both were ignored by their partners. Ken, red-faced and sweating, was flicking Martha cavalierly from side to side, as Des, with equal efficiency but more decorum, swung Vi back and forth.

At the end of the dance the two women dropped down together, panting.

‘Wow! I’ve not had such fun since Bobby Crawshaw.’

‘According to Miss Foot, dance balances the forces within the body.’

‘She may be right!’

The ship made a sudden lurch, causing a general stumbling and from some quarters delighted squeals. When the next dance was called Ken stood up again. ‘Come on,’ he said to Martha. ‘Tomorrow we may all be in Davy Jones’s locker.’

‘But Vi’ll want her shoes back. Vi?’

‘Really, I’m not bothered. I’d lend you my dress too if it wouldn’t cause a commotion.’

She watched them executing a scintillating quickstep. The two of them looked in their element.

‘Mrs Hetherington. You’re not leaving?’

‘No, I’m going for some air and a cigarette.’

‘But your feet…?’

‘Oh, my feet are fine.’

‘You’ll be blown away in this wind. May I come with you to see that you are safe?’

‘Of course, Dino.’ Though she hardly cared if she were blown to the ends of the earth.

The wind had got up a vicious speed and they had to creep, heads bent, round to the smokers’ corner, the semi-protected area aft.

‘You don’t remember,’ Vi asked, as he was trying to light her cigarette, ‘if I was wearing a diamond ring when we sat and smoked outside the night before last. I suppose as it was dark you wouldn’t have noticed.’

Des had turned up the flame of his lighter and his face was briefly illuminated. The pupils of his eyes looked startlingly black.

‘I’m afraid I don’t, Mrs Hetherington.’

‘I just wondered. Only it’s lost. I don’t know where or when. I’m trying to retrace things in my mind.’

‘Is it valuable?’

‘Very valuable, I’m afraid. My poor husband would be distraught.’ She remembered that she had told this man that she had not loved Ted and felt remorseful. It was not the price of the ring that mattered—it was that Ted had given it to her, with love and pride.

It was not much fun smoking in the wind. Vi tried to throw her cigarette overboard but it blew back on to the ship. ‘Goodness it really is getting rough. Shall we go back in?’

‘If you wish, Mrs Hetherington.’ He held her arm as they fought their way back to the door, holding fast to the handrail.

‘Do call me Vi.’

Inside he asked ‘Will you dance, Vi?’

‘One more dance, maybe.’

‘The night is young.’

‘But I am not.’

‘I think you have a young soul.’

‘I’m afraid my soul is as old as God.’

He seemed distracted as they waltzed. She said goodnight and thanked him and went across to Ken and Martha, who were sitting at a table over a bottle and a couple of glasses. ‘Violet! Some bubbly?’

Martha said, ‘Ken’s leading me into the path of temptation.’ It did not look as if she had put up much of a fight.

‘OK, I’ll have a glass.’

‘Atta girl, I’ll fetch one over.’

The ship made another sharp lurch, producing more staggering and excited screams. ‘Davy Jones’s locker here we come,’ said Ken, arriving with a champagne glass held aloft.

The ship was moving closer to the waters off Newfoundland, not far from where the
Titanic
had sunk. Several of the more ghoulish passengers, furnished with this information, were busy spreading it about, gleefully depriving others of their blissful ignorance and in some cases a good night’s sleep.

The band had started up with the syncopated rhythm of the samba and Vi, feeling suddenly weary, said, ‘I’m off. Keep the shoes, Martha. You can return them in the morning.’

‘Don’t turn into a pumpkin,’ Ken called after her.