Love in Our Time (5 page)

Then the party broke up. It was the men who had women with them who left first. Rex's wife had been trying to catch his eye long before the glees had started. And even Celia wanted to go; she kept signalling Tony that she wanted to be taken away.

Tony himself put on his coat very reluctantly. Then he came over and put an arm round Gerald.

“Your wife says she's never been to the Dogs,” he said.

“Hasn't she?” said Gerald.

He felt rather annoyed at the remark, and hoped that Alice hadn't been letting him down in front of Tony.

“I'm going to take her one night. We've arranged it all, haven't we, Alice?”

“Don't you forget,” Alice replied. “I don't like men who don't keep their word.”

“You'll like me all right,” Tony told her.

The house seemed suddenly very quiet when they had
all gone. Gerald sauntered back into the drawing-room after he had closed the door on the last of them. He felt tired but contented. It had been a good party. Socially, it had put the two of them right on the map.

“I reckon it went off very well,” he said.

“Yes, I think they enjoyed themselves.”

She spoke despondently as though with everyone's departure all her animation had departed, too.

Gerald sat down on the couch and put his feet up.

“Come over here and talk to me,” he said. He held out his arms.

She shook her head.

“Not now,” she answered. “I can't leave everything like that till the morning.”

“O.K.,” he said wearily. “I'll help you.”

Alice bent down and picked up a fragment of her Dresden shepherdess.

“I'm sorry that this got broken,” she said.

“Can't be helped,” Gerald told her. “If you have people in you've got to expect little things like that.”

He bent down to pick up a cigarette end that had been trampled into the carpet.

“Look at that,” he said. “It's burnt a hole right through.”

“I know,” Alice answered, “there are lots like that in the other room.”

“Funny, isn't it,” he remarked, “that people don't take more care when they're in other people's houses?”

“It isn't funny at all,” she replied. “Have you seen our table?”

He went over to her and put his arm round her waist.

“But it was worth it, wasn't it?” he said. “We'll have another party soon.”

“Do you think we can afford it?” she asked.

“We can if we're careful,” he said. “Just the two of us. We couldn't do anything like that if we'd got kids.”

He realised after he had said it that it wasn't the right thing to say. And he could see that she was tired out. But even so he wasn't prepared for the way she took it.

“I've told you before I don't want a baby,” she said. “I'm not going to have a baby. Can't you keep quiet about it?”

She threw down the little heap of cigarette ends which she had been collecting and ran out of the room.

Gerald stood there staring after her. Women were certainly curious creatures he reflected. You did everything you could to make them happy and this was how they acted.

Then, pulling up his trouser legs to avoid creasing them, he went on all fours and began gathering up the cigarette ends for the second time.

Mr. Biddle was standing in front of the mirror doing up his tie. The room behind him was dark and shadowy; the only gleams of light were where the polished curve of the mahogany cast a reflection. There was a lot of mahogany in the suite; it gave the massive air of a dining-room to the place. And the walls were like dining-room walls, too. They were covered in a heavy red-gold paper that toned with the deep chocolate brown of the paint.

It had always seemed to Mr. Biddle himself a particularly pleasant sort of room, solid and reassuring and comfortable. He slept well there but during the last two years of her life Mrs. Biddle had not slept at all well. She had grown to distrust the whole look of the room; and in the final stages of her illness she had even been frightened by the sheer weight of the furniture all round her. More than once she had begged Mr. Biddle to change it; and to humour her he had promised that he would do so. But when, at last, he had realised that she was serious in what she had been saying it had been too late to do anything, and the doctors would not let her be moved.

Mr. Biddle was thinking about his wife as he dressed; he missed her. He had got so used to seeing her lying there—the pale face, sponged with the everlasting eaude-cologne, propped up on its bosom of pillows—that he
had never expected not to see it there. He even still saw it there sometimes. In a way, indeed, it seemed that it was the bedroom, with the cavernous, creaking wardrobe and the heavy, shining bed-rail, that was brief and transitory, and the piece of human suffering within it which remained. He simply had not believed it that bleak October morning when the nurse had roused him to say that the patient was slipping. It had seemed altogether too impetuous, too much unlike her. But it had been true enough that time; and ever since that day he had been a very lonely man. The mouse-like Miss Wachett, his wife's youngest sister, who now looked after him, was not a woman to add anything to the spirit of the house. She still—two years after she had settled in there—sat on the chairs in the drawing-room as though she were frightened of them. And, even so, she seemed to be under his feet the whole time.

If it hadn't been for the Mariners, Mr. Biddle often wondered what he would have done. He had been a Mariner since his twenty-seventh year; but it was only after his wife's death that it had come to mean so much to him. Perhaps it could not have been otherwise. The Mariner's Oath “Selfless help, unstintingly given by night and by day in calm and in storm” had been possible to apply really fully only after he had become a widower. Indeed for a married man to be both a good Mariner and a good husband was, as the Grand Admiral of the Fleet had admitted at the Felixstowe Conference, the problem that their Maker had set his Mariner servants; and only
He
knew how difficult it was of solution.

Mr. Biddle hung his Mariner's chain round his neck and tucked the ends into his waistcoat. Next he took
down his peaked, official cap from the cupboard—it was a rule that all Mariners wore their caps for Harbour Sittings—and gave himself a brushing down in front of the mirror. Then, his pipe leaving a satisfying trail of fragrance behind him as he walked, he set off to the Lord Macclesfield where the gathering was to be held. He carried his cap and gloves in a small leather attaché case. It was a mark of importance that he had his gloves with him at all; they were worn only at the two big half-yearly meetings, the Neap and the Ebb, when the election of officers was held.

As he got nearer the Lord Macclesfield, other men carrying small attaché cases came into sight. They were nearly all substantial looking men like Mr. Biddle; it seemed that God in selecting Mariners had gone out of His way to choose well set-up ones.

The Mariners' Hall was a high raftered room with an oil painting of a previous Mayor and a grand piano. Apart from that it had no fixtures. The whole place had the melancholy, abandoned look of a Temple erected in anticipation of some Messiah who had failed to be born. But, to Mariners, it had the undisguisable look of home.

Despite its name, however, it was really only a Mariners' Hall on Tuesdays. On Monday, the socially inferior and considerably less prosperous Ancient Order of Eagles met there; on Wednesday, the East Finchley Parliament assembled; on Thursdays, it was the Drill Hall for the local Fitness League; and, on Fridays and Saturdays, it was let for dances. But Tuesday night was the only one in the week when there was an extra strip of carpet right down to the bottom of the stairs; it was on little things like that, the significance of which was unknowable to
non-Mariners, that Mariners prided themselves. They knew that honest ritual regularly and reverently observed, was the best, indeed the only, antidote to mental slackness.

A ship's bell rang eight times in the Hall and the assembled Mariners filed through in strict order of Seniority. The East Finchley Commodore and a Sea Lord from the Mariners' Hall in Gresham Street, the headquarters of the Order, were there to admit them. Each one gave and received the salute in turn. Then, Mr. Bowler, the Commodore, opened proceedings from the Bridge. He was a tea merchant with an immaculate record both in Mincing Lane and in the Order. He spoke in the thick, stifled voice of a man who is victim of his own emotion.

“Brother Mariners,” he began, “we gather together to-night to remind ourselves of those solemn and binding vows which we took when we entered this most Venerable and Exalted Order. First, Brother Mariners, we will remember the Prime Mariner who first ordained that the seas should divide the land and be crossed only by His guidance.”

Every cap came off and all forty-two of them stood for thirty seconds bare-headed in the Presence.

Then the Commodore really began to put them through it.

“We will now,” he said, “solemnly and devoutly repeat our Creed which rules us both in our lives and in our thoughts.”

Everyone took a deep breath and steadied himself. The Creed took four and a half minutes to complete. One of the older members, excused by a doctor's certificate
from penalty to rebuke, remained seated throughout; his head buried in his hands. All the rest held themselves bolt upright. Mr. Biddle stood in the third row between a schoolmaster and a local estate agent. They all three knew this part so thoroughly that they scarcely gave the words a thought as they repeated them.

Little isolated snatches, however, penetrated Mr. Biddle's brain and registered themselves there as they always did … “that the fatherless in the Order shall be cared for and fed and directed upon the ocean of Life;” “that those of our sisters whose husbands have been drowned upon life's sea shall be sheltered and protected;” “that against the decision of the Commander of the Fleet of all Mariners at home and abroad there shall be no appeal;” “that at no time and in no weather will I fail to answer, to the best of my power and at risk of my own life, the Supreme Distress Signal of a Brother Mariner;” “that never, save when in peril of my own life will I use the Mariner's most secret sign for aid.”

“Let us go below,” said the Commodore at last. There was a scraping of chairs and everyone sat down.

“Brother Mariners,” the Commodore resumed, “we open our sitting with our usual appeal for rescue parties. I want volunteers for Life Lines and Boat Crews.”

He removed a strip of paper from his pocket and began to read.

“Brother Slater, who was convicted of misappropriation six months ago and is now under sentence in Brixton Prison, appeals for someone that his two children, aged two years and five years, can play with so that they will not feel that they are condemned to forgo the company of other human beings.”

The schoolmaster beside Mr. Biddle rose to his feet. “Brother Commodore,” he said. “I will man that Lifeline. They can play with my children any day.”

Another Mariner rose. He was white haired and rather benign looking.

“If any Brother Mariner can provide an escort,” he said, “I can provide Brother Slater's children with Sunday tickets for the Zoo.” He sat down again with the self-conscious air of someone who has given away something that is not in everybody's power to give.

But the Commodore was already speaking again.

“Our Brother Millward,” he said, “has suffered the misfortune to have his ship go aground and has now received a summons for his water-rate, general-rate and gas. The amount needed to refloat the ship is twenty-seven pounds ten shillings. Will any Mariner offer to assist him?”

There was silence for some time. Then Mr. Biddle himself rose. He knew Millward and rather liked him; they had played bowls together when Millward's little tobacco and stationery business had still looked well-established and flourishing.

“Brother Commodore,” Mr. Biddle said, “I move that our Commodore orders out a Boat Crew. I will undertake to serve on it.”

“Brother Mariners,” the Commodore replied, “who will join Brother Biddle in a Life Boat?”

They rose, one after another, the well-to-do ones. And as they stood there, the bravest of their kind, they felt a little surge of pride inside them that they should be the ones who could help. It seemed to justify so much in their business lives that they were now ready to give away a part of what they had struggled so hard to acquire.
Soon eleven of them were standing there; then after a pause a twelfth got up.

“Brother Biddle,” said the Commodore. “I command you to send your Boat Crew to Brother Millward's rescue and hand in Brother Millward's receipt for the amount to the Clerk of the Lodge.”

The Commodore paused and his voice became choked with emotion again. “Brother Mariners,” he said, “tonight I relinquish my office and another Commodore is elected to the East Finchley Fleet. I will say only one thing to you. Be as kind to him as you have been to me and his task will be an easy one. This year has been the greatest honour in my life. Let me assure you, Brother Mariners, that my successor carries with him my sincere good wishes and my blessing and my offer to help whenever he may be in need of it.”

As he sat down a burst of applause broke out. All forty-two men were surprised and delighted by the shortness of the speech. They sat comfortably back and prepared to get on with the serious business of election.

There were only four names for consideration. Mr. Hill, the chemist, Mr. Rogers, a solicitor's clerk, Mr. Ankerson, a commercial traveller, and Mr. Vestry. Mr. Vestry was the safe bet for the Commodoreship. He was a city man with a good clear organising head and a liking for what he called getting down to things. His position was spoken of with some respect and he came to Harbour Sittings in his car, leaving his non-Mariner chauffeur-crew hanging about outside. It was generally felt that under Mr. Vestry's command the East Finchley Fleet would sail covered in victory and glory.