Luck of the Bodkins (12 page)

Monty was still in the rudimentary stages of pulling himself together. He closed and unclosed his eyes, and swallowed once or twice. Then, slowly, it penetrated to his consciousness that his companion had said that something would be
a
mistake.

'Mistake?
’

‘
Yes, sir.
’

"Who's made
a
mistake?'

‘I
said that you were making one, sir.
’

‘
Me?'

‘
Yes, sir.
’

'How?'

'You know what I mean, sir.'
‘I
don't.'

Albert Peasemarch seemed to stiffen.

'Very good, sir,' he said distantly. 'Just as you wish. If you would prefer me to be silent and keep my place, I will be silent and keep my place. Technically, you are right in wishing me to do so. But I was hoping that, considering that all this has, in
a
manner of speaking, brought us somewhat close together, if I may use the expression, you would have waived our relationship of overlord and vassal, of bloke - that is to say, passenger - and steward, and allowed me to speak frankly.'

Nothing in this speech contributed in any way to Monty's enlightenment, but it was plain that he had somehow managed to hurt the other's feelings. Albert Peasemarch's words might be cryptic, but not his face. He was looking respectfully pained.

'Oh, rather,' he said hastily, eager to staunch the wound. 'Of course. Certainly.'

'I may speak frankly?' said Albert Peasemarch, brightening.

'Quite. Quite.'

A kindly look came into the steward's eye, a look full of the indulgent affection natural in one who, if he had married Monty's mother at the age of seventeen - though in actual fact, as we have seen, he had not - might have been the young man's father.

Thank you, sir. Then, sir, let me say once more that in my opinion you are making a very serious mistake. What I mean to say, in allowing your heart to become involved with a young lady, knock-out though she is to look at, so larky in disposition as the young lady next door.'

‘
Eh?'

The young lady next door,
' proceeded Albert Peasemarch, ‘
is an actress, sir - Miss Blossom her name is - and my old mother used to say to me "Keep away from actresses, Albert." And she was right, as I discovered for myself when, disregarding her warning, I took and fell in love with one that was playing small parts in the Portsmouth panto. It wasn't long before I realized that actresses and ordinary men like me moved in different spears and hadn't the same views on things, at all. No notion of punctuality she hadn't got, to start with. Many's the time I've waited three-quarters of an hour under the Town Hall clock, and had her walk up as cool as you please and say: "Oh, there you are, Face. Not late, am I?"'

He broke off, coughing. In order to give verisimilitude to his story, he had uttered the last nine words in a sardonic falsetto, and this had tried his vocal cords. Recovering from the paroxysm, he resumed:

'And it wasn't only her having no notion of punctuality. It was everything. I never knew where I was with her, sir, I tell you straight. Take the simple matter of sugar in her tea. If I put it in, she'd say: "Trying to ruin my figure, are you, or what is it?" and next time, when I didn't, it was, "Hoy! Come along with that ruddy sugar," and probably a derogatory epithet tacked on to it.'

He uttered a hard laugh, for these things rankle. Then, seeing that his companion had the air of a man who wished to speak, he went on rapidly:

'Temperament, they call it, I believe - the artistic temperament, and I soon saw that it and me didn't mix. It was the same thing all the time. Take her relations with her fellow artists, for instance. I would escort her to the stage door for the performance and she'd be talking of nothing but what a cat Maud or Gladys that she dressed with was, and I'd meet her after the performance and, merely wishing to make things comfortable for all concerned, I'd say: "I do hope, dear, that you haven't been annoyed tonight by that cat Maud or Gladys," and she'd draw herself up in a cold and haughty sort of manner and reply: "I'll thank you, if you don't mind, not to go calling my dearest friends cats," and then next afternoon I'd say: "How's your friend Maud or Gladys?" and she would answer: "I don't know what you mean 'friend'. I hate the sight of the woman." Very wearing it was, sir, and that's why I say to you, as one who's been through it, don't you have nothing to do with actresses, no matter how beautiful they may be. Cool off towards the young lady next door is my advice to you, sir, and you'll be happier for it in the end.'

Monty was breathing tensely. There had been a time when, actuated by the universal benevolence with which he had been overflowing, he had liked Albert Peasemarch. This state of things no longer existed.

'Thank you,' he said.

'Not at all, sir.'

'Thank you,' repeated Monty, '(a), steward, for telling me the story of your bally life -' 'Only too pleased, sir.'

‘
- and
(b),
steward, for giving me the benefit of your dashed valuable advice. In reply, steward, may I inform you that, so far from being enamoured of the young lady next door, I've never so much as met her. And it's no good,' said Monty, his voice rising, 'casting a meaning glance at that bathroom, because -'

Albert Peasemarch's face, as has been indicated, was an open book that all might read. In it now Monty read astonishment and incredulity.

'You've never
met
the young lady next door, sir?
’

'Never.'

'Well, sir,
’
said Albert dubiously, 'I must apologize, then
’
I was misled. When my mate on the B deck told me you had persuaded his bloke to let you change state-rooms with him, and when I'd had a look at the young lady next door and seen what a scorcher she is as regards personal experience, and when I come in here and see loving messages all over the walls, I naturally assumed that your motive in changing staterooms with your gentleman friend on B deck was so that you could be adjacent and contiguous to the young lady next door.'

Monty's breathing became more tense.

'I didn't change state-rooms with my gentleman friend on B deck. He changed with me.'

'It's the same thing, sir.'

'It's not at all the same thing.
’

'And you've never met the young lady next door?'

'I've told you I've never met the young lady next door.
’

The steward's face suddenly cleared. He looked like a man who has been poring over a clue in a crossword puzzle, at a loss to divine what 'large Australian bird' can possibly be, and in an unexpected flash has had it come to him. Just as such a man will qu
iver in every limb and cry 'Emu!’
, just as Archimedes on a well-known occasion quivered in every limb and cried 'Eureka 1' - so now did Albert Peasemarch quiver in every limb and cry 'Coo!'

'Coo, sir!' cried Albert Peasemarch. 'I see it all now, sir. It was not love that made the young lady next door write that writing on the wall, but just larkiness. I told you how larky she was, didn't I, sir? I've known that to happen before. When I was a hunky-dunk on the
Laurentic,
the Dooser gave a party to some theatrical ladies we had with us -'

'Who the dickens is the Dooser?
’

The second steward, sir. Always known as the Dooser. Well, as I was saying, the Dooser gave this party and the proceedings continued to a late hour, and the Dooser, having to get his bit of sleep so he could be fresh for his duties next day, excused himself to the young ladies and went off and turned in with Scupperguts -
’

'Who the devil's Scupperguts? I wish you'd talk English.'

The head waiter, sir. Invariably termed Scupperguts. Well, sir, as I was saying, the Dooser dossed with Scupperguts, and when he got to his own room next morning he found that one of the young ladies had written a number of highly copperizing things on his wall with lipstick, and the way he carried on had to be seen to be believed, so I was informed by those who witnessed his emotion. You see, he was afraid that at any moment the Old Man might take it into his head to have
a
ship's inspection.'

'All dashed interesting -'

'Very, sir. I thought you'd think so. And he couldn't get it off, the Dooser couldn't this writing, because lipstick's un-deliable.'

'Undeliable?'

'A scientific term, sir, meaning impossible to be got off without the proper chemicals and what not.
’
'What!'

There was a sharp agony in Monty's voice which caused the steward to look quickly at him. He observed that the young man's knotted and combined locks had parted and that each particular hair now stood on end like quills upon the fretful porpentine.

'Sir?'

'Steward!'
‘
Yes, sir?'

‘
You don't think - do you think - you don't think that writing in there was done with lipstick?'
‘
I know it was done with lipstick, sir.' 'My sainted aunt!'
‘
Yes, si
r. That's lipstick, that was.' ‘
Oh, golly!'

Albert Peasemarch could not quite follow this. He was unable to fathom the reason for this, as it seemed to him, excessive perturbation. The Dooser, yes. The Dooser had had
an
official position to keep up. If the pitiless light of publicity had been thrown on the writing in the Dooser's cabin, the Old Man would have had more than
a
word or two to say. But Monty was
a
carefree passenger.

However, it was plain that the young man was taking the thing a good deal to heart, so Albert Peasemarch endeavoured to cheer him up by pointing out another aspect of the matter. He was a deep thinker in his off hours, and he proceeded to give Monty the benefit of his hard-won philosophy.

'The way to look at these things, sir, is to keep telling yourself that it's just Fate. Somehow, if you know
a
thing has been fated from the beginning of time, if I may use the expression, it doesn't seem so bad. I'm always telling my mates in the Glory Hole that, but you'd be surprised how they don't seem to see it. If you want to know what's wrong with the average steward on an ocean liner, sir, he don't have no breadth of vision. I wonder, sir,' said Albert Peasemarch, warming to his theme, 'if you have done much thinking along those lines -devoted your mind, I mean, to considering the inscrutable workings of Fate - or, as some call it, Destiny. Take this simple instance here before us now. What have we got? Lipstick. Very we'll. Whose lipstick? The young lady next door's. Right. Now, before the war ladies didn't use lipstick. It was the war that brought about lipstick. So, if there hadn't been
a
war, the young lady next door wouldn't have had
a
lipstick to write on your bathroom wall with.'

'Steward,' said Monty.

'Ah, but wait one moment, sir. We can go farther back than that. What caused the war? That bloke in Switzerland shooting the German Emperor. So if that bloke hadn't have shot the Emperor, there wouldn't have been no war, and there wouldn't have been no lipsticks, and the young lady next door wouldn't have had one to write on your bathroom wall with.
’

'Steward,' said Monty.

‘
Just one instant, sir. We haven't finished even yet. We go back still farther. What caused the bloke in Switzerland? The fact that his father and mother happened to meet and get
married. Probably they met at the pictures or somewhere. Very well. Now you just reason it out for yourself, sir. Suppose it had been raining that night and she had stayed at home. Suppose, just as he was putting on his boots, a couple of his pals had dropped in on him and taken him off to the pub to play darts. What follows? The bloke-who-shot-the-Emperor's father would never have met the bloke-who-shot-the-Emperor's mother, so there wouldn't have been any bloke to shoot the Emperor, so there wouldn't have been any war, so there wouldn't have been any lipsticks, so the young lady next door wouldn't have had one to write on your bathroom wall with,
’

'Steward,' said Monty.

'Sir?
’

‘
You may not know it,' said Monty, speaking with some difficulty, 'but you're trying me a little high.'

'I'm sure I'm very sorry to hear that, sir. I was merely pointing out the strange and wonderful workings -
’

'I know.' Monty passed a hand across his forehead. 'But don't. Do you mind?'