Orphan of Angel Street (37 page)

He leant his elbows on the side and rested his head on his upturned hands, letting out a groan. The expression on her face! She must have thought him deranged! But no, damn it, he justified himself. He could call in and see his own son if it suited him, couldn’t he, for heaven’s sake?

He ought to be thinking of his plans and projects, of Kesler, of how they would work together. That was the entire purpose of the voyage – the business; his life’s work. Instead of which he knew he would not sleep for the ceaseless longing in him which ached for relief. Never in his life had he experienced such helplessness. He knew, whatever his rational mind told him, that he would go to Mercy again. Somewhere in him the battle was already lost.

‘Oh Mercy – oh, help me . . .’ he groaned into the buffeting Atlantic wind.

‘Good evening.’

A young man approached, smoking a cigarette. The glowing tip of it moved in his hand. James jumped, heart pounding. How long had he been there? Had he heard?

‘Evening,’ he replied brusquely. Under the low lights he could make out a long face, deep-set eyes, a baggy suit. He was about to turn away when the young man spoke.

‘Queen of all ships, isn’t she?’

James relaxed. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. The wind was strong. And even if he had, civility would prevent him from commenting.

‘Yes, indeed,’ he replied, attempting geniality. ‘A real privilege to travel on her.’ He held his hand out. ‘I’m an interloper along here. Really should be in first class. James Adair.’

The young man seemed unmoved by the information but he returned the handshake. ‘Paul Louth.’ He frowned. ‘Adair? I believe I met your – would she be nanny? – earlier on. I offered to show her around. I hope that’s acceptable?’

James bristled inside. This must be the student! He felt a violent rush of resentment.

‘Mercy? Oh yes – she looks after our son. So you’re the student? She said she’d met you.’ It stuck in his throat to mention this, but he wanted to find out more about him.

‘Yes, I am,’ Paul said, brightening. ‘I just had the opportunity to work this round trip. Fascinating to see her in action, though of course the work’s filthy and rather repetitive. I did see round the
Olympic’s
engine room once. Marvellous – ’course she’s a triple screw, whereas they put the quadruple screw propellers in this one . . .’

They spent a good half hour sharing engineers’ talk. They discussed the workings of the ship, its construction, the intricacies of the Parson’s turbine engine. James told Paul about his business with Kesler. He relaxed. Watching the young man’s pale profile, his serious expression as he spoke, he could not harbour dislike for him. He had intelligence, expertise. There was a sadness about him, as of so many of the remaining young men of his generation. It was when he talked of his trade, of the ship, that he became animated.

When they parted for the night James strolled back to first class feeling calmer, mellowed, ashamed of his earlier jealousy. Mercy had only spoken to him once after all. What did that signify? He was a pleasant young man. An odd mixture of charm and melancholy. And hard to place somehow – well-spoken, clearly educated, but travelling second class and without the kind of well-heeled assumptions of superiority James would have expected, which would have made him bridle. Bit of an oddball perhaps, he thought, but certainly a well-informed one. He mustn’t mind Mercy seeing the boy or whatever would she think of him? His display of temper at dinner had been bad enough. He was being a fool.

The door of his stateroom creaked as he opened it. Margaret was moving restlessly in the bed, her face white. Once in bed, against his expectation, he slept immediately.

The next day was one of cloud broken by occasional bursts of sunshine. Mercy spent the day chiefly with Stevie. They went to see Margaret but she was so sick they left her in peace. She took Stevie out on deck, well wrapped up, letting him run up and down on his sturdy legs, pointing and babbling. His red muffler streamed in the wind like a flag. He could say few words clearly as yet but compensated with a great many inquisitive and expressive sounds. He was very intrigued by a stack of folding deckchairs, not in use as it was too cold to sit out. Mercy had to put one up and down several times to show him, and herself for that matter, how it worked.

‘Come on, my lad,’ she said eventually. ‘That’s enough of that. Let’s go and see if we can find some toys, eh?’

She picked him up, both their cheeks cold and glowing.

He was on a rocking horse in the nursery, crowing with delight, when James Adair appeared. He stood at the door in his coat and hat, smiling.

‘Dadada!’ Stevie yelled, pointing. The nurse in charge smiled indulgently.

‘Just thought I’d have a look in.’ James came over to them. ‘Everything all right, Mercy?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ She smiled shyly. ‘Is Margaret any better?’

‘Not much, I’m afraid. And the motion of the ship’s not helping. She said she’d like to see you both later – just for a few minutes. She’s very fed up of course.’

‘I know.’ Margaret had been tearful when she went in earlier. ‘Poor thing – what a time to feel bad.’

‘I, er—’ – James pushed his hands into his pockets – ‘I met your friend last night.’

Mercy lurched over to support Stevie as he began to slide off the horse. ‘Who?’

‘Paul Louth.’

‘Oh – yes!’ she smiled. ‘He’s going to show me round later on!’

‘Good. That’ll be interesting.’ He spoke with determined enthusiasm. ‘You’ll have to tell me about it. He seems very nice. Quite put my foolish fears at ease!’ And he laughed, long and loud so that Mercy felt obliged to laugh a little with him.

She met Paul at a quarter to six. He had already washed and changed back into his too-large suit.

‘I’ll have him with me—’ – she indicated Stevie – ‘at least for another hour or so. Will it matter?’

‘’Course not!’ Paul squatted down. ‘Hello, Stevie. Are you going to come and have a look round with us?’ Looking up at Mercy he said, ‘Tell you what. If we take him down with us now we can have a quick look in the engine room. He won’t be frightened by the noise, will he?’ Mercy shook her head. ‘Then perhaps after dinner we could look at some of the less dramatic bits?’

‘That sounds lovely!’

‘Come on then.’ He stood up. ‘The tour begins here.’

She picked Stevie up and they moved down through the ship, through a warren of narrower, much more rudimentary corridors the passengers never normally saw. The throb of the ship grew louder each time they moved down a deck.

‘Are you s’posed to bring me down here?’ she asked, following Paul’s eager stride.

‘Don’t know really.’ He turned to her, looking quite unconcerned. ‘They can hardly throw us off the ship, can they? I shan’t keep you down long. It’s pretty filthy lower down, and noisy. But it’ll give you a sense of what goes on below decks, what keeps it all ticking over . . . Would you like me to carry him for a while?’

‘No – I’m awright for now. He might not go to you anyway, as he doesn’t know you.’ But she was touched by his protectiveness.

The powerful, vibrating hum grew more insistent. She could feel it through her feet. The floors were metal now, clanked as they walked on them. There was no natural light down here. All the work was done under electric lamps. Stevie sat quite still in her arms now, head turning this way and that, a finger in his mouth.

‘Now – look in here,’ Paul said.

They stood at the threshold of the main engine room. Mercy looked up, up at the working puzzle of steel girders and plates, levers and tanks, dials and chains. So enormous and complicated, so much weight in all that throbbing, churning metal. She gave a gasp of awe and amazement.

Stevie’s eyes were like giant marbles. Mercy felt his tight grip on her shoulder.

‘It’s enormous!’ Mercy shouted. ‘Don’t know why – it reminds me of a church!’

She saw, rather than heard Paul laugh. ‘Quite right too!’ he shouted back. Suddenly he took her arm. She was warmed by the familiarity of it, as if they’d been friends for years.

‘You must see down here . . .’ He had to put his mouth close to her ear for her to hear him. ‘I’m afraid it’s pretty filthy . . . Coal gets in everything.’

‘Well I’m learning not to wear my best clothes when I see you!’ she yelled.

‘Oh dear – didn’t the oil come out?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, hoping it would eventually.

Holding her elbow he led her down another staircase, then stopped.

The floor was black with coal dust, the air stiflingly hot. All around she could hear the clang and rattle of metal, shovelling sounds, bangs and shouts and the trundle of wheels as the trimmers shifted loads of coal from the bunkers ready to be shovelled into the furnaces. There came the sound of a gong banging loudly amid all the other noise. From the stairs Mercy caught glimpses of men clad only in singlets above their trousers, their faces and muscular bodies black and shiny with coal and sweat so that they looked as if they were made of iron.

Mercy and Paul stood poised on the stairs. Mercy could feel the heat beating against her cheeks. She pressed Stevie’s head protectively close to her. The air smelt evil and was full of ash and dust, and within seconds the three of them were all coughing. It was like hell down here, Mercy thought, holding her hand as a shield to Stevie’s face. Those people in first class ought to see this, to make them realize what kept their luxurious saloons and dining rooms churning across the sea! The inside of her throat was burning.

‘Come away,’ Paul said, taking her arm.

They retreated very gratefully upstairs, longing for a drink of water.

‘D’you know,’ Paul said – there was no need to shout now – ‘each of those men shifts about five tons of coal a day.’

‘I couldn’t stand it even for five minutes,’ Mercy said. ‘How the hell do they put up with it?’

‘Beats me,’ Paul said. ‘But they do. Do it well too.’

They reached C-deck and stopped between his room and hers.

‘I’ll get this little’un to bed now,’ she said.

‘He’s been very good, hasn’t he? Not a murmur.’

‘Thanks ever such a lot, Paul.’ She hesitated, not sure if he’d still want to see her later.

‘Pleasure’s all mine.’ He hesitated. ‘Would you like to join me for dinner? Not quite like first class, I’m afraid, but it’d be good to have some company.’

‘I’ll eat with you,’ she said happily. ‘I’ll turn up your sleeves for you too if you want!’

Paul held his arms down straight at his sides. The cuffs dangled halfway down his hands. ‘I think I’m still supposed to be growing into it,’ he said ruefully. ‘If you would . . .’

‘Give it ’ere. No – wait. Let me get the door open first.’ Paul took her key and unlocked the door for her. She put Stevie down inside.

‘See you then?’ Paul handed her the jacket. ‘At seven?’

‘Better say seven-fifteen,’ she said. ‘What with the sewing.’

She saw him outside the dining room before he saw her. He was standing sideways on to her, his thinness more obvious without the jacket. He was looking into the dining room as if watching the diners there, but she sensed that his mind was far away, his expression one of deep melancholy. The sadness she saw in him almost stopped her in her tracks. Before, with her, he had appeared cheerful.

‘Oh hello!’ He saw her and the smile blazed across his face.

‘Here you go.’ She had speedily unpicked his cuffs while waiting for Stevie to fall asleep, and sewn them up almost an inch shorter. ‘I damped them down a bit, but they need pressing – I couldn’t do that in time as well.’

He slipped on the jacket and tried the length. ‘That’s marvellous – thank you! I’ll press them myself. I’m so grateful. So – are you ready for food? I’m absolutely ravenous.’

They settled themselves at a table beside the wall.

‘You look – very nice,’ Paul said stumblingly.

She smiled. ‘Thanks.’ She’d put on the dress with the blue flowers, plaited her hair simply. She’d wanted to look nice.

‘Sorry – I’m not used to much conversation. I don’t see many people who aren’t engineering students!’

They turned their minds to food.

‘Ooh, lovely – roast beef!’ Mercy brightened further. ‘They have all sorts of odd stuff up in first class, I can tell you.’

‘Yes – it’d be too rich for my palette, I must say. Especially several days in a row. Stanley – he’s the other student – has been full of praise for it all.’ Paul grimaced. It was obvious he was none too keen on Stanley.

They ordered food and then fell silent as if something in the air had shifted that prevented them talking. They each looked down at the table, looked up smiling, fiddled with the simple provision of cutlery. For a moment, in this silent, face-to-face awkwardness, Mercy was acutely aware of the difference in their class. He was obviously educated, better off, superior. What on earth were they going to talk about?

Paul, who seemed for the moment equally at a loss peered into his cuffs and said, ‘Thank you again. It’s a very neat job.’

‘Oh – not really. I’m not much good at sewing. It was . . .’ She was about to say Susan. Susan’s the one who can sew. But that was the past now. She didn’t feel like explaining. ‘Doesn’t your mom do that sort of thing for you?’

‘Oh no – my mother’s dead. She died before the War.’

‘Oh dear,’ Mercy said.

‘Yes. We miss her.’

‘Are you a big family?’

‘Only myself and my brother Peter. Two little dickie birds, we were, growing up together. He was three years older than me.’

He paused, sitting back and opening his napkin, spreading it on his lap. ‘He joined up as soon as he was old enough. Desperate to go. He was killed at Loos.’ Paul looked across the room. Mercy kept her eyes fixed on his face, willing him to keep talking.

‘My father stayed in Cambridge throughout the War – at the university. He’s a linguist – French and German. We were never close. Certainly aren’t now. The War somehow put paid to any sort of communication – it was precarious enough before. It was another life over there . . .’ He paused as if looking for words. ‘You brought it all home in your mind but you couldn’t talk about it.’