Uncharted Seas (16 page)

The better class were hedged about with the restrictions common in Spanish-speaking countries to protect them from the carnal temptations normally resulting from enforced idleness. Few of them would have risked serious trouble with their husbands to satisfy a peccadillo, but nearly all the husbands kept mistresses as an accepted custom. Many were complacent after the first few years of marriage, and others had to be away from their homes at times for considerable periods. In consequence, these idle, amorous ladies almost invariably welcomed an intrigue if it could be conducted with discretion, and from generations of tradition would have considered themselves grossly insulted if any potential gallant had addressed them in terms, of platonic love.

The women of the lower classes, with whom Vicente had had even more frequent dealings, were much easier of access, no less hot-blooded, and prone to satisfy their passions on impulse; nearly all could be bought, bullied, or beguiled into a surrender which, once made, rarely failed to excite a passionate response.

With such a wealth of fortunate adventure behind him Vicente could only wonder why Synolda had not given in to him before.

As a young man, though short, he had been handsome. In recent years he had put on weight, he knew, but he still regarded himself as an attractive fellow, and he was extremely proud of his virility, which he had come to believe was the one thing that women really cared about in a man.

Had Synolda been a young, unmarried girl, a pious devotee who had foresworn the lusts of the flesh for the sake of the Kingdom to come, or even been vowed to temporary chastity by a romantic attachment to another man, he would have acted in accordance with his code; respected her and left her alone. But she was none of these things. On the contrary, she was a woman of the world, had no husband or relatives who might have embarrassed her freedom travelling with her, and nobody to whom she was morally bound to account for her actions at her journey’s end.

Vicente felt bitterly resentful that she should have compelled him to force her hand. It would have been so much pleasanter if she had taken him as her lover willingly, but luck having given him the means to make her, he considered himself perfectly justified in using them. Having no real grounds, other than an unflattering lack of interest, for refusing him in the first place, he was certain she would come to heel rather than face all that exposure entailed, and was confident in his own ability to please her as a lover once she had surrendered.

He did not hurry her, but sat there silent; giving her plenty of time to visualise the consequences of a refusal while he dwelt in anticipation upon all the joys her beauty would afford him.

Synolda’s thoughts during those tense moments were very different. She, too, had an ample experience behind her. There had been times when she had almost fainted with pleasure in a man’s embrace, but others when her whole body had cried out in loathing.

She had done what she had done in order that she might never be forced to suffer that hate, indignity, and shame again. Yet here she was, free for such a little while before necessity compelled her to submit to another man against her will.

In an effort to view the situation calmly she examined her
feelings for Vincente. She certainly did not hate him; she did not even blame him for taking advantage of the information which enabled him to bring pressure to bear on her. Most of the men she had met would have done the same, she knew. In her experience men were like that when they wanted a woman really badly. Honest enough in their calling but quite unscrupulous about blackmailing a wife into sleeping with them if they had the power to check or assist her husband’s advancement.

No, it was not that Vicente was actively repellent to her. He was getting on in years, of course, but still muscular and healthy; at times he was even passably good-looking and must have been quite attractive when he was a younger man. He was quite amusing, too, when his sense of humour was not submerged by his passion for her, and he was kind. She recalled his eager solicitude for her comfort during their first days on the ship and the many ways in which he had sought to make her ordeal in the boat more endurable.

If only she had had one spark of desire it would have been different, she felt. She was a free agent, responsible to no one, and she would have gone through with it without any qualms. But she hadn’t; that was the trouble.

She began to visualise what it would be like down there in her cabin. The plump Vicente undressing near her. He probably wore woollen combinations. She’d be spared the sight of him taking off his clothes though, as she could see to it they did that in the dark. Instead, his thick hands would fumble for her in the bunk; she could almost hear his heavy breathing, and then.… Speculation ran riot in her mind as to what he might require of her. Her husband Henriques Ortello had been a Venezuelan and she was well versed in their idiosyncrasies.

No, she decided, she wouldn’t do it. Why the hell should she? And yet he had the whip hand over her. If she didn’t, in a few more days she might find herself in a prison cell. Prisons in South America were not nice places. Few people in Europe or the States had any conception of the horrors practised in the secret cells under the protection of a heavy censorship by some of the officials of the smaller Republics. She had once visited a prison in Caracas before the death of the tyrant Gomez. The barbarities which took place during the times of his Presidency were unmentionable.

If she landed in a place like that, and was unable to claim the protection of a Consul, she knew exactly what the warders would
do to her. Most of the women prisoners were willing enough to sell themselves after a few days in the lice-infested cells for a transfer to better quarters and good rations which would save them from the almost universal dysentery. Good-lookers who were stubborn could be brought to heel in other ways. She might scream and kick until she burst her lungs, but that wouldn’t help; they’d only think it funny or use a whip to tame her. One of them would probably give her a child or something worse before her trial came on, and with all the graft that was practised there was never any way of getting back on those devilish gaolers if they were like the ones she’d heard of at first hand in Caracas. They knew it and boasted openly of the sport they had with the helpless women behind the closely guarded walls.

Much better take on Vicente. It might not be so bad perhaps if she could stop him talking and try to think of him as someone else when they were in the dark together. Better put a cheerful face on it too. That paid. It would make him more considerate and she’d be able to get rid of him sooner.

At last she stood up and went over to the upright piano which occupied a corner of the small lounge. Idly she began to strum upon it.

‘What is that you play?’ asked Vincente.

‘Oh, just a little ditty that tells the oldest story in the world.’ In a husky contralto Synolda began to sing:

‘
She was poor but she was honest
Victim of a village crime
For the Squire’s cruel passion
Robbed her of her honest name
.

‘
Then she came right up to London
There to hide her grief and shame
But she met another Squire
And she lost her name again.
’

Synolda stopped playing and gently shut down the lid of the piano. ‘That second verse is rather appropriate, don’t you think? Fix me a double brandy and bring down the champagne.’

That night the ship drifted on through the mist, and when morning came she was still shrouded in its grey, ghost-like wisps.

It muffled the footsteps of those walking on the decks, made wood and metal fitments damp to the touch, covering them with fine beads of moisture like sweat, and gave the passengers an eerie feeling.

Luvia took scant notice of it. He knew that in these desolate seas there was little likelihood of another ship being within a hundred miles of them, so the risk of a collision was entirely negligible.

Taking the bulk of the crew with him he went down to the engine-room; he was overjoyed to have the chance of working again in his own special domain. To rake out the fires and get them going up to the point where sufficient pressure of steam had been generated for the propellers to turn over at a normal speed would require many hours of heavy labour, but the men set to with a will.

Vicente was among them; stripped to the waist and ready to take his turn at the shovels with the others. Basil, who was also there, looked at him curiously. The Venezuelan was broad and squat, but in spite of his little paunch he looked vigorous and muscular; for some inexplicable reason, too, he appeared to be half a dozen years younger this morning.

Between-decks in the galley Unity was peeling potatoes while Synolda was making pastry for a pie. She showed no trace of the night’s events except that she was a little more silent than usual.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Unity asked with no object but to make conversation.

‘I was thinking,’ said Synolda slowly, ‘how strange it is that things you dread are never quite so bad, when you really come to them, as you imagine beforehand.’

Unity laughed. ‘There’s a pavement artist at Hyde Park Corner
who does a scrawl which says, “Today is the tomorrow you were worrying about yesterday”, and it’s quite true. Even when the future appears incredibly grim we get through it somehow. In fact, people often derive a certain amount of enjoyment from periods in which they had visualised themselves committing suicide through bitterness and disillusion. But what makes you think about that?’

‘Oh, nothing particular,’ Synolda hedged. ‘Just being here a thousand miles from anywhere cooking for sailors in a derelict ship, yet not feeling particularly unhappy all the same—if you know what I mean. Just think how worried we’d have been if we’d been told the sort of voyage we’d have to face before we left Cape Town.’

‘Yes, we’d have been horrified and refused to sail, of course, although now we’re more or less out of danger I wouldn’t have missed the experience for anything.’

There was a pause in the conversation before Unity went on: ‘D’you know what I’d have said you were thinking about, if you’d given me the usual three guesses?’

‘No, what?’

‘Oh, Juhani.’

Synolda turned to stare and opened wide her heavily lidded blue eyes in genuine surprise. ‘Juhani Luvia—but, good God, why?’

‘Well, you’ve made a pretty sweeping conquest there, haven’t you?’

‘What, I? Gracious, what nonsense!’

Unity stiffened slightly. ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t the least desire to pry into your personal affairs. Of course, I should never have mentioned it.’

‘Oh, please!’ Synolda dusted the flour quickly from her plump white arms and abandoned her pastry-making. ‘I’m not offended. Not a bit. You’ve been so sweet to me, how could I be? But, honestly, I haven’t even looked at Juhani. I thought you were just pulling my leg.’

Unity smiled. ‘I wasn’t, and if you haven’t looked at him he certainly spends most of his time, when he’s taking a spell from work, looking at you.’

‘Really! How queer. I’ve never noticed it.’

‘Then it’s quite time you did—that is unless you dislike him.’

‘Oh, I don’t dislike him in the least. In fact, I admire him a lot and think him rather a hero. He’s behaved splendidly all through,
but he’s so off-hand. I had no idea he was interested in anything except his job of salvaging the ship and getting us safely back to land again.’

‘Well, you can take it from me, he’s just crazy about you. Like the great big baby he is, he tries to conceal it, but I know from the way he follows you about with his eyes whenever you move out of his vicinity; and he’s jealous as hell of Vicente.’

‘Is he?—but he has no cause to be,’ Synolda replied innocently.

‘No, none,’ Unity agreed, ‘since for some obscure reason he conceals his interest in you. All the same I should probably be jealous, too, if I were in his shoes. Ever since we sailed from Cape Town you’ve shown pretty plainly that you prefer Vicente’s company to anybody else’s.’

‘Oh, well, he lays himself out to be pleasant,’ Synolda hurriedly turned back to her pastry-making. ‘You see, he knew my late husband years ago in Caracas.’

‘Caracas!’ echoed Unity a trifle puzzled. ‘I’m afraid I’m frightfully ignorant, but where exactly is that?’

‘It’s the capital of Venezuela. I lived there for nearly seven years.’

‘How interesting. You’ve only been on a visit to South Africa, then?’

‘That’s all. I was born and brought up there, but my first husband—I’ve been married twice, you know—was an engineer named Piet Brendon. He had a job in Venezuela so he took me out there, but he died after we’d been married only a year and left me more or less high and dry. I could have gone back to my people in Johannesburg, of course, but I didn’t want to—then.’

‘So you married again.’

‘Yes. I was still under twenty. My second husband, Henriques Ortello, was pretty well off and very persistent. I knew the language enough to talk it fairly fluently by then, and as I’m the lazy kind I preferred an easy life to going home where I should have had to do some sort of job.’

‘What is Caracas like to live in?’

‘Not bad, provided you steer clear of politics. Of course, no girl can go about the streets alone there, even after she’s married. Upper-class women are treated in the old Spanish fashion and almost as carefully guarded as if they were in a harem. They have their affairs just the same, though, because the men come in over their garden walls at night.’

‘It sounds most romantic.’

‘I thought that too at first, but Venezuela has its drawbacks. All the men are absolutely crazy about politics, and it’s not much fun never knowing when your boy friend’s going to be bumped off as a Liberal or something. Everyone lived in terror of that until the old Catfish died.’

‘The Catfish?’ Unity murmured. ‘Who was he?’

‘That was their nickname for the Dictator Gomez. He was an incredible old man who ran the country as though it was his own private boozing-den and brothel from 1890 right up to 1935. No woman was safe from him however highly placed, and he had over a hundred illegitimate children; but his power was so great that nobody could break it. He made the cattle-market his own personal monopoly and millions out of the oilfields, so he was able to keep an army strong enough to terrorise the whole country. They just imprisoned anyone they suspected was anti-Gomez, without trial; men and women alike; and nine-tenths of the prisoners died in their cells from disease or torture.’