The Aquitania nears the port of Southampton.
It is July 23rd, 1932. They have been at sea for one week, during which time they have rarely been left in peace. He and Babe pose for photographs with those who ask, and sign autographs, but after a few days they grow weary of the attention because there is no escape from it. They retreat to their cabins, and pass the hours in whatever pursuits they can find to occupy themselves.
Myrtle appears content, or as content as a sober drunk can be. He, by contrast, feels a sense of disquiet. He ascribes this to the problem of his marriage, although he is also troubled by this return to England. He has become famous, but only by leaving his homeland. He has turned his back on it, and he fears that it may turn its back on him in turn.
But as the Aquitania prepares to dock, he and Babe see only people at the water’s edge, and people in the windows of warehouses and offices, and people on the rooftops. And from the throng a sound arises, faint at first but growing clearer as the tugboat brings in the Aquitania, as the Hythe ferry crosses in the distance, as the gray skies press their claim on the world.
It is a ringing like the wind in the wires, or distant birdsong.
It is the thirty notes of their signature tune, repeated over and over.
It is the sound of thousands upon thousands whistling in unison.
Whistling their welcome.