Antwerp: Wednesday, 20 July 1910
She was over 575 feet in length, with a beam almost an eighth of that size. She weighed approximately 16,500 tons and had a capacity of over eighteen hundred passengers, although today she was only three-quarters full. Stately and impressive, her hull and paintwork gleaming in the July sun, she seemed almost impatient to depart, her chimneys piping steam cautiously as the Scheldt river crashed noisily against her side. She was the SS Montrose, part of the Canadian Pacific fleet of passenger ships, and she was preparing to set sail from the port of Antwerp in Belgium for the city of Quebec in Canada, some three thousand miles away.
For over two weeks, the Montrose had been settled in the Berendrecht lock as her crew of sailors and engineers prepared her for her next voyage, and the Sinjoreens of the small Belgian city took pride in the fact that a fatal voyage had never set forth from their shores. There were almost two hundred employees of the Canadian Pacific Company who would sail with the ship when she left the harbour, from the navigator at the helm, through the coal-skinned, muscle-ripened recluses who stoked the engines, to the younger, orphan boys who swept out the main dining hall after the evening’s entertainments had come to an end. Few of them, however, had spent much time at the harbour since they had docked there in early July, preferring to enjoy their vacation and shore leave in the busy town of Antwerp, where there was enough food, drink and whores to satisfy all.
A taxi pulled in near a series of large steel containers, and Mrs Antoinette Drake opened the door and placed a felt slipper gingerly on the sea-slimed pavement outside, curling her lip in distaste at the filth which clung to the cobblestones. The slipper was of a dark purple hue, the same colour as her hat and extravagant travelling gown which covered her enormous body like a sheet of tarpaulin covers a lifeboat. ‘Driver,’ she said impatiently, reaching forward and tapping him on the shoulder with a gloved finger; she rolled the ‘r’ in ‘driver’ regally. ‘Driver, surely you can park a little closer to the ship? I can’t be expected to walk through this. I’ll ruin my shoes. They’re new, don’t you know. They won’t take to all this water.’
‘No further,’ he replied, making no effort to turn around. His English was poor; rather than trying to improve it, he had discovered over the years that he needed to employ only a few stock phrases with foreigners, and so he stuck rigidly to them. That had been one of them. And here was another: ‘Three schillings, please.’
‘No further? What nonsense! What’s he talking about, Victoria?’ Mrs Drake asked, turning to look at her daughter, who was rooting through her purse for the fare. ‘The man’s a fool. Why can’t he drive us any closer? The ship is all the way over there. Is he simple-minded, do you think? Does he not understand me?’
‘This is as far as he’s allowed to drive, Mother,’ said Victoria, fishing out the money and handing it to the driver before opening her own door and stepping outside. ‘Wait there,’ she added. ‘I’ll help you out. It’s perfectly safe.’
‘Oh really, this is too much,’ Mrs Drake muttered irritably as she waited for the seventeen-year-old to come around to her side of the taxi. Victoria had chosen a far more suitable travelling costume and didn’t seem concerned about the dangers of footwear on the damp stones. ‘I say it’s really not good enough,’ she added in a louder voice. ‘Do you hear me, driver? It’s not good enough, all this taking money for a job half done. It’s a disgrace, if you want to know the truth. If this was England, you’d be taken out and flogged for such a thing. Leaving a lady of my years and station stranded like this.’
‘Out please,’ the driver replied in a pleasant, sing-song voice, another of his handful of useful phrases.
‘What’s that?’
‘Out please,’ he repeated. He drove tourists to the harbour every day and had little time for their complaints, especially the English ones, especially the upper-class English ones who seemed to believe that they should not only be driven to the ship but should be carried aboard on a sedan chair.
‘Well I never did!’ said Mrs Drake, astonished at the man’s impertinence. ‘Now look here, you—’ She intended to drag her body weight forward and remonstrate further, perhaps employ a little light violence if necessary, but by now Victoria had opened the side door fully and was reaching inside, gripping her mother’s arm, placing a foot against the wheel to act as a makeshift fulcrum and wrenching the older woman out. The vast bulk of the elder Drake found itself pouring on to the stones of the Antwerp harbour before any more complaints could issue from her mouth; a sound like a vacuum filling was heard distinctly from inside the car. ‘Victoria, I—’ she gasped, head held low, bosom crashing forward, the words seized from her mouth and mercifully whisked away, unspoken, into the heavens. ‘Victoria, take a care! Can’t you just—’
‘Thank you, driver,’ said Victoria when her mother was safely out of the car and attempting to recover her dignity by flattening the creases in her dress with a suede glove.
‘Look at me,’ she muttered. ‘What a condition to be seen in.’
‘You look perfectly fine,’ her daughter said in a distracted voice as she looked around at the other passengers making their way to the ship. She quickly closed the door, and the driver immediately sped away.
‘Victoria, I wish you wouldn’t treat these people with such deference,’ Mrs Drake remonstrated as she shook her head in frustration. ‘Thanking him, after the way he spoke to me. You must understand that so many of these foreigners will take advantage of people like you and I if we show them any sign of weakness. Don’t spare the rod, that’s my adage, my dear, and it has served me well.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ she replied.
‘Their class don’t understand any better. In truth, many of them will respect you for it.’
‘We are the foreigners here, Mother,’ Victoria pointed out, looking around to inspect her surroundings. ‘Not them. This is Belgium, remember? The man didn’t mean to be rude. It’s not worth our concerning ourselves with such trivial matters.’
‘Not worth it? That’s three shillings we’ve spent on a taxi ride to the ship, and look at us! Another mile to walk on wet cobblestones, and who’s to clean the hem of my dress when we’re on board? I fancied I would wear this on a dinner evening after we had set sail. That’s out of the question now. And my legs are not what they were when I was a girl. You know I hate walking.’
Victoria smiled and linked her mother’s arm with her own, leading her in the direction of the ship. ‘It’s hardly a mile away,’ she said patiently. ‘Two hundred yards, no more.’ She considered pointing out that it had actually been four schillings she had spent and not three, for she had given the man a tip, but she decided against it. ‘Once we’re on board you won’t have to walk again for eleven days if you don’t feel like it. And I’m sure there will be a maid to help with the clothing. All our luggage should have already been unpacked in our cabin, you know. Who do you think did that? Mice?’
Mrs Drake sniffed but refused to concede the point. She remained silent, however, as they approached the gangway. ‘Don’t be insolent,’ she said finally. ‘I only mean that there is a correct way and an incorrect way to conduct one’s business, and if one is dealing with an underling one should bear that in mind at all times.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ said Victoria in a sad voice, employing the tone of one who has grown accustomed to dealing with the complaints of a small child. ‘But we’re here now anyway, so let’s not worry about it.’
‘And you have to remember that we are Englishwomen. And Englishwomen of a particular class at that. We cannot let ourselves be bullied or taken advantage of by some . . . European.’ She spat out the word as if it was a fly she had inhaled. ‘We must remember ourselves at all times when we’re sailing. Now, here’s a boy to take our tickets. Oh, take a look at his face. He looks as though he hasn’t washed in a week. Filthy child.’ She lifted her cane and waved it in his direction, as if she was flagging down a passing motorist. ‘Have them ready for him there, Victoria. Let’s not waste time on ceremony. And for heaven’s sake don’t get too close to him. He may be diseased. Oh, what’s that noise? For heaven’s sake, get me out of this place!’
‘That noise’ was the sound of Bernard Leejik, the Drakes’ recent cab driver, pressing firmly on the horn of his car as he narrowly avoided mowing down several other innocent travellers making their way towards the Montrose. Mr John Robinson had to jump back when the vehicle sped past him, his legs moving a lot more nimbly than those of the average forty-seven-year-old gentleman. A man of quiet sensibilities who disliked any sort of commotion or trouble, he stared around at the disappearing vehicle with distaste. ‘These new motor cars will be the death of everyone,’ he said, recovering his balance and directing his attention towards his youthful companion. ‘I think someone should do something about them before we all get knocked over and killed. Don’t you agree?’
‘I’ve never driven in one . . . Father,’ came the boy’s cautious reply, as if he was trying out the word for the first time.
Mr Robinson both smiled and felt awkward at the same time. ‘That’s it,’ he said quietly, resting a hand on the lad’s shoulder for a moment as they walked along. ‘Well done. You have the tickets, haven’t you?’ he added, his hand drawn to his face as he felt the bare space above his upper lip which was now devoid of the moustache he had worn for almost thirty years. In its place, he had started to grow a beard along his cheeks and chin, and after four days it was coming along quite nicely. Still, this face, this new sensation along his cheeks and lips was unfamiliar to him and he could not stop himself from constantly touching it. ‘Edmund,’ he said, with as much strange formality as the boy had uttered ‘father’ a few moments before.
‘They’re in my pocket,’ he answered.
‘Excellent. Well, as soon as we’re on board, I think we should go straight to our cabin. Settle in and take a little rest. Not create any sort of fuss. When the ship is safely at sea we can take the air perhaps.’
‘Oh no,’ said Edmund, frustrated. ‘Can’t we stand by the railings and wave at the people as we set sail? When we left England you wouldn’t allow me to do it. Can’t we do it now? Please?’
Mr Robinson frowned. In recent days he had grown almost pathologically careful about drawing any unnecessary attention to himself or to Edmund. ‘They’re only people,’ he pointed out, hoping to dampen the boy’s enthusiasm. ‘Growing smaller in the distance. It’s nothing to get excited about.’
‘Well, if you’d prefer we didn’t . . .’ Edmund muttered, looking down at the ground disconsolately as they approached the ship. ‘But it would mean a lot to me. I promise I won’t speak to anyone. I just want to feel some of the excitement, that’s all.’
‘Very well,’ Mr Robinson conceded with a sigh. ‘If it means that much to you, I don’t see how I can possibly refuse.’
Edmund smiled at his father and hugged his arm tightly. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Look,’ he added, pointing ahead to where two women were remonstrating at the platform with a uniformed member of staff. ‘Some sort of commotion already.’
‘Just ignore them,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘We’ll show our tickets and climb aboard. No need to get involved with any little local difficulties.’
‘There’s a second queue,’ said Edmund, reaching into his pocket and displaying the tickets to another member of the crew, who examined them carefully before staring into the faces of the father and son and ticking their names off on a master sheet.
‘Your cabin is number A four on the first-class deck,’ he said in an affected voice, one which had studied the vowel sounds of the upper classes and was mimicking them unsuccessfully. Mr Robinson could tell that he was probably originally an East End Londoner who had worked his way up through the ranks of the Canadian Pacific Company to the position he now held and wanted to pretend that he was of more impressive stock than was actually the case. This is what came of mingling with the rich for a career, he knew: one wanted to feel part of their society. ‘Nice set of rooms, sir,’ the man added with a friendly smile. ‘Think you’ll be very comfortable there. Plenty of stewards around if there’s any problems.’
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Robinson, ushering Edmund along, a hand on his back, not wishing to become engaged in too long a conversation.
‘Like one of the lads to show you the way, sir?’ the attendant asked, but Mr Robinson shook his head without turning around.
‘We’ll be fine,’ he called out. ‘I’m sure we can find it.’
‘I specifically ordered a room on the starboard side,’ said Mrs Drake, her arms flapping like a seagull in flight as she craned her neck to look at the sheets which the first crew member was holding before him on a clipboard. She turned around irritably as Mr Robinson and Edmund brushed past her, as if she couldn’t understand why others were being allowed to board while she was stuck here making conversation with an impoverished person. ‘I find this simply too outrageous. Victoria, tell the boy that we ordered a starboard room.’
‘Cabin, ma’am.’
‘What?’
‘Madam, the cabin which was booked was a first-class cabin. We don’t specifically note which side of the ship it’s on. That’s not a service we offer.’
‘It’s fine, really,’ said Victoria, reaching out for the key which the crew member was holding.
‘It’s far from fine,’ said Mrs Drake firmly. ‘Where’s the captain? Surely there must be some adult in charge of this boy? They can hardly allow him to take charge of things on his own with a filthy face like that. Living on the sea, too. Haven’t you ever heard of water?’
‘The captain is busy right now,’ he replied between gritted teeth, ignoring her comments. The truth was that he had been working since early morning and the Drakes were among the last passengers to board. Standing on the dock of the Antwerp harbour over the course of several hours involved a lot of dust in the air travelling one’s way, and he was damned if he was going to apologize for not carrying a cloth in his pocket to wipe his face clean before every single passenger climbed on board. ‘Believe me, Mrs Drake, when we’re at sea, there’s no real difference in the view, whether you’re port or starboard. It’s water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink,’ he added in a false tone of jollity, as if this would end the situation and make these people board sooner. He wasn’t travelling with the ship himself and the sooner she sailed, the sooner his working day would end and he could return home. A queue of about a half-dozen people was lining up behind them now and Mrs Drake was growing more aware of their presence, although embarrassment was a sensation unfamiliar to her. She turned to look at the first couple, a well-dressed husband and wife in their sixties who were staring directly ahead, silently pretending that this contretemps was not taking place at all, and she frowned. Pursing her lips, she gave them a discreet nod, as if they, her social equals, could understand the frustration of having to converse with the little people.
‘So sorry to detain you,’ she said obsequiously, beaming from ear to ear. ‘Some mix-up over our room. Mrs Antoinette Drake, so pleased to meet you,’ she added, enunciating each word perfectly.
Before her new companions could have an opportunity to answer her or add their own names, Victoria had reached across and taken the key quickly. ‘A seven,’ she said, reading the inscription. ‘Is it a nice cabin?’ she asked, reaching down to lift the hem of her skirt to prevent it dragging behind her as she made her way up the gangway.
‘One of the nicest, miss,’ came the reply. ‘I guarantee you’ll find it comfortable and relaxing. All the cabins in A and B section are reserved for our finest gentlemen and ladies.’
‘You’ll be hearing more of this, I assure you,’ said Mrs Drake, giving in now as she prepared to follow her daughter on board. She tapped the young man on the shoulder twice with her cane, sharply, as if about to ennoble him. ‘So sorry to detain you,’ she repeated to the people behind her, shifting tone once again in an attempt to create a solidarity with them. ‘I dare say we shall meet again on board ship.’
‘Charmed,’ said the old man in a dry voice which suggested he wanted her to get out of his way . . . and quickly.
‘Really, Mother,’ said Victoria.
‘Really, Victoria,’ said Mrs Drake at the same moment. ‘I just believe a person should receive what a person pays for. Nothing more and nothing less. Is that so wrong? If a person pays for a starboard cabin, then a person should be given a starboard cabin. And there’s an end to it.’ They climbed aboard and saw a sign pointing towards a staircase bearing the legend First Class Cabins: A1–A8.
‘This way, Mother,’ said Victoria, and they made their way along a narrow corridor, looking at each door as they passed, Mrs Drake sighing in frustration with every step, torn between complaining about the condition of her knees and the cleanliness of the carpet.
Outside one of the rooms, a middle-aged man and his teenage son seemed to be having some difficulty with the lock of their cabin door.
‘Let me try,’ said Edmund, taking the key from Mr Robinson’s hands and sliding it into the lock carefully. He twisted it several times and shook the door sharply before it opened, almost falling inside as it gave way before him. The cabin itself was a decent size and contained two bunk beds, a sofa, a dressing table and a small en-suite bathroom. A porthole offered a pleasant view of the sea beyond.
‘Bunks,’ said Mr Robinson, his face falling a little.
‘Never mind,’ said Edmund.
‘I do beg your pardon,’ said Mrs Drake, leaning into the room, her massive body taking them both by surprise. Mr Robinson pushed his pince-nez a little higher up his nose in order to take in this large, purple creature. ‘I just wondered whether the cabins on the starboard side were as nice as those on the port. I ordered starboard but was given port. What do you think of that, eh? Have you ever heard the like?’
‘I was unaware you could state a preference,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘Or that anyone could even have one.’
‘Apparently you can’t,’ she said, replying to the first sentiment and ignoring the second. ‘Mrs Antoinette Drake,’ she added. ‘So pleased to meet you.’
‘John Robinson,’ he said quietly, not having wished to make any acquaintances this early on and regretting not having immediately closed their cabin door after entering. He gave a polite bow. ‘My son Edmund.’
‘Lovely to meet you both,’ she said, looking them up and down with narrowed eyes as if to define whether or not they were her type of people. In the end she let the initial letter on their cabin door decide for her. ‘Edmund, what a charming suit you’re wearing,’ she added, reaching forward and touching his lapels casually, causing him to take a step backwards in surprise. ‘Oh, I’m not going to bite you,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Don’t worry. But that’s a new suit if ever I saw one.’
‘We just bought it yesterday,’ Edmund acknowledged, blushing slightly and looking at his shoes.
‘Well, it’s a charming one, and I applaud your taste. How old are you anyway, seventeen or eighteen? How lovely for you. And such delicate features. You must meet my daughter Victoria. We will be looking for suitable companions on the voyage.’
‘We were just about to get ready for departure,’ said Mr Robinson after a moment, stepping forward to usher her back through the door and out into the corridor.
‘Now I must get on,’ she said immediately. ‘My daughter and I are in Cabin A Seven. Port side, to my shame. I’m sure we will become fast friends as the voyage progresses.’
‘No doubt,’ said Mr Robinson.
She took herself out of the room and Mr Robinson and Edmund looked at each other nervously. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ said Edmund. ‘There are a lot of passengers on board. We have to be prepared to speak to them. No one knows us here.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Robinson dubiously.
While Mrs Drake was settling into Cabin A7 and finding fault with as many of its features as possible, forty feet below her, in Cabin B7, Miss Martha Hayes was sitting on the edge of her small bed, willing herself not to burst into tears. At twenty-nine years of age, Martha looked as if she was about to turn forty. Her hair was beginning to spring with jagged wires of grey and her skin was taking on a rough appearance. Still, for all that, she was what could be referred to as a handsome woman. She had been on board for almost an hour now and had spent that time quite happily arranging her clothes and belongings around her small cabin. Now that this was done, she had little left to occupy her time. She was travelling alone and had as yet formed no alliances. In Antwerp, she had considered buying a dozen new novels and secluding herself in her room for the entire voyage, but had eventually decided against that anti-social idea and instead limited herself to three books and a new hat to shield her from the sun, in order to encourage lounging on the deck. From her pocket she took a gold watch and, opening it up, stared at the face of Léon Brillt, the Belgian teacher with whom she had been embroiled for almost eighteen months. She stared at his dark face and caramel eyes and bit her lip, forcing herself not to cry. Snapping the case shut again, she stood up and shook her body violently.
‘A new beginning, Martha,’ she said aloud. ‘No more of this nonsense.’
And at that very moment Martha Hayes, Mrs Antoinette Drake, her daughter Victoria, Mr John Robinson, Master Edmund Robinson and the 1,323 other passengers of the Montrose all jumped in unison as the stately ship’s horn above them blew one long, deep snort, and the voices of the crew cried out in unison as a heavenly choir: ‘All aboard! All aboard!’
The Montrose was ready to sail.
Henry Kendall’s love of the sea stretched back to his childhood, when his father, Arthur, would read him stories of life on board ship from the small collection of books he stored on a shelf above the fireplace. Father and son shared a favourite story, the one concerning William Bligh and his adventures on board HMS Bounty, but for very different reasons. Arthur sided with Fletcher Christian and the mutineers, for he hated sadism and pompous authority. For Henry, however, it was the moment when Bligh first set foot on the small boat to navigate the seas by means of a compass and the stars that the narrative truly came to life; all else was prologue. He despised the mutineers and their blatant disregard for naval authority, and his ideal conclusion to the story would have been to see Fletcher Christian hanging by his neck for his crime, rather than living out his days as a free man on the South Sea islands.
Henry joined the navy as a sailor at the age of fifteen. A lifelong bachelor, he devoted himself to the sea from the start and made slow but steady progress through the ranks of naval officer, but to his great disappointment failed to gain his own command. At the age of forty-two, he learned that an independent company, the Canadian Pacific, was looking for experienced first officers to captain a new fleet of six transatlantic ships and he applied immediately, surprising himself at his willingness to abandon Her Majesty’s Navy. His experience and reliability stood him in good stead at the interviews and he took command of the Perseverance, making regular voyages from Calais to New York, three months later. Now, at fifty years of age, he was captain of the passenger ship the SS Montrose, sailing from Antwerp to Quebec, and on the morning of Wednesday, 20 July 1910, he stared at his reflection in the mirror of his cabin and wondered sadly what the sailing world was coming to.
He had come on board some two hours earlier, as was his custom, to study the charts in private, plotting the voyage and route by the winds, and had been greeted by a young man in his late twenties who introduced himself cheerfully as Billy Carter, the new first officer.
‘The new what?’ Captain Kendall asked in surprise, irritated at even having to open his mouth, fill his lungs with air and find the energy to address this impertinent fellow. Carter was a cheeky-looking individual with a mop of sandy-brown curly hair, deep blue eyes, an impressive set of dimples and a row of freckles across his nose, all of which made him look not so much like a man as a comic book creation, animation brought to life; and Kendall was a captain who detested having to converse with anyone other than the most senior officers. There was a chain of authority on board ship, a chain which should never be broken, and he believed that this should extend not just to duty but to conversation as well.
‘First officer, sir,’ Carter replied. ‘Billy Carter. At your service. Pleased to meet you,’ he added with a wink and a toss of his curls.
Kendall frowned, appalled by the fellow’s familiarity. ‘And where is Mr Sorenson?’ he asked in an imperious tone, refusing even to meet the fellow’s eyes.
‘Mr Sorenson?’
‘First Officer Sorenson,’ Kendall explained irritably. ‘He has been with me for seven years, and it was my understanding that he would be undertaking this voyage too. The crew listings state this to be the case. So I ask again, where is he?’
‘Lord, haven’t you heard, sir?’ asked Carter, scratching his head furiously, as if a civilization of lice might lurk beneath and he needed to scrape them away. ‘He was taken into hospital only last night, screaming like a baby who’s had his rattle stolen. Appendix burst is what I heard. Not a pretty thing. I got a note from HQ early this morning asking me to take over his duties on this trip. They said they’d informed you too. Didn’t you get their note?’
‘No one has informed me of anything,’ the captain replied, his heart sinking at the loss of his most trusted colleague, worry for his friend filling him entirely. Kendall and Sorenson had built up mutual trust and professional respect over seven years of sailing together; they were also fast poker friends and had enjoyed many late-night games in the captain’s cabin over a bottle of whiskey. Sorenson was, Kendall had often realized, his only intimate. ‘Damn these people. Who are you anyway? What’s your experience?’
‘Like I said, the name’s Billy Carter,’ he began, before being interrupted by his superior.
‘Billy Carter?’ he asked, spitting out the words like undercooked meat. ‘Billy? What kind of name is that for an officer, might I ask?’
‘Short for William, sir. My father’s name before me. And his. Not his, though. His name was James. Before him there was another—’
‘I’m not interested in your family history,’ Kendall snapped.
‘They always called me Billy as a boy,’ the young man added helpfully.
‘Well, you’re a man now, aren’t you?’
‘My wife says I am anyway.’ Another wink.
‘You’re married?’ asked Kendall, appalled. He disapproved of officers who had taken wives: nasty, smelly creatures. Kendall had never met a woman who interested him and he could scarcely imagine the horrors that married life would impose upon him; he found it incredible that anyone would be interested in pursuing such a path voluntarily. The truth was, he disapproved of women as a gender, considering them entirely surplus to his requirements.
‘Two years now,’ replied Carter. ‘And we’ve got a kiddy on the way. Due around the end of August. Not sure if I’m supposed to be excited or terrified,’ he added, shaking his head and laughing, as if casual chit-chat was all that shipboard life was about. ‘Got any kids yourself, sir?’ he asked politely.
‘Mr Carter, I’m sure you’d make an excellent first officer for the Montrose but I really fail to see how—’
‘Half a mo’, Captain.’ He reached into his pocket and produced the note which the Canadian Pacific Company had sent him earlier that morning. ‘Here’s my orders, sent to me like I said. I’ve been a first officer on the Zealous and the Ontario for two years and eighteen months respectively. We only sail around Europe most of the time and I get to go home more often. Don’t think I want to spend too much time going back and forth across the pond—not with the kiddy coming soon, anyway—but they asked and I didn’t have much choice but to jump. They promised I’d be back in time for Junior’s birth. But I am experienced, Captain, and I know what I’m doing. Truth be told, I’d rather be back on my regular ship now too, just like I’m sure you’d rather have Mr Sorenson with you now than me. But there we are. Life’s funny that way.’
Kendall read the note silently, hearing only scattered portions of Carter’s speech, selecting the information he needed and discarding the rest without a moment’s thought. He sighed and stroked his heavy white beard reflectively, realizing that he would have little choice but to accept this new state of affairs. ‘And Mr Sorenson?’ he added after a moment. ‘He’ll be out of commission for how long?’
‘A good six weeks is what I’ve been told. Seems like there was a fairly messy operation involved. A burst appendix isn’t a lot of fun, you know. But don’t worry, sir, you won’t have to put up with me for long. He should be up and around in a few weeks.’
‘Very well, Mr Carter,’ said Kendall, accepting the situation but determined to set his guidelines from the start. ‘However, I think it would be appropriate if you visited the ship’s barber before we set sail today. Your hair is unkempt and I cannot abide untidiness aboard ship, especially not in my senior officers, who should be setting an example to the men.’
Carter hesitated but, after a moment, he nodded. He ran a hand through his curly mop defensively, as if a cut would deprive him, like Samson, of his powers. ‘Very good, sir,’ he muttered quietly.
‘And when walking the decks, I’ll thank you to have your cap with you at all times, either worn on your head or tucked discreetly under your arm if conversing with a lady passenger. These are small matters, you understand, but I believe they are crucial to professional conduct. Discipline. Unity. Obedience. All important watch-words aboard the Montrose.’
The first officer nodded again but said nothing. Kendall licked his lips and was surprised to find them dry and slightly chapped; if he was to break into a sudden smile, he thought, they would crack and bleed.
‘Perhaps you would also be good enough to bring me complete crew and passenger lists, in case there are any other small surprises about which our employers have failed to inform me. We set sail at two o’clock, yes?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Then we need to make sure that all visitors are ashore by one-thirty at the latest and that all passengers are on board by that time. You’ll find I’m a punctual man, Mr Carter, and I can’t abide unnecessary tardiness. The business of transatlantic crossings is guided by punctuality and speed. We compete against faster and better ships every day and I have a duty to our passengers and to the Canadian Pacific fleet to ensure no delays. That’s why I expect so much from my officers and sailors, Mr Carter. That’s why I’ll expect a lot from you.’
‘I’ll bring the lists to your cabin immediately, sir,’ said Carter in a quieter voice; he was unaccustomed to the kind of stern authority that Captain Kendall was displaying towards him.
An hour later, the captain sat alone in his cabin and listened as the ship’s horn sounded, alerting those not destined for Canada to return to the shore immediately. He glanced at his watch. One o’clock. It usually took about half an hour to clear the decks and board the final passengers, which would bring the time to one-thirty precisely, exactly as he had instructed Mr Carter. For reasons unknown to him, he felt irritated by this, even though he had issued the order and it was being followed exactly. He realized that he expected to find many faults with Mr First Officer Billy Carter and wanted to iron them out immediately. However, if the man continued to mask his shortcomings, it would prove difficult to discipline him.
‘A man like that,’ he declared out loud, even though there was no one else present in his cabin to hear him, ‘would never have survived in the navy.’ And then, standing up and inspecting himself in the mirror, he placed his cap on his head, pulled his jacket straight and stepped outside to issue his navigational instructions to the crew.
Having packed their clothes away into the small dresser and wardrobe opposite the bunk beds, Mr John Robinson allowed Edmund to persuade him that they should watch the disappearance of Antwerp from the deck of the Montrose, although he would have been quite happy to remain in his cabin reading The Hound of the Baskervilles. He stepped inside the small bathroom and splashed some water on his face to refresh himself. A grey towel, rough and smelling of detergent, hung on a rail by the sink, and he stared at his reflection in the mirror as he dried his face. Like Captain Kendall, he found himself disturbed by his own appearance, which seemed like that of a stranger; his new features—no moustache, but a flourishing beard—were taking some getting used to, but, added to that, his face seemed a little more drawn now than it had in London, his skin a little more pasty, the dark bags under his eyes more pronounced.
‘That’s just lack of sleep,’ said Edmund when this was pointed out anxiously. ‘We’ve had a busy time in Antwerp and very little rest. But we have eleven days to relax on board. You’ll be a new man by the time we reach Quebec.’
‘I quite enjoyed our time in Belgium,’ said Mr Robinson in a quiet voice, tapping his cheeks gently to see whether any further colour would emerge, any memory of youth. ‘You aren’t missing home yet?’
‘Of course not. I have to get used to it now anyway. Canada will be quite different from London, I expect.’ Mr Robinson nodded in agreement. ‘Do you suppose we’ll ever return?’ Edmund asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps. Some day. We have new lives to start now though, and it’s best that we focus on them. A few weeks from today, you’ll have forgotten all about it and won’t want to go back. England will be nothing more than a bad memory. A few months from now, we’ll have forgotten the names of all our old friends. My old friends, I mean,’ he corrected himself after a moment.
Edmund wasn’t so sure but he allowed the observation to go unchallenged. He slid the last of the suitcases under the lower bunk, and the tightly sealed hat box which had been contained inside one of them went on top of the wardrobe. Edmund had secured it earlier with tape and rope to prevent it from spilling open.
‘Why do you insist on bringing that thing with you?’ Mr Robinson asked, looking up at it and shaking his head. ‘It’s such an encumbrance.’
‘I’ve told you. It contains my most private belongings. It’s just the right size and shape.’
‘Well, it’s just as well you kept it in the suitcase,’ he said. ‘Imagine a boy carrying a lady’s hat box with him. We would have had some strange looks at the harbour with that.’ He tapped his fingers lightly against the side of the dresser as he glanced towards the door anxiously. The deep boom of the ship’s horn continued to sound every few minutes and the noise was giving him a headache.
‘We’re getting close to departure,’ said Edmund.
‘You can always go up there on your own,’ Mr Robinson pointed out. ‘If you want to watch as she sails, that is. You don’t need me with you, surely?’
‘I don’t need you with me. I want you with me. I want us to see Europe disappearing into the distance behind us together. I think it would be bad luck for me to be up there alone. Besides, I get nervous on my own. You know that. I’m not used to . . .’ He held out his palms as if to indicate that he couldn’t even find the words to explain this situation. ‘ . . . all of this,’ he said finally.
Mr Robinson nodded. ‘Very well then,’ he said with a smile. ‘If it means that much to you, we’ll go together. Let me fetch my coat.’
Edmund grinned. His powers of persuasion were second to none; even on trivial matters like this, victory gave him a tremendous sense of power.
The wind was blowing quite strongly on the deck of the ship and, as many of the passengers had decided to remain below decks, they did not have to struggle to secure a place along the railings; the first-class deck was separated from steerage anyway, leaving them a lot more room to walk around or to relax on deckchairs. From where they stood, the harbour of Antwerp was spread out before them, and it seemed as if there were thousands of people walking around busily, working, travelling, collecting or despatching their loved ones, looking lost.
‘It wasn’t as nice as Paris, was it?’ Edmund commented, buttoning his coat against the breeze.
‘What’s that?’
‘Antwerp. I didn’t like the city as much as Paris. We had more fun there.’
‘That’s because Paris is the true city of romance, or so they say,’ said Mr Robinson with a smile. ‘I’m not sure there are many cities in the world that can compete with it. I read somewhere once that when good Americans die, they go to Paris.’
Edmund laughed. ‘And are you one of those?’ he asked. ‘Are you a good American?’
‘Of those two things,’ he replied, ‘I am certainly one.’
A gust of wind blew quickly from behind them and, without even thinking, Mr Robinson’s reflexes reacted and his hand shot out to grab a lady’s hat before it was blown over the side of the ship and into the water below. He stared at his catch, amazed to see the dark blue bonnet he was holding, and turned around to see a woman standing a few steps behind them, her own hands clasped on either side of her head where they had remained for a moment after the hat blew away.
‘Your hat, madam?’ he asked, surprised.
‘Thank you,’ she said, laughing gently as she retrieved it and tying the bow securely under her chin in a double knot. ‘The wind took it right off my head before I could stop it. I was sure it was lost. It was very quick of you to catch it.’
He gave a polite half-bow and tipped his own hat slightly to acknowledge this courtesy. Lost for words, he was unsure whether it might be considered rude of him to turn around again to face the port, for then he would be offering his back to her. However, she saved him the trouble for she immediately walked to the railings herself and, folding her arms in front of her, stared into the distance as the ship began to move.
‘I imagined there would be more people,’ she said, looking ahead.
‘Really?’ Mr Robinson replied. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many. They say the ship can hold eighteen hundred souls.’
‘I meant, to see us off. I expected crowds of men and women waving their handkerchiefs in the air, crying at the loss of their loved ones.’
‘I think that happens only in books,’ he said. ‘Not in the real world. I don’t think people care about others that much outside of fiction.’
‘Thank heaven for that,’ she replied. ‘I don’t care for crowds myself. I was going to stay in my cabin until we were out at sea, but then I thought I might never see Europe again and would regret missing my last sight of it.’
‘That’s what I said,’ Edmund chipped in, leaning forward to look at the lady, a little suspiciously. If there was to be conversation, he was determined to be part of it. ‘I had to persuade him to come up here using that very argument.’
She smiled and looked at her two companions. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I should have introduced myself. Martha Hayes.’ She extended her hand to each of them in turn. ‘Pleased to meet you both.’
‘John Robinson,’ came the reply. ‘My son Edmund.’ As he named him, he gave the boy a sideways glance that suggested this was the very reason he would have preferred not to have come up on deck. Although the trip would take about eleven days, he was convinced that the fewer people they encountered the better, even if it meant a period of enforced isolation in each other’s company.
For her part, Martha had been immediately drawn to Mr Robinson as he had an air of quiet respectability which she liked in a man. She had heard stories that transatlantic crossings were notorious for the numbers of lotharios on board, but she could sense that he was not such a character. His downcast eyes and despondent air stood in contrast to the excited glow of the other passengers.
‘Are you going specifically to Canada or travelling on from there?’
‘Travelling on, most likely,’ he replied, even though this was not the case.
‘Where to?’
He thought about it and licked his lips. He pictured the map of North America in his mind and wondered what destination he could name that would make sense. He was tempted to say New York—but then the question would be raised, why he had not taken a ship directly to that city instead. And of course there was nowhere to travel to north of Canada. He closed his eyes and felt a dull rush of panic begin in his chest and work its way up towards his throat, where the words flickered away and were lost.
Fortunately, Edmund saved the day by changing the subject. ‘What deck is your cabin on?’ he asked, and Miss Hayes hesitated for only a moment before answering, turning her head to look at the boy.
‘B deck,’ she said. ‘Quite a nice room, all in all.’
‘We’re on A,’ said Edmund. ‘Bunk beds,’ he added with a frown.
‘Mr Robinson! It is Mr Robinson, isn’t it?’ A loud voice from behind them forced all three to turn around. Standing there, grinning like the cat that had got the cream, was Mrs Drake from Cabin A7, with her daughter Victoria standing gloomily by her side. Mrs Drake was wearing a different hat from the one she had worn earlier, a much more elaborate affair this time, and she carried an unnecessary parasol. Her perfectly round face was glowing with happiness to see them there, although she looked Miss Hayes up and down distastefully, as if she suspected the woman of being a member of the working classes and therefore unsuitable for polite company.
Victoria stared at Edmund and narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
‘It’s Mrs Drake,’ the older woman added after a moment in order to save the embarrassment of a lack of recognition. ‘We met while my daughter and I were looking for our rooms.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Mr Robinson. ‘Mrs Drake. How nice to see you again.’
‘What a coincidence that we should meet downstairs and then, when we come up to take the air, you’re the first people we see. I said to Victoria, I said, “Look there’s that nice Mr Robinson and his son, let’s go and say hello to them. They’ll be delighted to see us again.” I said that, didn’t I, Victoria?’
‘Yes, Mother,’ said Victoria dutifully. ‘Doesn’t the city look far away now?’ she added to no one in particular. ‘We’ve only been out five minutes and the mist is already taking it from sight.’
‘And a good thing too,’ said Mrs Drake. ‘I didn’t care for Antwerp, not one little bit. The place smelt foul and the people were thieves, every last one of them. Don’t you agree, Mr Robinson? I dare say you felt the same way. You look like a man of breeding to me.’
‘We didn’t like it as much as Paris,’ Edmund admitted.
‘Oh. Were you in Paris recently then?’ asked Mrs Drake, turning her head to look at the boy. ‘Only, Victoria and I were there for the winter. Where did you stay? We have an apartment there. It’s convenient, because we spend at least three or four months there every year. Mr Drake generally stays in London, where his business interests are. I love the theatre particularly. Couldn’t you just die for the theatre, Mr Robinson?’
‘This is Miss Hayes,’ he answered, directing her attention towards the fifth member of their group and ignoring her question. While they were speaking, Martha had felt slightly awkward, wondering whether they were all old friends, and she had even considered slipping away without a word, unsure whether anyone would notice if she did so, or if they would even care. ‘A fellow traveller,’ he added.
‘Charmed, Miss Hayes,’ said Mrs Drake, extending a gloved hand in such a regal manner towards the younger woman that she wondered whether she should curtsey and kiss it. Resisting the urge, however, she shook it forcefully instead. Mrs Drake curled her lip a little. ‘What a firm grip you have,’ she said critically. ‘Very manly. Are you travelling alone?’
‘There must be a thousand people on board,’ Martha replied, aiming for a little humour but seeing it backfire immediately as Mrs Drake considered her remark to be rude.
‘I meant, do you have a chaperone? Your mother, perhaps, or a favoured aunt? A paid companion perhaps? Some of the ladies go in for such things, I know. Not I, of course, but one hears about such things.’
‘I am entirely alone,’ said Miss Hayes after a moment in a voice of such dignity that Mr Robinson was forced to stare closely at her, wondering whether her reply had referred not so much to her status aboard ship as to her life as a whole.
‘How unfortunate for you, you poor, miserable, godforsaken creature,’ said Mrs Drake. ‘I never travel alone myself. Nor would I allow Victoria to go abroad without me. She’s too young still, you see. Only seventeen. How old are you, Edmund?’ she asked.
‘The same age,’ said Mr Robinson, answering for him. ‘I too prefer to keep him with me.’
‘Ah, but he’s a boy at least,’ said Mrs Drake, as if this changed everything. ‘Practically a man. Men aren’t in such danger. Even ones with such delicate features as your son.’ She stared at him more closely, narrowing her eyes. ‘Have you been in a fight though, Edmund?’
‘No,’ he replied suspiciously.
‘But the scar above your lip,’ she said, noticing the thin pink gash that ran from beneath his right nostril down to his lip. ‘Surely that’s the result of an altercation of some sort. Boys can be so mischievous,’ she added, smiling. ‘The little scamps.’ Edmund felt himself begin to blush and touched the place she had mentioned self-consciously. He was aware that the eyes of the others were on him and he despised Mrs Drake for it. ‘Young ladies are always in peril, I feel, if they travel alone,’ she continued finally, oblivious to his discomfort. ‘I think perhaps we understand each other, Mr Robinson.’
‘I believe I can look after myself,’ said Martha, already feeling a general dislike for this large bulk of a woman, this supercilious sow looking down her nose at her. ‘I have become accustomed to it recently.’
‘Have you indeed,’ said Mrs Drake dismissively, intrigued by what the younger lady’s circumstances were now but not willing to flatter her by showing her any further attention. ‘How nice for you. Now, Mr Robinson, as we are practically neighbours, I do hope that we will be able to dine together some evening? It makes a voyage pass so much quicker, I feel, when one makes friends and acquaintances along the way. I favour fan tan, but am equally adept at whist and baccarat. The first-class dining hall takes reservations, and I have it on the best authority that tables are booked up early. Perhaps I should reserve a table for four for tomorrow evening?’ She didn’t look in the direction of Martha, who allowed herself a brief smile at the snub. Mr Robinson, on the other hand, looked increasingly flustered and his hand went to his moustache, as it always did in moments of crisis, only to find that it was no longer there. His eyes opened wide in surprise.
‘Where’s your mother?’ Victoria asked Edmund in an inquisitive tone. She had removed herself from her mother’s side and had worked her way to the end of the railing so that she and Edmund stood a little apart from the adults and out of earshot. ‘Is she dead?’
He looked at her, surprised by the forthrightness of her question. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘She died some years ago.’
‘What did she die of?’
‘She caught the plague,’ said Edmund in a level tone. ‘And it did for her.’
‘The plague?’ Victoria asked, shocked and stepping back a little, as if it might be contagious. ‘Are you serious?’
‘No, of course not, I’m teasing. Heavens, this is the twentieth century after all. Medical science has travelled on a little. No, she died of tuberculosis.’
‘Ah,’ said Victoria, relieved. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. My aunt Georgiana had that, and she had to spend the last ten years of her life in Switzerland for the air. She died when a bird fell on her.’
‘When a what?’
‘A bird fell on her head one day. While she was out walking. It must have died in the air and just fell to earth. Killed her outright. It was a very big bird, you see. Not a pleasant way to go. Especially after only moving out there in order to stay alive. Why, she could have come home and lived her days out in England without the fear of random objects falling out of the sky and killing her. But that’s the Swiss, I expect. They’re a strange people, don’t you agree?’
Edmund nodded and raised his eyebrows a little, wondering whether bird and animal life could actually assume a national identity. ‘Where’s your father?’ he asked, returning the question. ‘Is he dead too?’
‘He’s in . . . London,’ she replied, shaking her head as if it took a little time to remember his exact location. ‘He’s in banking. He travels from time to time but is based there. We’re going to Canada on a holiday to visit my uncle and aunt who emigrated there twenty years ago. Mother hasn’t seen them in all that time. They’re very wealthy.’
‘How nice for them,’ said Edmund sarcastically.
‘Mother says that she wouldn’t allow me to travel alone,’ she continued, ignoring his tone. ‘But next year I will be eighteen, and then I come into my money. When that happens she won’t see me for dust. I’m going to do a little private travelling of my own. Kick up my heels.’
Edmund smiled and looked across at Mrs Drake, who was standing in a troika with Mr Robinson and Miss Hayes but directing all her questions at the former, who looked as if he might conceivably jump overboard at any moment. ‘Don’t let her hear you say that,’ he said.
‘Oh, she can’t hear me from over there. Not over the sound of her own voice anyway. She could drown out the engines if she really put her mind to it.’
‘And where will you go?’ he asked. ‘With your money, I mean.’
Victoria turned and looked out to sea with a casual air and a wide smile. Her long dark hair blew behind her gracefully and Edmund could not help but admire her perfect skin and the pale prettiness of her features. ‘Wherever the wind takes me,’ she said dramatically. ‘And wherever there are eligible young men to fall in love with me.’
Edmund gasped and gave a little laugh.
‘Do I shock you?’ she asked flirtatiously, narrowing her eyes.
‘No,’ he replied firmly, unwilling to allow her this small thrill.
She looked immediately disappointed. ‘Oh,’ she said, deflated. ‘Why not?’
‘It takes a lot to shock me.’
‘Perhaps you don’t have my sense of adventure,’ she said.
‘Perhaps you don’t have my experience of life.’
‘After all, you’re still travelling with your father.’
‘As you are with your mother.’
‘But you’re a boy,’ she said. ‘Like my mother said, practically a man. Don’t you want to go off somewhere without him? Do a little seduction of your own?’
Edmund allowed a thin smile to cross his face but he didn’t look at Victoria. Already he knew that this was the kind of girl he disliked, but standing there at that moment he felt he had the power to tease her, a sensation which made him feel an extra three feet tall.
‘Victoria, dear, don’t slouch over the railing like that,’ called Mrs Drake, and they turned to face her. Edmund strolled back towards their company and Victoria was forced to follow. She was irritated by the boy’s apparent indifference to her, a new response. In London, where the Drakes lived, and in Paris, where they spent much of their time, she was considered quite the catch and enjoyed the game of stringing innocent boys along, making them fall in love with her and then dismissing them as soon as a new possibility appeared. This took place in the private life that her mother knew little of. One boy in particular, a nineteen-year-old stockbroker’s son named Kenneth Cage, had become obsessed with her the previous summer and announced that he would slit his throat if she did not agree to marry him; but then he had pretensions towards being an artist and believed in wild statements such as this. Unmoved, she had informed him that if she was to reach the age of twenty without some fellow killing himself for the love of her, she would consider herself a great failure. In the end he had swallowed two pots of emulsified paint in an attempt at self-poisoning, but it had gone horribly wrong and, rather than dying or impressing Victoria sufficiently for her to succumb to his charms, he had merely suffered a severe case of diarrhoea for two weeks and pissed several shades of primary colours for months afterwards. And now here was Edmund, a boy her own age—a strikingly good-looking boy at that, with sharp cheekbones, tender red lips, smooth cheeks and the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. A slim body, the kind she found devilishly attractive. And not only was he making no effort whatsoever to make love to her, he seemed entirely indifferent to her and had even walked away from her without being dismissed. She would win him over, she decided. Before the voyage was over she would make him fall in love with her. Then she would use him and discard him and teach him what it was to lose a person such as her.
‘I think I may return to my cabin,’ said Martha Hayes when they were all reunited. She had barely got a word in edgeways while Mrs Drake had been talking to Mr Robinson, and she had no desire to stay any longer in order to be ignored. Decorum insisted that she take her leave politely, however.
‘Lovely to have met you, Miss Hayes,’ said Mr Robinson, doffing his hat.
‘And you,’ she acknowledged. ‘And thank you again for saving my hat. Mrs Drake,’ she added with a curt nod. ‘Miss Drake.’
‘Goodbye, Miss Hayes,’ said Mrs Drake in a loud voice, watching her walk away and shaking her head in amazement. ‘The things some people wear when they travel,’ she said with a gentle laugh, before turning back to Mr Robinson. ‘The poor girl probably can’t afford anything better, I expect. But a delightful manner, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Robinson? Very homely.’
‘I think perhaps Edmund and I should also return to our cabin,’ he said.
‘Already? But the sun is just beginning to come out. I thought perhaps you might take a turn around the deck with me. Stake out our territory, so to speak. I’d love to learn a little more about you.’
‘And you will, no doubt,’ he said, taking Edmund by the arm. ‘We have many days ahead of us, I fear.’
‘You fear?’ she asked, surprised.
‘I’m not the world’s best sailor,’ he explained. ‘I think I may rest for a little while.’
‘Ah. Find your sea legs, you mean. Well, certainly, Mr Robinson. I’ll look forward to seeing you later then. In the meantime Victoria and I will discover what entertainments are laid on for the first-class passengers.’
‘Excellent. Until later then,’ he said, walking away. ‘What a woman,’ he whispered to Edmund when they were out of earshot. ‘She could talk for England. Don’t leave me alone with her again. I might end up throwing her overboard.’
‘I’ll look out for you if you’ll keep the daughter away from me,’ Edmund replied. ‘Stuck up—well, I can’t say the word. Are you really a bad traveller?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Not at all. I just wanted to go back to the cabin, that’s all. With you.’
Edmund smiled. ‘You only had to say as much,’ he said, reaching into his pocket for the key.
Billy Carter had spent the previous hour in the barber’s saloon, a small cabin on one of the lower decks of the ship which was not as elaborate as its official title made it sound. Usually, Jean Dupuis, the French-Canadian barber who had spent the last ten years travelling back and forth across the Atlantic Ocean without ever setting foot on either of its book-ended continents, was to be found there alone, comfortably close to a bottle of vodka. There were those sailors on board who worried about letting a man, half blood, half alcohol, get close to their ears with a sharp pair of scissors, but none had yet reported any accidents and so M. Dupuis had maintained his position and his free accommodation for a decade unchallenged. Carter was forced to wait for the barber’s reappearance, however, as the older man was up on deck, sober as a judge, nervously awaiting the arrival of his supplies for the voyage ahead.
‘A haircut already?’ he asked, stepping into the cabin and stopping in surprise to see the young first officer standing there, hands in pockets, looking around at his belongings. ‘We’re not even out of port yet. Can’t it wait a few hours?’
‘Captain Kendall insisted,’ replied Carter. ‘He said my hair was too long and ordered me down here sharpish.’
Dupuis narrowed his eyes and cocked his head slightly, as if judging for himself whether the younger man’s hairstyle was in fact an affront to taste. ‘It’s not so long that it can’t wait a day or two,’ he suggested. ‘Only I wanted to arrange my things before we set sail.’ By ‘things’, he meant the crate of vodka which had arrived for him and which he liked to secrete in various parts of his cabin, working his way around the room methodically as the voyage continued, making sure that the draining of the last bottle would coincide with their arrival on the other side of the Atlantic. He knew better than to binge, as it would only lead to days of sobriety.
‘The captain insisted,’ Carter repeated in a tone which suggested that he was not leaving without submitting himself to the clippers. ‘Sorry,’ he added.
‘All right, all right,’ Dupuis sighed, directing him towards the chair in front of the mirror. ‘Take a seat then if it means that much to you.’
Carter sat down and looked at his face in the mirror while the barber wrapped a towel round his neck and rifled through a cigar box filled with scissors and combs for a particular one. ‘I think the old man’s already taken a dislike to me,’ he said to fill the empty air. ‘So I thought it best to do exactly as he says. Otherwise I wouldn’t insist on doing this right now.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Dupuis, who merely wanted to cut his hair as requested and then get him out of there. ‘I don’t know you though, do I? Are you new?’
‘Billy Carter. I’m acting first officer.’
‘First officer?’ He stopped in surprise and looked at Carter’s reflection in the mirror. ‘What happened to Mr Sorenson?’
‘Sick. Appendix. Hospital,’ he said in quick, staccato tones. Dupuis made a tut-tutting sound and reached forward, grasping a clump of the younger man’s curls between his thick, cigarette-stained fingers.
‘The captain won’t like that,’ he said.
‘He seemed . . . irritated by it,’ Carter admitted.
‘Well, they’re thick as thieves, those two,’ said Dupuis. ‘Always together.’ He clipped away quickly without appearing to be watching what he was doing as curls fell to the floor.
‘Just a trim,’ said Carter nervously, realizing that he had not yet been asked what style he wanted, but his hair was already being snipped away.
‘A trim, yes,’ the barber said. ‘A Kendall trim. I think I know what the old man likes.’
Carter tried to relax in the chair and allow the barber to get on with his work. He thought of his wife back home and began calculating the dates in his head for the thousandth time that day. All going well, they would reach Quebec by about the last day of July, 1st August at the latest. The Montrose herself was not scheduled to make the return trip for another week after that, but the Canadian Pacific fleet company had promised him that morning that he could return to Europe on board one of their sister ships, scheduled to leave Quebec on the 3rd of August, meaning there was a good chance he would be home again within a month, by the middle of August. The baby was due a few weeks after that, so there was no chance he would miss the birth. Had that seemed even remotely likely, he would have refused this commission, regardless of the consequences.
‘What’s he like then?’ he asked after a few silent minutes had passed, frowning as great clumps of his brown curly hair fell to the floor around his feet, revealing more of his boyish face than he was accustomed to seeing. ‘The captain, I mean. You’ve sailed with him before, right?’
‘I don’t know him very well,’ replied Dupuis, who had learned a long time ago to listen to any gossip which the sailors brought to him but, like a priest confessor, to reveal nothing that could come back to haunt him. ‘I know he runs a tight ship, believes in order and discipline, and is a martyr to punctuality. They say he doesn’t believe in God but keeps a copy of William Bligh’s memoirs in his cabin and reads it every night as his Bible. When he sits in this chair, he barely says five words to me.’
‘Captain Bligh?’ said Carter, raising an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Crikey, that’s all I need. Thank God this is the twentieth century, that’s all I can say. I’m not in favour of the rum and keel-hauling school of sailing myself. Do the job and get paid for it, that’s my motto. Nothing more, nothing less. Captain Bligh!’ he repeated in a quiet voice. ‘Well, I never did.’
‘There,’ said the barber, finishing off and stepping back to admire his handiwork. ‘How’s that? Quick and easy.’
Carter nodded and stood up, slipping a few coins into the man’s hand as he stepped outside again, stroking the back of his head curiously now, intrigued to feel the slightly bumpy scalp which had been revealed. A breeze blowing through the deck felt chilly against the back of his head and he muttered, ‘God save us!’ under his breath impatiently. Looking around, he realized that he would have to make a serious effort over the next twenty-four hours to understand the structure of this ship; the last thing he needed was to get lost while walking around. She was designed in a similar way to the Zealous and the Ontario, the sister ships on which he had served, but she was a little more modern than either of them, and many of the architectural oddities employed in their construction had been ironed out by the time the Montrose came to be built. Technologically, she was more advanced as well, having been the first ship in the fleet to install a Marconi telegraph machine, which enabled them to communicate with, and receive messages from, land.
Usually he could instinctively tell the way to the deck with his eyes shut, simply by the swaying of the boat and the smell of the sea; he had honed his senses over the years to such a sharpened point that his brain acted as his own navigator. Something about this ship, however, gave him pause for thought. The gleaming woodwork contrasted with the darkened hallways, and the creaking of the vessel seemed to numb his wits to the point where he found himself distrustful of his own abilities. Finally, stepping through the first-class deck, he could see the stairwell in the distance and the shaft of light pouring down which would lead him back to the main deck. Coming towards him was a man in his late forties with what appeared to be a teenage boy following directly behind. Immediately he remembered that he was not wearing his cap, or keeping it tucked discreetly under his arm as Kendall had instructed, and he bit his lip. He decided to return to his own cabin and retrieve it without delay.
‘Afternoon, gents,’ he said, pausing in the hallway to greet the two passengers, the older of whom looked a little irritated at being addressed. ‘Ready for the trip, then?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Mr Robinson replied, seeing the door of Cabin A4 only a few feet away, a holy grail which it seemed almost impossible to attain without conversing with half the Christian world first.
‘Billy Carter, first officer of the Montrose,’ he said with a nod of his head. ‘Any problems or queries on board, feel free to ask me or any of my men. Looks like a nice day’s sailing,’ he added in a pleasant tone. ‘Water’s quite steady, isn’t it?’
‘I’m just going for a lie down,’ said Mr Robinson, pressing past him. ‘You’ll forgive me if—’
‘No problem, sir,’ said Carter, stepping out of his way. ‘Feeling it a bit, are you? Not to worry. You’ll soon find your sea legs. Everyone does. How about you, young man? Been to sea before, have you?’
‘Only once,’ said Edmund. ‘A shorter voyage. Never for as long a trip as this.’
‘By the time I was your age I’d already spent two or three years at sea. Couldn’t get enough of it myself. But I was sick as a dog at the start too, so don’t mind if you are. It’ll pass.’
‘I think I’ll be fine,’ said Edmund, feeling somewhat patronized.
‘Right you are.’
Mr Robinson turned the key in the lock of his cabin and stepped inside, closing his eyes briefly, relieved at the peace and quiet which seemed to lie within. He turned around, prepared to call Edmund inside in a sharp tone if necessary, but the young sailor was passing out of sight now and his companion was stepping into the cabin.
‘Finally . . .’ said Mr Robinson in an exhausted voice. ‘Do you suppose everyone on board is determined to speak to us? Those people on deck. That sailor.’
‘He’s the first officer,’ said Edmund in a distant voice, looking back towards the corridor as he shut the door behind him. ‘We should feel honoured.’
Mr Robinson snorted. ‘Nonsense,’ he said irritably. He took his hat off and hung it on a hook on the wall. Staring through the small porthole at the sea, he felt his headache growing stronger. He massaged his temples lightly and closed his eyes, feeling tense inside and nervous of discovery. To his relief, however, Edmund stepped up behind him and wrapped his arms around his chest from behind, pressing their bodies together. Mr Robinson turned around gratefully.
‘Is this too difficult for you?’ he asked, pulling apart slightly and looking down at the boy’s elaborate outfit which they had purchased in Antwerp the day before. ‘Do you think I’ve made a farce of you?’
‘On the contrary,’ said Edmund, reaching down and opening his tunic slightly, loosening the tight binding beneath. ‘I’ve quite enjoyed it, really. It’s rather daring, pretending to be something one is not.’
‘Not for me, it isn’t. Do you think we got away with it?’
‘You have to relax,’ said Edmund, unbuttoning Mr Robinson’s jacket and dropping it on the floor. ‘Everything is going to be fine. I’m sure of it.’ He leaned forward and their lips met, tenderly at first, then with more force, their bodies pressing tightly against each other as they slipped awkwardly down on to the lower bunk.
‘My only one,’ said Mr Robinson, between kisses, his breath and consciousness almost taken away by the force of his passion. ‘My only one.’