The next morning Steward Pyce almost concealed his disappointment on finding Cabin no. 2’s occupant positively chipper. Looking for all the world like a displaced squire Edward was striding about the shelter deck saying happily fatuous things under his breath as the ship lurched and fell. Through the tightly-dogged portholes were visible steep wastes of green-grey water marbled with the scud of broken foam. The Hildebrand bounced and slammed, its twin screws vibrating as their tips gashed the surface and then quietening as they were thrust back beneath a deep tonnage of water.

‘By golly, that was a corker! ’Morning, Pyce. Any chance of breakfast yet?’

‘Every chance, I should say, sir. There’ll be quite a lot of it to spare this morning.’

‘Coughing in their stables, are they? So much for the Jolly Jack Tar supposed to be lurking within every Englishman. I think I win my bet.’

‘I’m afraid they are not all blessed with sea-legs like yours, Sir Edward. And the Marconi man says it will probably get worse. There’s been a transmission from an American vessel out in the Atlantic to the west of us and they’re taking it green quite badly. We’ve not even been able to put the pilot off at Holyhead like we usually do. He’s still aboard and looks like being so for some time yet. The Captain says he’s not keen on dropping him at Le Havre: wants to keep well clear of Biscay and I’m glad to hear it.’

Edward made an agreeably rolling progress to the restaurant where his spirits were still further lifted by the vista of empty tables. Only a few of them had been laid, their cloths dampened with water. At these a handful of breakfasters was sitting. As he passed they greeted each other with convivial nods in mutual recognition of their superiority to the landlubbers still groaning weakly in their bunks below. At his own table he found Captain Maddrell himself and Miss Air the ‘artist’. His estimate of her went up.

‘I was beginning to despair, sir,’ the Captain said after he had introduced himself. ‘I could hardly believe we had only one decent sailor at this table. It seems we have two. Now you will think it rude of me, sir, but I really must be excused. This weather has us all aback – or it would have if we had sails.’

‘Of course,’ said Edward. ‘Besides, I’m sure Miss Air and I etc … will feel all the safer knowing you’re going back to the bridge to steer this tub.’

‘In that case you’ll be distressed to learn that I’m going to do no such thing. As a matter of fact I’m going to bed. I’ve been steering this tub, as you put it, all night and it’s time to turn in. But don’t worry; you’ll be in good hands. Why don’t you pay us a visit later on if you’re interested? See how the old Hildebrand runs?’

‘Oh, I’d like that. How do I get to the bridge?’

‘Just ask any of the stewards or an officer. You’d be most welcome. If you’re feeling really intrepid we might even be able to say that the Master of the King’s Musick actually took the helm.’

‘I say,’ said Edward when the Captain had left, ‘there’s a forthright sort of cove. Nary a word minced. That’s quite jolly. I love bridges, especially when there’s a bit of a swell … I’m sorry we didn’t talk last night. I’m not much at meeting people, you see. All I know about you is that you’re Miss Air the artist.’

‘Please do call me Molly, Sir Edward. I imagine it’ll prove quite difficult to keep up an indiscriminate formality all the way to Brazil and anyway, one needs to reserve the right to be formal for those special cases one wants to keep at arm’s length.’

‘Well, thank God for an honest person. That’s two in as many minutes. If this keeps up I’m going to enjoy this trip. Do you suppose it’s the proximity of a watery grave which knocks the bunkum out of people?’

‘Not in my case, Sir Edward, though I can’t speak for the Captain. I’m afraid I’m seldom less frank than I am at this moment. It has never done me the least good.’ She could hardly interpret the look she caught coming from, it seemed, his very skull so deep-set were his eyes.

‘Oh, I …’ he began. Then, ‘I really can’t resist your name. Might I pass you the marmalade imaginaire?’ With a courtly gesture he set the earthenware marmalade pot on the dampened cloth in front of her.

‘I thought I’d already heard them all. I think it’s very dashing of you to be original while breakfasting on a sinking ship.’

‘Oh, are we really? Mightn’t the Captain have told us?’

‘Captains don’t like panic. It scares them more than drowning. But it’s true I don’t know that we’re actually sinking. We keep going up and down but on balance I’d say we go down further than we come up. These things are cumulative.’

Later he took from his trunk a blank leather-bound book portentously labelled ‘Journal’ in gold lettering on its spine. He had decided to keep a diary of the voyage, although ‘decided’ was perhaps too intentional a word to describe having bought it impulsively on seeing it in a stationer’s. It had been the day he booked his passage – equally on impulse, since here he was on the high seas barely a fortnight later. Despair had a way of making one do things which then took on an air of spurious purpose. A ticket to a far place, a new leaf … It seemed implausible. And yet …