To his surprise, Mark enjoyed his journey to New York. From the moment at Southampton when he stood at the ship’s rail waving goodbye to his tearful mother and his less tearful sister (her brilliant blue dress attracted much attention), to the dawn when they approached the shining towers of New York, it was almost unbroken pleasure. Even the thought of the Lusitania could not dampen the exhilaration of being at sea, between opalescent skies and shining water.
The ship was pretty full. The atmosphere was tense but stoical: it was impossible to stop conversation drifting towards the possibility of a U-boat attack. Jokes were made about whom you’d most, or least, like to share a lifeboat with. There was a sense that the further the ship sailed from European shores, the smaller the chance of disaster. The war hardly seemed to affect life on board. Meals were copious: cooked breakfasts, solid lunches, long dinners with the First Class passengers in evening dress. People sat on the deck and were brought beef tea, they played deck quoits, listened to the orchestra playing its familiar (though strictly non-German) repertoire, prepared a musical performance for the last night. For Mark, the danger put his usual anxieties into perspective. When at any moment you might find yourself drowning beneath a huge ship, worries about your own failings seemed less significant. Mark felt he understood why soldiers found combat uplifting – and smiled, since at this moment of revelation he was accepting coffee from the steward.
The passengers were a mixed lot. Mark, always curious (who could tell what information might be useful?), elicited details from a purser. There were a few older Americans long resident in Europe, who, since the war showed no sign of ending, were going home. His table included an elegant old lady called Mrs Salt from Philadelphia, who invited Mark to visit her family at their property on the Main Line. ‘It’s a very pretty area, only twenty-five minutes from the city. There are lots of big properties, some are chateaux, some are straightforward American, but what we like best are the English styles – Tudor, Georgian, Arts and Crafts. We have a farm and a pack of hounds. My son lives in the big house now, but I’m right nearby. Come and see us, some of my grandchildren are your age.’
There were a few British children being sent to safety. Passengers on official business, journalists, businessmen. People were impressed when he mentioned the British Embassy; he was surprised. ‘Oh, you must meet my niece,’ said one of the American ladies, and there followed the mildest flirtation, some table tennis, a moonlit walk along the deck.
He made another friend. Late on the first evening he was sitting in the smoking room, relishing feeling well when others had retired hastily to their staterooms. He heard a ‘Good evening’ at his elbow. It came from a man sitting close by. The man smiled and said, ‘Mind if I join you?’ Mark did not mind, one must be adaptable. The man was American, around thirty, pleasant-looking.
‘George Bruegmann,’ he said, and held out his hand.
‘Mark Benson.’ This made him feel unstuffy.
‘Oh, I see you smile,’ said the man. ‘I’m never sure if English people know how to – English men, anyway. I hope you don’t mind me introducing myself, there aren’t many people our age on the ship. I just had dinner with a group of septuagenarians, thought I’d look for younger company. Girls tend to be suspicious if a strange man says hello.’
‘Good to meet you, Mr Bruegmann.’
Mr Bruegmann’s face crinkled humorously. He had strikingly thick dark eyebrows. ‘A pleasure for me too, Mr Benson. You’re coming to America for a while, I assume, or you wouldn’t risk being torpedoed. Actually, it gives me a bit of a kick – the thought we might be underwater any minute adds zest to the dry martinis.’
Mark must have looked blank, since he went on, ‘Not familiar with the dry martini, eh? A sherry and port man? Well, we’ll see about that. Are you visiting with us for long?’
‘I’m going to be working at the British Embassy, this is my first trip to America.’
‘Uh oh, I should speak to you more formally, you’re an important person.’
‘I’m just a Third Secretary.’
‘Sounds important to me. In the United States, we tend to be informal. If you meet someone your own age, you pretty soon call him by his first name. Please call me George. If you’d like to, that is. And may I address you as Mark?’ said George, smiling broadly again. ‘Remember, we’re on board ship, we can behave as we want. What the hell, we may be drowned tomorrow. Things loosen up when a ship goes down.’
They had another drink – ‘I think your first dry martini had better wait till tomorrow’ – and then another. George had been a naval officer, was now the New York representative of the long-established family business in Chicago, was returning from Britain where he had been looking at the prospects for wartime business expansion. They drank dry martinis every evening before dinner, more drinks after dinner. ‘I see you have your eye on that nice girl from Philadelphia,’ said George. ‘I’d look further. Nice girls from Philadelphia are a little dull, let’s face it. They’re worse in Washington, they only talk about politics – and don’t even think of a Southern Belle. Try a New York girl, there’s nothing like them.’
He got Mark another drink. Mark felt he should not be drinking so much: in Evelyn Gardens the consumption of alcohol had more or less stopped for the duration of the war. But George was hard to resist, and he made Mark laugh, that was very endearing. They stood together as the ship sailed into New York harbour, and saluted the Statue of Liberty. As they disembarked, George said, ‘When you’ve settled in, come and visit me in New York. And good luck!’