Voyage of Innocence. Elizabeth Edmondson

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      ‘Watch out for Sam and don’t be so uncharitable.’

      That was the cheerful-sounding woman who had recognized her; who had no doubt seen her photo in Tatler, or in the more scurrilous papers when … No, she wasn’t going to think about that.

      Vee narrowed her eyes, trying to identify who, of all those standing so far down there, had called her a rat. It was that man in the shabby mac, with a hat that had seen better days. Beside him stood a perky young woman, wearing a coat too thin even for this weather. She had a look of dogged good humour on her face; her hair, escaping from a velvet hat that had been brushed to raise a fading pile, was blonde and brassy. She wore too much lipstick, but she had a personality, a confidence about her. Vee envied her. She felt that whoever she was, Miss Velvet Hat had a better, less complicated life than her own. She probably slept soundly and dreamlessly at night, and woke with a curiosity and excitement about the day to come, even though she no doubt had to work hard for a meagre living, never had quite enough to eat and little hope of a better future.

      ‘Sam’s not running away, Jimmie. He’s got a job to do out there, same as you and me have here.’

      ‘I didn’t say Sam was running away, and I don’t suppose the rest of them going tourist class are either. Ordinary people they are, like Sam and you and me. No,’ with a contemptuous gesture up at the deck where Vee was standing, ‘it’s that lot up there get my goat. All those first-class passengers, hoity-toity, not lifting a finger to do anything for themselves. Seven-course meals and dancing every night, and not a care in the world, and get out of England, quick, before the Nazi bombs come raining down and they might get hurt.’

      ‘Like I said, maybe there isn’t going to be a war.’

      ‘Like the sun isn’t going to rise tomorrow. Those toffs all know there’s going to be a war. If they can’t scarper to America, then they think they can hide away in some warm spot where life isn’t going to change, and they can have their servants and their whiskies and let other people be blown to pieces. It makes me sick.’

      ‘Everything makes you sick, Jimmie.’

      ‘I know who that Mrs Hotspur is.’ Jimmie’s voice was indignant. ‘It was all in the paper when her husband died, fishy business, that, if you ask me.’

      Vee was following the swooping, soaring flight of a gull with her eyes, but she saw nothing. She was looking inwards, at another scene, a bloodstained study. Klaus’s words, from that day in Paris, came creeping into her mind, ‘We have arranged for certain things to happen.’

      Certain things? No, it was impossible. Why should they have done that? And then, if they were responsible, then how safe was she? In London, here, anywhere? Words drifted into her head. Don’t put a foot wrong, always do as they say, they’ve no forgiveness in their souls. You don’t want to come to a gory end …

      There was a smell of fish in her nostrils, fish and seaweed, the smell of the beach when the tide turns and goes out, revealing the debris that lies beneath the sea.

      ‘Look, there’s Sam waving.’ Her face beaming, the young woman in the velvet hat pulled off the red scarf she was wearing round her throat and flapped it towards the other end of the ship, where the tourist-class passengers were coming out on deck to wave their goodbyes and watch their native land fade into the distance.

      She was looking up at Vee again and, for a moment, their eyes met. Then the woman turned back to the man in the shabby mac. Once again the words reached Vee. ‘Scandal wherever she goes, she’s often in Tatler, and her cousin, Lady Claudia Vere, oh, she’s lovely, blonde hair and huge blue eyes. Her picture’s always in the society magazines.’

      ‘Yes, and she’s got a noble brother who’s stark staring bonkers and will swing from the nearest lamp-post come the revolution.’

      ‘Oh, you and your revolution. I tell you, there isn’t going to be any Bolshevik revolution, and the sooner you realize it, the happier you’ll be. Then you can get on with life instead of moaning about it.’

      Vee turned away, dismayed as the girl’s words struck home. She pitied Jimmie and his illusions. Probably, even before the year was out, he would be in uniform, at close quarters with his brothers to a degree that would make him long for less comradeship, and without a minute in the day to ponder on the rights of men or the oppression of the workers.

      There was a greater sense of urgency on the quay below; a car arrived and its doors flung open even before the brakes were on, three men got out, a porter came hurrying to unstrap cases from the boot, an official with a clipboard and a frown ushered them towards the customs shed, pulling out a watch as he did so.

      Vee stiffened, her eyes fixed on a tall, dark man in a grey suit standing beside a wicker basket. She couldn’t put a name to him, she had never been introduced to him, but she had seen him before, several times, always as a shadowy, lurking figure. A watcher. In the park, when she and Klaus … And outside her flat. A man with a bony face. Not distinctive, and yet his features were etched on her mind. He wore the kind of clothes that would never stand out in a crowd, he was a blender.

      Panic set in. If he were coming on board, it could mean only one thing.

      She must get off. This was a hideous mistake. She would get off the boat right now, this very minute, never mind her luggage, never mind anything. She would take the train to London, and then to Scotland, to Ireland, anywhere …

      She couldn’t. Despair swept over her.

      But was he embarking for the voyage? He was making no move towards the ship. Instead, his eyes were scanning the decks, resolutely and systematically. She stepped back and tucked herself behind a metal buttress. The watcher’s eyes paused, moved on, came back. Only his eyes weren’t on her. His hand rose in casual acknowledgement, then he turned abruptly, and was lost in the crowd of onlookers.

      He hadn’t been looking for her. Who then? Someone on the deck below, over to the left. She hung over the rail; all she could see were hats; everyone was looking down at the quay or over to where the tugs were manoeuvring into position.

      She ran along the deck, pushing past other passengers, and almost tumbled down the steep gangway to the deck below. It was teeming with people, some sombre, tearful, even; others cheerful. Which of them had the man been looking for? She caught a glimpse of a man who looked just like Joel. It couldn’t be, of course, Joel was the last man to leave his college and set sail just before the start of term.

      Some of her fellow passengers recognized her, there were whispers and curious glances. But not one of them was the right kind of person; none of them could be an associate of the man on the quay.

      A cheer went up from the quayside, paper streamers rained down from the decks and the gangways were trundled aside. Answering cries and shouts floated down from the decks, there was a burst of steam, a whistle and then a blast from the SS Gloriana’s funnel, an oddly lightweight sound in comparison to the bass notes of the tugs. A band was playing, bunting flapped and a strand fell loose, swooping down into the sea.

      Inch by inch, the boat glided away from her mooring. There was a foot of murky water, a yard, fifty yards. Then the Gloriana, attended by her acolyte tugs, was sailing serenely down the grey stretches of the Thames, moving slowly past warehouses and wharves. People in small boats waved, more hooters and horns and whistles sounded; the voyage had begun.

      Vee stayed at her post, watching without attention as they sailed past cargo boats, unkempt and СКАЧАТЬ