Название: Voyage of Innocence
Автор: Elizabeth Edmondson
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
isbn: 9780007438280
isbn:
Unlucky her?
The moment of self-pity passed before it had begun. It wasn’t a question of luck. It was a matter of taking the wrong decisions, in acting out of anger and temper and folly, and of one disastrous mistake, a well-meaning mistake, leading to another and another and another until here she was, where she had no wish to be, acting and living like a puppet, with strings pulled by a puppet master who had no more interest in her or her rage or wretchedness than if she had indeed been a painted marionette.
If only …
The if only’s went back a long way, she knew that. If only her sister Daisy hadn’t died. If only Grandfather hadn’t been such a tyrant. If only …
Her life might have taken a very different path. If she could have those years back, be given a magical chance to live them again, the one place she wouldn’t be was here, on this boat.
There they were again, the terrible thoughts that rattled round and round in her head. She’d need a sleeping tablet tonight, to bring her at least an hour or two of the heavy and dreamless sleep that she craved. For that brief space of time, no dreams broke through the pharmaceutical veil of her white tablets: take one at bedtime.
She was profoundly grateful to a medical friend for prescribing them.
‘You’re a fool, Vee,’ he’d said. ‘They aren’t any kind of an answer, and if your own doctor won’t give them to you, he’s probably right.’
‘Darling, he’s simply too old-fashioned. The only reason I sleep badly, according to him, is because I’m a young woman without husband or children, not fulfilling my raison d’être, do you see?’
‘He can’t blame you for being a widow.’
‘He can blame me for being a well-off young widow who, after a decent interval, hasn’t remarried. That’s an affront to the natural order of things, almost as bad as someone like Cynthia Lovelace going off to live in a cottage in Wales with her burly woman friend who teaches PE at Grandpont, or the unfeminine types who choose to go to university and have a career instead of sacrificing their virginity and independence on Hymen’s altar to an eligible and suitable young man. So, no, he won’t give me sleeping pills.’
Vee’s thoughts flitted to Cousin Mildred, who had her own means of dealing with the strains and stresses of life, ‘Do try some, dear child, there’s nothing like it.’
There were bound to be people she knew on board, several of them with Mildred’s habit. Most of them from the ranks of the idle rich, not people going out to do a job of work like the unknown Sam with his friends Jimmie and Velvet Hat waving him goodbye from the quayside. Egypt? India? Their week’s holiday would be spent hiking in Wales or at a b. & b. in Weymouth; they wouldn’t have the luxury of weeks and months of leisurely travel in warmer climates, with expensive substances to change their spirits and mood if they felt the need.
Oh, yes, there would be friends and acquaintances on the Gloriana, people going to winter in the Egyptian sun, and it was the time of year when mamas with daughters who hadn’t taken during the season, or during several seasons, chose to go on pilgrimage, to set off for foreign shores where the heat and the inward-looking British communities might produce the elusive mate not found in the ballrooms of Mayfair or the country houses of Shropshire and Gloucestershire.
Vee went slowly down the wide, mirrored staircase that linked the upper and lower decks. She attracted a good deal of attention; the junior officer on his way to the radio room with a sheaf of telegrams; the florist going the other way with an armful of flowers; the lady’s maid hurrying to the beauty salon to acquire some essential forgotten item; passengers, anxious to find their cabins; all of them noticed to some degree the particular allure that Vee had. Some noticed with only a fraction of their attention, some admired, some envied.
Vee herself was oblivious both to her surroundings and her fellow human beings. Her ability to attract the attention – and the affections and desires, it had to be said – of those around her was an old story, and one that no longer interested her.
A stewardess was hovering at the end of her corridor. ‘Mrs Hotspur? Cabin sixty-seven? It’s on the left, I’ll show you. Are you travelling with your maid?’
She was not. A smile, a douceur, and this ungainly but kindly-looking woman would be her slave for the voyage. A maid! That was the last person she needed on this journey.
It was a single cabin, spacious for a liner, with a dressing table and neatly fitted cupboards and drawers, an outside cabin, with a rectangular window looking out on to a secluded deck. No strollers or nosy-joes were allowed along this stretch of deck, this was a reserved area for the lucky occupants of cabins sixty-five to seventy-seven. Her luggage was already in the cabin, strapped and labelled with a large round H for Hotspur, First Class passenger to Bombay.
She sat down at the dressing table, and took off her scarlet hat, laying it carelessly down on the glass top. The stewardess, hovering in the doorway, came forward and took it. Vee smiled at her. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Pigeon, madam.’
‘Thank you, Pigeon.’
‘Shall I unpack for you now, madam?’
‘Later, if you don’t mind.’
Still Pigeon lingered. ‘We were expecting a Mr Howard to have this cabin.’
‘Mine was a late booking, a cancellation.’
It had been a risk, leaving it so late, but the clerk at the shipping line had murmured confidentially that there was usually a cabin available at the last minute. It didn’t trouble the company, because there was always a waiting list, especially for a vessel like the SS Gloriana, and at this time of year.
A smile, a note, and Mrs Hotspur moved to the top of the waiting list. What had happened to Mr Howard? she wondered for an idle moment. An elderly gentleman, struck down with apoplexy? A prosperous businessman with urgent business to attend to, that prevented him from sailing? A man of substance, undoubtedly, to travel in this type of cabin. A young man in disgrace, being sent out to the East by a distressed family? Did young men still get sent out to India to keep them out of harm’s way? What if her parents had sent Hugh out to India? No, she wasn’t going to think about Hugh. The list of people and things she didn’t want to think about was alarmingly long. Back to Mr Howard. ‘I dare say he was a family man, escaping to a new life,’ she said out loud.
‘I beg your pardon, madam?’ said a startled Pigeon.
Vee laughed. ‘Oh, nothing. I was just thinking aloud.’ She got up, smoothing out the wrinkles from her slim-fitting skirt. ‘I’m going to look around, so you can see to my things while I’m gone. There’s a wine-coloured dress in that big suitcase, the one on its side. That’ll do for this evening.’
‘Best go and see the purser about your place in the dining room, madam,’ said Pigeon as she made a dive for the suitcase. ‘You’ll want to be at a good table at the second sitting.’
One look at Mrs Hotspur, a fashionable woman and a real lady, you could see that at a glance, thought Pigeon as she held out her hands for the keys, and the purser would be delighted for her to sit wherever she wanted. Which wouldn’t be at the captain’s table, if she, Pigeon were any judge of a passenger. Too dull for such a smart and lively lady. She СКАЧАТЬ