By The Sea, Book Two: Amanda (10 page)

"Frankly, I think you have an enormously
persuasive manner, Mr. Fain," Geoff said into the telephone.
At
least as persuasive as a hammerlock,
he added to himself.

"Nah, it just don't come out that way on
paper for me. We're agreed, then? You'll have a couple of days to
find rooms nearby, and then you'll get down to it?"

"Well, sir, you'll remember that I did plan
to see another race or two in the series—"

"What the hell for? You know the Yanks are
going to win it. Why waste the time? I mean, Lipton's a grand old
man and all, but—" He stopped himself. "Hold on. I see an angle
here. That crafty old codger still hasn't said boo about whether he
wants me to build a ship for him. You could work on him and—and not
only that, but you could take Amanda, by God!" He sounded as if the
inspiration had dropped on him like a thunderbolt.

"Amanda, sir?" Ah, yes. He should have seen
it coming. Jim Fain had a daughter who was unmarried, unspoken for,
and a little rough around the edges, to say the least. "Lady Seton"
sounded so much more genteel than "convicted felon." Geoff cleared
his throat. "You would be referring to your daughter, sir."

"Who the hell else would I be referring to?"
Jim Fain said impatiently. "She thinks a lot of Sir Tom. I think if
I could get him to talk to her, to make her see reason, she'd
respect his advice. He's a little like my ex-partner. She adored
him," he added with some bitterness.

"I see. So you think—"

"Call her. Here's the number. I've got to do
something with her. She's flying completely out of control. You can
charge me for the time you spend with her if you like. Her analyst
does."

Geoff took down the telephone number and
signed off, feeling like a pompous ass. It was hard to believe, but
apparently Geoff—even Geoff—revered the baronetcy bought by his
sheep farmer ancestor (for a thousand pounds) more than his new
employer did. He felt like an errand boy. Worse: like a gigolo,
having to escort Amanda around on retainer. Gad. There was irony
here somewhere.

Nor did his ego feel any more puffed up
after he dialed Amanda's number. She couldn't go. Or wouldn't. She
certainly wasn't saying which. "Oh God, no, it's impossible," she
said, sounding surprised that he would ask.

He became a little pushy; he was definitely
becoming Americanized. It was the only language the Fains
understood. "Why not, exactly?" he inquired.

"Because
exactly
on the seventeenth,"
she said dryly, "I promised to take my cousin to the Metropolitan
Museum of Art."

"How old is he?"

"Twelve."

"So bring him along," Geoff replied. "Boys
like boats." It had become a matter of principle now, damn it. If
Fain wanted his daughter to be guided by the wisdom of a tea
merchant, then damn it, Geoff would sit her down at the man's feet
if he had to drag her by the hair to do it. Damn it.

"Nope, I can't do that," she decided at
last. "He would be crushed." When Geoff didn't respond, she added,
"But I'll tell you what. I'll bring my cousin along for the next
race after that, whenever it is."

"Fine. I'll call you. Plan on it." Scowling,
he hung up with the feeling that he'd failed this, his first
assignment. He wondered briefly whether kidnapping was illegal in
the United States, then put the thought aside. He had bigger fish
to fry: rooms to line up, an automobile to lease for a longer term,
tactful letters to send back home. He was confident that his father
would be pleased with his decision to stay on in the land of milk
and honey; his mother, on the other hand, would fear he was
becoming corrupted.

Which, he decided, he was, although a more
accurate term might be "seduced." There was something utterly
hypnotizing about watching Americans in action. It was like
watching children grow up. They had none of the self-consciousness
of an older nation, no sense that there were limits to life's
possibilities. He could see it in Jim Fain, with his determination
to make his mark on the world's shipbuilding industry; he could see
it in Amanda, with her equal and opposing determination not to let
him.

Not even the war had dampened the Americans'
enthusiasm. Reluctant at first to join the fray—as any young and
inexperienced child would be—the Americans had managed to turn the
tide, and now they were more cocky and ebullient than ever. Even
now, soldiers were still returning to ticker-tape parades, in
almost shocking contrast to the subdued homecomings he saw and
experienced in his own, far more devastated country. There were
monuments everywhere in the United States; in England there were
memorials. He wondered what it would take to give the Americans
pause. He wondered what it would take to check the Fains in their
headlong, headstrong pursuit of success. He meant to watch for a
while and see.

So he set up shop in Old Saybrook, a pretty,
historical community a few miles west of the Ironworks in New
London, settling on a comfortable colonial house run by Mrs.
Streep, a New England widow plump as a fox sparrow, who immediately
invited her unmarried niece to tea. Geoff spent twenty friendly
minutes with the two ladies, then retired to his own rooms to
shuffle the furniture and take down the artwork.

It was now the seventeenth, the day of the
second race, which he'd been too busy even to think of going to
see. As it turned out, there was little wind and the race was not
completed within its time allotment. Thank God Amanda and her
cousin had not come; two brats and an anticlimax was a combination
too depressing to consider.

The day after that, Geoff climbed into his
newly leased Hudson Super Six and drove to his first day at the
office. The morning was fine, the drive pleasant, and his mood, if
not ebullient, was at least expectant. This was new. This was
different. He hoped that Jim Fain had taken care of such matters as
work permits, but he didn't especially care. He'd almost be willing
to do the job as a courtesy, just for the experience and the chance
to watch.

The chance came early. When he arrived Fain
was already there and in the middle of an argument with his son.
The elder Fain's office was separated from the clerical help by
windowed walls; apparently Fain had no secrets from anyone
anywhere. He was waving his arms around in a lively display of
exasperation. When he spied Geoff, he beckoned him inside.

"In case I didn't mention it, work starts at
eight-thirty," said Fain.

"It
is
eight-thirty," answered Geoff,
surprised.

"If it were
my
first day on the job,
I'd have been here early," Fain grumbled.

"I'm ready to begin. Good morning,
David."

David nodded and his father said, "You can't
begin, not until we square away an office for you. Seems I'll have
to evict the previous tenant," he said, glaring at his son.

"Where am I supposed to stay?" demanded
David.

"You only come to New London once a week to
look over the repairs to the freighter; we'll stick an extra desk
in the office for you."

"Swell. Why not just put me with the
stenotypists?" He marched over to a window overlooking the yard and
pulled out a cigarette case, took a cigarette from it, and lit it,
his back set to his father in angry rejection all the while.

Fain jerked his head in David's direction.
"My son, the martyr. You'd never know he has a fabulous top-floor
suite in New York with a staff of four to answer every whim." He
threw up his hands. "What's the matter with you, boy? You know the
shipyard ain't fancy. We double up when we have to and we don't
make a federal case out of it."

"Easy for you to say. I have everything set
up. I have a phone—"

"Keep the damn phone! We'll have a new one
put in for Geoff. Look, I can appreciate your wanting things to run
smooth, but give me a break here, David," he pleaded.

Geoff, as usual around the Fains, was
neither seen nor heard. That was part of the fascination: did they
do it because they'd accepted him as one of their own, or did they
treat all outsiders like domestics, necessary evils to keep their
world oiled and running?

David blew out a stream of smoke, then said
to Geoff, "If the phone rings when I'm not there, leave it ring.
Some things are personal, you know?"

Fain, relieved, slapped his son on the back.
"He's something with the women, he is," he explained to Geoff with
a tolerant smile. "Loves 'em and then leaves 'em; but at least he
protects their identities while he's doing it. All right, boys, now
let's get back to work."

Within an hour the mile-high pile of
correspondence on Fain's desk had been transferred to Geoff's desk.
It became immediately obvious that there was no way Geoff could
respond to the inquiries, since he did not have the information
necessary to do so. There were only two ways that he could acquire
that information: learn the shipbuilding business from the ground
up, or take copious and accurate notes from Jim Fain himself. For
the present, he would be working closely with Jim Fain.

"The more you learn and the faster you learn
it, the better," said Fain a little later. "For the moment you'll
steer clear of the military end; there's plenty to do with the
merchant vessels. You'll have access to all our records—quotes,
receivables, wages. Study 'em. You'll learn a lot that way. I'll
take you around to the yard foremen later. But for now let's knock
off a couple of these inquiries. Here's what I want to say; you'll
sort of translate it for me."

They put their heads together after that,
and when Geoff was set free two hours later to grab a quick lunch,
he was as bleary-brained as a young secretary on her first day of
work. He'd scribbled his way through two notebooks as best as he
could, leaving a trail of half-complete notes and marginalia which
looked like Greek to him as he pored over them while he wolfed down
a sandwich.

My God, I'll have to learn shorthand for
this bloody job,
he thought. He was seized with panic:
everything had seemed straightforward while Fain was running
through his replies—but now!

He wanted tea. He wanted his bloody tea.

****

When the shipyard whistle signaled the day's
end, Geoff was still rubbing his chin over one especially cryptic
batch of notes. He knew he had to stay until he cracked it;
tomorrow the trail would be cold. On his desk were spread out
cross-referenced files which held clues to the mystery: the
necessary gauge of steel was in there somewhere, and the number of
man-hours required to bend and weld it into a shape suitable for
carrying cargo for a fruit company. When the phone rang he reached
for it automatically, like any weary, preoccupied executive.

"Hello," he said.

"Listen, asshole, where's the ship? We need
it
now."

"I beg your pardon," Geoff answered,
stunned. "Who is this?"

The caller hung up.

Frowning, Geoff returned the receiver to its
cradle. Fains Ironworks did business with some pretty ornery
people, it seemed. It wasn't even the hostility in the man's voice
that bothered Geoff; it was the desperation.

Geoff wondered how Jim Fain, who prided
himself on running a crackerjack shipbuilding company, could have
let one of his customers get so far out on a limb. And then he
remembered that he'd picked up the call on David's private line.
The caller was one of David's responsibilities, and that explained
a lot. David may have begun putting his nose to the grindstone, as
his father so proudly pointed out, but it had only been there a few
weeks. Who knows how many promises had been broken before then?

Geoff thought no more about it and returned
to his hieroglyphics. An hour later he allowed himself to lean back
and light up one of the fine cigars that had been pressed on him by
Fain: he'd earned it. He had his feet up on his desk and was gazing
absent-mindedly out at the yard, vaguely regretful that he had not
taken up naval architecture at Eton instead of literature, when he
saw David slip out from the shed that contained the wooden
freighter whose garboard plank might or might not be rotten.

He wondered whether David had given the
go-ahead to have the plank replaced, or if he'd hung tough with the
yard foreman. Although Geoff had no great admiration for Fain's
son, he appreciated his dilemma. A wooden ship was more wanton in
her demands than the most pampered mistress. You could give her
everything—your money, your time, your marriage—and still she'd
want more. From you, from anyone, from everyone.

Suddenly it came to him: it was the wooden
freighter that the caller needed at once. Oh, yes, now it made
sense. The caller wanted his ship, but there was a long line of men
the ship wanted to be with first: the carpenter, the caulker, the
painter, the rigger, the engineer. She would see them all, all in
good time. And when each man was done, when each man had given her
everything he had, she'd only smile sweetly and say, "More." And
meanwhile someone with a load of bananas rotting in a Caribbean
port was tearing out his hair for wanting her.

Better to build in steel. Steel ships were
men-ships, not women-ships. Steel ships had stubbly beards and
strong backs and didn't care how they looked or smelled, so long as
they got the job done. Steel ships would rather be worked over by
ordinary laborers; they never lusted for hard-to-get craftsmen. A
steel ship never tore out a man's heart and left him writhing in
agony just for the fun of it, but a wooden ship might.

Geoff blew a pensive smoke ring into the
air. He missed his father's wood yacht—the jezebel.

****

The next day was as satisfying as the
previous day had been frustrating. Fain was right: there was a
trick to seducing a buyer, and Geoff had the inbred diplomacy,
natural intelligence, and enthusiasm to do just that. When he
showed a draft of his first response to Fain, his employer was
tickled to death.