Authors: Elizabeth Buchan
The big ship pounded and strained through the water, travelling between two shorelines and liberated from both. In the saloon the band played on.
‘Goodnight, then, Kit,’ said Daisy, and anchored her shoulder straps firmly back into place.
Infinitely gentle, infinitely tender, Kit wiped away the residue of tears on Daisy’s cheeks.
‘Goodnight, Daisy.’
‘Tell me, does Mrs Guntripp always arrange her hair to resemble a doormat?’ Kit nodded in the direction of the well-upholstered figure sitting under the awning.
Daisy giggled. ‘Kit, don’t be so rude.’
‘I was only asking.’
‘Go and get me a drink for a penance. I’m parched.’
Daisy dropped into a deck chair and let her arms flop over the sides. Tennis in this heat sapped energy and she and Kit had played hard. During the night the wind had freshened, dropped at dawn and left the sea running a swell. It was now afternoon and Daisy was getting used to the movement. The air was clean and fresh and the sun was burning her cheeks, comfortably so. Daisy closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Kit was standing above her. He squatted down beside the chair.
‘Drink up. Fresh orange juice.’
Eyes narrowed against the dazzling light, she looked at Kit over the frosted rim of the glass. Gone was the contained, older — married – Kit of the previous evening, replaced by a suntanned youth in shorts that had seen better days, a cotton shirt with rolled-up sleeves and hair stuck to his forehead by sweat. Daisy had a disconcerting vision of what he must have looked like as a boy, somehow vulnerable, with the power that little boys have to tug at the heart.
‘You look like you did in France,’ she said.
‘So do you.’
She drank the rest of her juice and sighed with pleasure.
‘That was a good game,’ Kit said as he drew up a chair beside Daisy’s.
The breeze lifted the hem of her tennis skirt and tugged at the orange scarf she had tied round her hair. The ocean seemed bluer than ever: an enamelled, impassive expanse that ran into the horizon. Two other couples were playing tennis.
‘Makes me tired to watch them,’ Daisy commented, hardly bothering to move her lips. Without lipstick, they were pale pink and dry-looking from sunburn and spray.
‘Indolent creature.’
The sun was still high, and the swish of backwash from the liner settled into a regular rhythm. Rocked by its comfortable roll, both Kit and Daisy fell asleep.
Daisy awoke to a tight feeling across her nose and cheeks. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she said. ‘I’m burnt.’ Only then did she realize that Kit was watching her with a mixture of tenderness, possessiveness and baffled fury. Unguarded from sleep, she smiled at him and Kit was shaken by an onrush of desire so strong that he was forced to look away.
‘Did you know that you mutter in your sleep?’
Daisy sat up. ‘No. I don’t, do I? Nothing incriminating, I hope.’ She touched her sore nose experimentally. ‘Kit, is it bright red?’
‘Ships could steer by it.’
‘
Kit!
’
‘If you come with me, I’ll give you some cream I’ve got in the cabin. It’s good for sunburn.’
She got up groggily, shot an exploratory look in the direction of Mrs Guntripp who was also dozing, and rubbing her nose, she followed Kit.
After the brightness outside, the corridor leading to Kit’s cabin was dim. The ship lurched and, staggering, they clutched at the rail and groped forward.
‘Steady.’ Kit grabbed Daisy as he unlocked the door and, as the floor rose, they fell through it together. He closed the door. Suddenly, they were cut off from everything else.
It was hushed and quiet in the cabin. Kit went into the bathroom and rattled among various pots. ‘I was ill in Damascus once and my friend Prince Abdullah ordered a medical arsenal from his doctors designed for every contingency and gave it to me. I must say, it’s been very useful. Here you are.’ He held out a glass jar.
‘Thank you.’ Daisy was sitting on the bed looking through Kit’s reading on the bedside table. ‘
Arabia Deserta, The Seven Pillars of Wisdom...
’ she read out the titles. ‘Escaping?’ she teased. ‘Shouldn’t it be
Husbandry in Hampshire?’
‘Ever heard of the armchair traveller?’ He opened the pot and scooped out some of the ointment. ‘Here.’ He rubbed it into her nose and cheeks. ‘Does that feel better?’
‘Yes,’ she said, as it soaked into her skin. ‘Will you do my arms? They’re burning too.’
He obeyed and concentrated on his task. When he had finished he looked up. Daisy was watching him and a smear of ointment remained on her cheek: icing on the hot skin beneath. It was too much for Kit.
‘Daisy.’ Kit jerked her roughly to her feet, took her head between his hands and kissed her mouth. Then he licked away the smear, savouring the texture of her cheek. Daisy remained absolutely still.
‘Say something,’ he begged. There was no marker in her eyes to Daisy’s thoughts, no light to guide him, nor invitation to her body, only an intense blue in which he could read neither acquiescence nor encouragement.
She disengaged herself and, as a form of defence, wrapped her arms across her chest. ‘What do you want me to say, Kit? That I want you? Of course I do. But that’s not enough, and I have Tim to consider, and you Matty.’
‘Daisy. Come here.’ Incensed by the mention of Tim, Kit pulled her to him, picked her up and dropped her onto the bed, sweeping
Arabia Deserta
and the pot of ointment to the floor.
She struggled hard for a moment then, suddenly, went limp. Kit caught her legs and tore off one tennis shoe, then the other. They fell with a thud into the silence in the cabin. Then he wrestled with the mother-of-pearl buttons on her blouse. Underneath she was wearing a soft cotton chemise through which were visible the curves of her breasts. With a groan, he pushed her tennis skirt up her sweat-glossed thighs, hooked his fingers into the elastic of her knickers and dragged them down.
There was no partnership in what happened next. On the bed in the hot, dim cabin it was Kit, only Kit, demanding that his need be met. He was not prepared, could not wait, for Daisy.
Later, when Kit was beyond caring, she gave a cry which he was to remember for the rest of his life. Afterwards there was silence, except for the slow, rhythmic roll of the pot of ointment over Daisy’s orange scarf on the cabin floor.
Daisy lay with her skirt crushed around her waist, her blouse spread over the pillow and her arms stretched out over the crumpled sheets. ‘Oh, Kit,’ she said, lit up both by love and despair. ‘I love you.’
Kit propped himself on an elbow. ‘You lied to me, Daisy.’
She laughed and touched his cheek. ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’
‘Why?’
‘Because... because...’ Daisy could not tell him – she did not understand herself.
Kit gathered her into his arms. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Daisy? Why didn’t you tell me?’ he murmured into her hair.
‘Did you know, there are eighteen items on the breakfast menu in third class?’ Peggy Guntripp had been busy with the ship’s literature in order to woo Kit’s attention at dinner. She attacked her lobster with the subtlety of a blacksmith. Opposite her, Chloë, struggling to engage an elderly gentleman in conversation, clattered her fork in suppressed frustration.
‘No,’ said Kit, amused despite himself. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Bathrooms are available at all times.’
‘Thank heavens,’ said Kit.
‘What’s more, the
Île de France
represents the face of victorious France reborn and the glory of France personified.’
‘If only I had known when I booked,’ said Kit.
‘Her three hundred and ninety first-class staterooms are each furnished differently—’
‘Peggy,’ interrupted her mother, ‘would you pass me the salt?’
‘Only two more days,’ said Daisy, who wanted to keep on staring at Kit. She addressed Mrs Guntripp. ‘What are your plans when you return?’
Mrs Guntripp patted her fringe. ‘We’ll spend some time in the country and then we’ll be coming up to town to prepare for Chloë’s coming out.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘The thought exhausts me.’
Peggy was made of stern stuff. She did not relinquish her hold on Kit’s attention for the entire dinner and he, touched by her perseverance, rewarded her efforts by dancing with her twice, and once with Chloë.
The band struck up ‘Hot Nights’ and Kit turned to Daisy. ‘At last,’ he said, and held out his hand. She took it.
‘Since we have been on the subject, do
you
like the decor?’ Kit indicated the tubular lighting and blond wood veneer, a style that could only be called advanced Odeon.
‘I don’t notice that sort of thing, really. But I like the way it creaks. My bathroom is a perfect orchestra.’
It struck Kit that Matty would have noticed the decor of the ship. The thought made him feel ashamed. ‘At least you haven’t got monkeys painted in yours,’ he said.
‘How do you know?’
‘Nobody could ever repeat that mistake.’
The ceiling over the dance floor was low and suited the intimate atmosphere. The
Île de France
was a popular ship whose passengers, preferring her elegance to the speed of the P&O liners, were faithful and the saloon was crowded. Tonight, ostrich feathers predominated, in fans, sewn round waistlines, drooping off hemlines. Silver, gold lame and eau-de-Nil shimmered, and the panelling, which was painted in soft colours, was reflected in the mirrors. Rising above the cultivated English voices were the swooping French tones, and an occasional American drawl. For a while, Kit and Daisy danced in silence, and although they did not look at one another her body was pressed into his.
‘Remember France?’ she asked.
‘What do you imagine?’
‘Do you think that that Bill woman is still there? Propping up the bar and dishing out dubious cigarettes?’
‘Probably. She had, as they say, the habit.’ He moved his hand so that it lay in the curve between waist and hip. Daisy’s hand rested on Kit’s shoulder and her bracelets rattled gently in his ear. Uncontainable joy swept over Kit. He looked down at Daisy, at the chestnut hair and sunburnt cheeks, and remembered his passion of a few hours ago.
‘Daisy,’ he said into her ear. ‘About this afternoon.’
At that she twisted closer into him, an intimate gesture that delighted him.
‘Shush,’ she said.
There were red patches on her thighs where Kit had rubbed her, her chin was sore from his beard. When she dressed for the evening, Daisy discovered a bruise on her arm, and was aware of an unaccustomed ache between her legs. When she considered the theorizing about love, the books that had been written and the poetry composed, Daisy concluded how strange it was that in the end, it was condensed to physical sensation: soreness, wet thighs, a bruise.
‘I want to say I’m sorry,’ said Kit. ‘For acting like I did.’
‘Hallo,’ said Chloë, circling past them in the charge of a youth who looked out of control. ‘Isn’t this fun?’
Daisy roused herself. ‘Yes, isn’t it?’
Kit waited until Chloë was out of earshot. ‘Daisy,’ he said, ‘this is serious. I want you to know that what happened this afternoon isn’t what usually happens.’ An image of Matty’s small, willing body in the bedroom at Hinton Dysart forced its way into his mind, and shocked him. He bent over Daisy. ‘Listen... I... I don’t know that much about it...’ His confession touched Daisy in a way that nothing else had. ‘I haven’t been a great lover for all sorts of reasons, but I do know it can be better for you, Daisy. I was wrong to make you...’
The music switched to a slower tempo. It was hot and smoky in the saloon, and the crush was uncomfortable.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Kit. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Swim?’
‘No,’ he said emphatically.
Daisy took two seconds to make up her mind. ‘Come with me.’
This time, it was Daisy who led Kit into her cabin and shut the door behind her, feeling light-headed with her own daring. Then she held out a hand and said, more to herself than to Kit, ‘What am I doing?’
Kit took her hand and bent to kiss her. Frightened by what she had initiated, she turned away at the last minute and his mouth fastened onto a corner of hers.
The music had followed them down to the cabin and filtered in through the porthole. The lilies in Daisy’s bouquets seemed very white, and with each movement of the ship indelible orange pollen rained onto the carpet.
Daisy reached up and tugged at Kit’s tie. He allowed her to do so – both of them thinking about Matty which, paradoxically, intensified their desire. Tentatively, she undid the studs that secured his shirt.
That night Kit, the outsider, was not alone. For the first time in his life, he breached the barriers between himself and another and found the completion he had been seeking. Riven with gratitude, he buried his face in her neck and whispered, ‘I love you, Daisy.’
Daisy’s face hovered over Kit as she said, ‘I love you,’ back to him. Moonlight played over her shoulders and full breasts bestowing on her an unearthly beauty, and Kit ran his hands up the white body in a frenzy to keep it so for ever.
‘I love you,’ she said, intoxicated by passion.
The smell of lilies permeated their sleep, sweet, disturbing. Kit dreamt of the garden at Hinton Dysart with its ravages and despoliation and woke to an overcast dawn. Daisy stirred and turned over, puzzled by the unfamiliar arms wrapped around her. Kit stroked her cheek.
‘I’d better go.’
‘It’s all started again,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Kit, and sat up. He leant over and brushed his hand down the long, lovely shape lying beside him. ‘The same but quite different.’
What have I done? Daisy silently addressed the dawn and the aftermath of the night. She reached up and traced Kit’s eyes and nose with her finger. He kissed the sunburnt lips and each breast.
‘What have I done?’ she said aloud.
That day the weather changed, bringing rain and a strong wind. The deck was no longer inviting, the swimming pool, abandoned, sloshed on the swell, and passengers consoled themselves in the bars.
At the Isle of Wight, the
Île de France
turned and ploughed through grey seas past the Calshot coastguard station towards Southampton where it docked in a fanfare of hoots, and shrieks from spectators.