The Star of the Sea (52 page)

‘Jonathan, please,’ his mother said.

‘Well I shall.’

‘Did you know Queen Victoria’s husband is German, old thing?’ said his father.

‘That’s a beastly lie.’

‘Certainly isn’t. As German as sausages.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to say grace tonight, Jonathan.’

‘I want Mr Mulvey to say it. His voice is nice.’

‘What a capital idea,’ Lord Kingscourt said. ‘Would you mind, Mulvey? In your own time of course.’

He spoke the words of a prayer in a very quiet voice, which was devoid of even the slightest feeling. ‘Bless us oh Lord and these thy gifts, which of thy bounty we are about to receive, through Christ our Lord.’

‘Amen.’

Lady Kingscourt and Mary Duane began serving plates of salad. The birthday boy was gulping his tumbler of lemonade.

‘Are you a Wesleyan, Mr Mulvey?’

‘No, master.’

‘A Methodist?’

‘No, master.’

‘You’re not a bally Jew, are you?’

‘Mr Mulvey is a Roman Catholic, Jonathan,’ said Lord Kingscourt. ‘At least I imagine so. Is that correct, Mulvey?’

‘Yes, Your Honour.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Jonathan Merridith. ‘Of course. He would be.’

‘I have always thought of Catholicism as a very pleasant religion,’ said Laura Merridith feebly. ‘Rather a wonderful sense of drama. We have a number of very close friends who are Roman Catholics.’

‘Yes, lady.’

‘Mr Dixon is Jewish,’ said Lord Kingscourt quietly. ‘That is a pleasant religion, too.’

Jonathan Merridith appeared amazed. ‘Are you, Grantlers?’

‘My mother was; yes.’

‘I thought Jews had beards.’ He was speaking with his mouth full. ‘They always do in the newspapers.’

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t believe everything you see in the newspapers.’

A polite laugh was shared by some of the adults at the table. ‘Now that,’ said Lord Kingscourt, ‘is a matter on which we can all agree.’

‘So what do Jews believe, Grantlers?’

‘They believe many of the same things we believe ourselves,’ said Lord Kingscourt. ‘That we should give each other a fair crack of the whip. Not give a fellow a drubbing when he’s down. They are often remarkably kind and humane people.’

‘That’s not what some of the masters at Winchester used to say.’

‘Well that is very sad and stupid of the silly old goats.’

The boy fell quiet and looked at his plate. For a while everyone ate in restless silence, broken only by the scratch of forks on china. It was as though each diner was waiting for someone else to introduce a topic, but after several minutes nobody had.

The crystal chandeliers, the sheened, teak pillars gave the stateroom the air of a restaurant in Paris. Only the clanking of a chain outside the porthole broke the illusion.

‘Oh, Dixon,’ said Lord Kingscourt, forking at his food, ‘I meant to say I saw that piece of yours. In the
New York Trib
. The one in which you were kind enough to mention myself. Your response to that daft old letter of mine. One of the chaps got it for me on that tub we passed the other day.’

‘I may have been a little overheated when I wrote it.’

‘Actually I rather thought it was food for thought. If I may so. You’re quite right. We have so much. Seems unfair, somehow. Rather crystallised some of the things I think myself.’

Dixon looked across at him, expecting the customary sneer. But he wasn’t sneering. He was looking exhausted and pale.

‘Mm.’ The Earl shook his head and crumbled a bread roll. His eyes ranged around the room and took on a strangely mystified expression, as though he was suddenly confused about how he’d got there. ‘Best in the whole world, if you ask me. The Irish people, I mean. Always felt sort of at home there before it all went wrong.’ He gave a melancholy smile. ‘The world is an unfair old place, isn’t it?’

‘It’s exactly what we’ve made it, I suppose.’

‘Quite. Quite. Neatly put.’ He chewed another mouthful for a long time. ‘I used to think – you know – had I got my hands on old Kingscourt. Might have been able to do a little better. Than was done in the past, I mean. Given it a crack anyhow.’ He poured a glass of water but for a moment did not drink. ‘Ain’t going to happen now at any rate. Pity.’

‘Pops,’ said Jonathan Merridith. ‘Ain’t is common.’

‘Perhaps we might talk about something a little less dull,’ said Lady Kingscourt meaningfully.

‘Sorry. I’m being a bloody bore again.’ He turned to his son. ‘Six of the best for Papa for being a bore. What shall my punishment be?’

The boy held up his glass. ‘More lemonade for the King!’

His father laughed easily and went to the serving table. He picked up a jug and began to pour. And what happened next to David Merridith was so shocking that it took him a moment to realise it was pain.

‘David?’ said his wife. ‘What is the matter?’

Dixon rose quickly and got to him as he stumbled. A dish was knocked from the serving table, spilling its contents over the rug. His
face was beaded with droplets of sweat. A tremor ran through him; he gave a small gasp.

‘Are you all right, Merridith? You are pale.’

‘Absolutely fine. No matter at all. Bloody heartburn.’

Dixon and the Countess helped him to his feet. He shuddered again; leaned his hands on the table.

‘Pops?’

‘Shall we fetch the Surgeon, David?’

‘Don’t be bloody dense. Little indigestion cramp or something.’

‘Jonathan darling, will you pop down to Doctor Mangan’s quarters and see if he is there?’

‘Laura, really I am fine. Let us just have our supper and not make a bloody operetta. Honestly.’

He sat painfully back down and took a long drink of iced water. Made a pacifying gesture with his hands to the Countess. Mopped his forehead with a rucked napkin.

‘Bloody shipboard rations,’ he chuckled. ‘Give a dead man the shites.’

His sons giggled with the relief and delight of hearing him swear.

‘David, please.’

‘Sorry. Let that remark be stricken from the record, you two.’

‘May I pass you some more greens, Jonathan?’ asked Grantley Dixon.

‘No, thank you. I only eat pudding.’

‘You certainly do not, sir,’ Laura Merridith said with a frown.

The child accepted a spoonful of limp vegetation. Poked at it with his knife, wrinkling his nose.

‘There shall be a double dose of lessons tomorrow for petulant gentlemen who do not eat their greens,’ Lord Kingscourt said. ‘Then they shall have to walk the plank.’

‘I hate lessons. More than I hate girls.’

‘Did you ever hear the like of that in your life, Mulvey? A boy who doesn’t like his lessons.’

‘No, sir.’

‘What do you think would happen to a boy like that if he didn’t mend his ways?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘You bloody do know; you’re just being polite enough not to
say. You expect he wouldn’t make the best of himself in life, don’t you?’

‘Sir.’

‘Exactly. He might have to work as a chimney-sweep, mightn’t he?’

‘Sir.’

‘What else might he have to work at, would you say? An idler who did not attend to his lessons.’

Everyone but Mary Duane was looking at him now. ‘Perhaps a costermonger, sir.’

Lord Kingscourt gave a hearty laugh at the thought. ‘Do you hear that, you indolent little loafer? A costermonger you shall be if you don’t watch out. Sweet apples here, Missus! Penny the dozen bejaysus!’

The boy scowled and pulled abruptly away from his father.

‘Today’s lesson was astronomy,’ said Lord Kingscourt, tossing his son’s hair. ‘But I’m afraid it didn’t stick, hmm? Toffee and treacle are the only things that stick. But at least we attempt to show willing. Isn’t that right?’

The child forked an egg into untidy quarters. His face was the colour of his father’s wine.

‘Jons,’ said his mother gently. ‘Papa was only playing.’

He nodded sullenly but still did not say anything. Merridith looked at his wife. She gave him a stare that was hard to read. The Earl made to speak a few times but in the end he said nothing.

‘Do you have a place to go in New York, Mr Mulvey?’ asked Grantley Dixon.

‘No, sir.’

‘You have family there, I suppose.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Friends, then.’

‘No, sir.’

Mulvey continued eating, his head bowed low. Eating like a man who had known the life of hunger, a man for whom eating had become a matter of chance: rhythmically, determinedly, with grim concentration, as though the sands were running steady through some hourglass of providence and the plate would be taken away when the last ones disappeared. Not gorging, not gulping – that was
much less efficient: in your hurry you might leave the tiniest scrap uneaten. His hands rose and sank like those of a puppet drummer-boy, from plate to mouth, from mouth to plate, and he swallowed while they sank, so that his mouth would be empty at the instant when his fork rose to astonish it once more. He chewed quickly, mechanically: taste was not the issue.
Taste
was not something that had mattered for years. His hands trembled sometimes; his face was damp with purpose. To write it down is hard; it reads as though it were ridiculous. But to witness it was harder, and not funny at all. Even those merry boys stopped laughing as they noticed; my own feeling was that none of us would ever laugh again. Had the room burst into flames, or the vessel struck an iceberg, he would have continued implacably eating as death sat down at the table.

‘Perhaps …’ said Laura Merridith, and her voice trailed off. Never before had she witnessed a starving man eat. ‘Perhaps you might do us the honour of staying with ourselves for a while. Would that be a good idea, David?’

She was trying not to cry.

Lord Kingscourt looked at his wife with an expression of bewildered gratitude. ‘What a very nice thought. Don’t know why it didn’t occur to me.’

Mulvey stopped eating and stared at the floor. There was a strange sense that the air around him was acquiring a colour. ‘I couldn’t do that, sir.’

‘We should like it if you did. Till you get on your feet.’

The Countess touched the back of his emaciated wrist. ‘We really should. You have done us such a kindness.’

Tears appeared in the guest’s eyes but he pinched them away. Inclined his head lower so that his face could not be seen. His hand reached for a glass and he took a sip of cloudy water.

‘What kindness is that, then?’ asked Jonathan Merridith.

‘Mr Mulvey has helped me with a small matter, that’s all,’ his father said.

‘But what?’

‘Mind your own business before your business minds you, sir.’

‘Pardon me, lady,’ said Mary Duane suddenly. ‘But might I be excused from the table?’

The Countess looked at her. ‘Are you unwell again?’

‘Yes, lady.’

‘You don’t look unwell. Are you sure?’

‘Lady.’

‘What is the matter, then, for pity’s sake? I warned you three times earlier, this is a special occasion.’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ sighed Merridith, ‘if the girl says she’s unwell, she’s unwell, Laura. Must her head fall off and roll about the table?’

Robert Merridith snuffled with mirth at the thought. His father leered across at him and pulled a clown’s face.

‘Your mama’s a silly old mare sometimes, ain’t she?’

‘I only meant it seems a pity for Jonathan’s birthday to be spoiled,’ said the Countess. ‘But if Mary wants to leave, then of course she must leave.’

‘Can’t you stay for a little time, Mary?’ asked Jonathan mopily. ‘I should very much rather you did.’

A long moment passed. She went back to her food.

‘May I pour you a glass of water, Miss Duane?’ offered Grantley Dixon.

She nodded her thanks. He filled her tumbler. The salad course was finished without another word from the diners.

The plates were removed, and a platter bearing three chickens was placed on the table. Lord Kingscourt picked up a carving knife and held it towards Mulvey.

‘Little tradition,’ he explained. ‘We always invite the guest of honour to carve.’

‘David, for Heaven’s sake, let us not have all that formality.’

‘Oh do shut up, can’t you, woman. That is more than half of the fun. To attention at the double, Corporal Mulvey, and perform thy duty else thou be whipp’d.’

Mulvey took the knife, stood up unsteadily and began to slice the meat. The Countess and Dixon handed him plates. He cut with surprising neatness, as though he was used to doing it. Whenever anyone said ‘thank you’ he nodded briefly but did not speak.

The plates being loaded, they began to eat again. Dishes of vegetables and sauces were quickly passed around. Glasses refilled. More wine opened. Only the silence of Mary Duane worked against the attempt at festiveness – hers and the silence of Mulvey the killer. Their wordlessness hung over the table like an unasked question.

‘Isn’t this agreeable,’ said Lord Kingscourt after a few minutes. ‘All nosebagging together. We should arrange it more often.’

Low, vague sounds were made by the boys. None of the adults gave any response.

‘How is it the Bard puts it, Dixon? Merry feast, etcetera?’

‘Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.’

‘Indeed. And how true. Old
Othello
, that is, Jonathan.’

‘Actually,’ said Dixon mildly, ‘it’s
The Comedy of Errors
.’

‘Of course; silly me. Antipholus, aint it? The shag from Ephesus.’

‘Balthazar in fact. Act Three, scene one.’

‘Bloody heck,’ sighed Merridith to his son, ‘it’s the dunce’s cap for your imbecile Pops tonight. Thank goodness for Mr Dixon’s presence among us.’

Dixon laughed warily. ‘I played the part once in my student days, that’s all.’

‘Oh, I’d say you were very good,’ Lord Kingscourt smiled.

The ship pitched. The chandelier tinkled. The Earl broke a piece of chicken wing and began eating it with his fingers.

‘Excuse me, Mr Mulvey?’ said a small and timid voice that had barely spoken a syllable since the start of the supper.

The guest looked across the table at the face of Robert Merridith. A bonny little boy. The broth of his father.

‘Didn’t you come into my castle one morning?’