Authors: John Christopher
‘Eight is not six.’
‘We’ve gained a day. The men were hoping we would miss the tide. They could have done with a night ashore.’
Olsen did not bother to answer this. After a time, Mouritzen said:
‘She will be riding light – nothing in the forward hold except the horses and the caravan.’
‘How many horses now?’
‘Ninety-five. Sixty for Dieppe, thirty-five for Amsterdam.’
‘If they don’t start loading soon we shall not be clear by eight even. When are the passengers coming on?’
‘After five o’clock, I told the office.’
‘Six here, and the other two at Fishguard?’
‘Yes.’
‘Poles, Irish and English?’ He switched into English from Danish. ‘We speak English then on this voyage.’ Pointing to a figure that approached the gang-plank, he reverted to his native tongue. ‘I didn’t know Carling had gone ashore?’
‘He asked me if he could, just for an hour.’
‘With what reason?’
‘Some kind of spiritualists he’s picked up with here. They were meeting this afternoon and he wanted to go.’
‘You thought that reason sufficient?’
‘He’s a good man. It isn’t the reason that matters, surely.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Olsen said, ‘when a man of his type becomes mixed up in that kind of thing.’
‘There are circumstances to explain it.’
‘That does not interest me. And it was a year ago. By now he should have returned to normal. Instead, he gets worse.’
‘It doesn’t affect his seamanship.’
‘No? The man is more important than the skill. Religion is like drinking; you should develop a head for it when young or leave it alone altogether.’
‘Some begin late.’
‘Then it’s bad.’
Mouritzen put his hands on one of the spokes, and rocked the wheel to and fro.
‘Did you ever meet her?’ he asked.
‘Who? Carling’s wife? No.’
‘Twenty-five years younger than he. She looked like a child, too. Small and pretty – a nice figure, what there was of it. A happy little innocent soul, one would have thought.’
‘And wasn’t she?’ Olsen made a gesture of dismissal and distaste. ‘You are a moralist, Niels. You should learn to judge no actions but your own.’
Mouritzen shrugged. ‘It’s not I who objects to Carling going ashore to listen to the stories the spirits tell him.’
‘But you should! This is a matter of the ship. I condemn no man or woman, however savage and enormous their sins, as long as they do not touch the
Kreya
. But anything that touches the ship is different. In this small world, I am God. I judge, I punish, and I need not give my reasons.’
Mouritzen grinned. ‘Perhaps you would have been happier on a strictly cargo ship. You cannot play God to passengers.’
‘A different God – a modern, liberal God, who exists but does not act.’ He pointed his finger at the First Officer. ‘Action I leave to my angels – to you and to Thorsen. One can argue with angels. God is in the background, unchallengeable, unarguable-with.’
Mouritzen was looking down towards the quay. The loading crane was aft, taking on steel rails. A woman and child stood to one side of it, looking, with some hesitance, in the direction of the gang-plank.
‘That will be Mrs Cleary and daughter,’ Mouritzen said. ‘The clerk should have come with her. I suppose Thorsen and the boy are below. I think I must go down and see her aboard.’
Olsen said sardonically: ‘Can you see from here that she is pretty? Go on, then. But you are a working angel, remember, not a fallen one.’
‘Yes,’ Mouritzen said. He smiled. ‘My respects to God.’
The couple were still hesitating by the gang-plank when he walked down it to greet them. The woman was certainly pretty, he noticed with satisfaction; she had an attractive, compact figure, with silky blonde hair, brown eyes, and a pink and white complexion. She was young, also – not far into her twenties. The child was a small copy, and about six years old. The mother was neatly dressed, but in a coat and shoes that had seen better days. The child’s clothes were newer and looked more expensive. She had a wine-red coat lined with white fur, and a white muff.
He said: ‘Mrs Cleary? I am Niels Mouritzen, First Officer of the
Kreya
. May I show you on board?’
‘Thank you.’ She looked at him, with some nervousness but with a pleasant frankness. ‘I was wondering if it would be all right. I think we’re early.’
Mouritzen bent down to the little girl. ‘And what is your name?’ he asked.
‘Annabel.’
‘That is a nice name.’
‘You speak English very well,’ the mother said. ‘I was wondering about that, since it’s a Danish boat.’
Mouritzen smiled. ‘We Danes have become civilized since we first came to Dublin. Most of us speak English. Do you have your baggage with you?’
‘It’s over there.’ She pointed. ‘Where the taxi put us down.’
There was one large suitcase and one small, both made of pressed fibre material and secured by cheap yellow leather straps.
‘It will be all right there for a few minutes,’ Mouritzen said, ‘I will tell the steward and he will bring the cases on board. We will go on first. Shall I carry you, little Annabel?’
She looked at him gravely, coldly. ‘Thank you, but I can walk by myself.’
‘Good, good!’ He helped them on to the gang-plank in turn. ‘Welcome to the
Kreya
. I hope you will both enjoy your trip.’
Thorsen came out of the lounge as he showed them in. He was much shorter than Mouritzen, with dark curly hair, and features that were marred only by a heaviness of jaw. In repose his face was sullen, but he smiled often. He was conscious of his appearance as part of his stock-in-trade and, aware that his own seemingly natural charm was studied, not spontaneous, mistrusted naturalness in others. Suspicion of human motives came easily to him.
‘Ah,’ Mouritzen said, ‘this is our Chief Steward, Mr Thorsen. He will look after you. Jorgen, is the boy at hand? Mrs Cleary has two cases to be brought on.’
‘How do you do, Mrs Cleary?’ Thorsen said. He gave the child a quick smile. ‘I’ll show you to your cabin right away. Your cases will be here directly.’
From the deck the door gave on to a tiny lobby, with a steep flight of stairs on one side, a service door facing this and the main doors to the lounge directly in front. Thorsen opened the service door; the little room beyond it was a combination of bar and kitchenette, and a boy of fifteen was washing up plates at the sink. Thorsen spoke to him rapidly in Danish, and he nodded in reply. He was tall for his age, fair-haired, with a long face and rimless spectacles that gave him a studious look.
‘Then I will leave you in Mr Thorsen’s hands,’ Mouritzen said. ‘I shall see you later, Mrs Cleary. Good-bye till then.’
Thorsen gestured towards the stairs, and the woman and child climbed them. At their head there was a T-shaped corridor, with cabin doors ranged along the top of the T: a second flight of stairs led to the officers’ quarters. There were four cabins, and he led her to No. 1. It had a built-in settee, covered in grey leather, on one side, and two bunks on the other. Between, there was a small, asymmetrical dressing-table and writing-desk. This was of white wood, contrasting with the light mahogany of the bunks. The floor was covered, wall to wall, with pale blue carpeting.
Thorsen opened a door to the left of the settee.
‘This is the toilet – shower, wash-basin and so on.’
She looked round the cabin. ‘It’s very nice. More – more modern than I expected.’
‘The
Kreya
is only three years old,’ Thorsen told her. ‘Your bags are here now.’ He made a sign to the boy to set them down. ‘Is there anything else you require just now?’
‘I can’t think of anything.’
‘The Customs Officer will be coming on board in about an hour. Would you like me to take your passport for him?’
She said, a little quickly: ‘Can’t I keep it and show it to him myself?’
Thorsen nodded, smiling. ‘Of course. Some people prefer me to have the documents; then, sometimes, it is not necessary for them to be bothered.’
‘I’ll keep mine,’ she said.
‘Of course.’ He backed out of the cabin. ‘Dinner is served at seven o’clock.’
The Simanyi family came on board a few minutes before six, father and son carrying cameras and the mother carrying a shopping bag laden with fruit, biscuits and chocolate. The daughter, Nadya, carried only a small handbag, from which, as they stood on deck waiting for Thorsen, she took out compact and lipstick to make up her face. She was a fairly tall girl, with straight black hair, strong but good-looking features, and a curved and well-muscled figure. At close quarters she would attract a man who liked powerful women with a promise of temperament, perhaps to the point of violence. In her proper place – seen from a distance in the arc-light’s glare as she climbed the twisting ladder towards the trapezes, sequins gleaming against white flesh, she would be irresistible.
The mother was smaller, and had never been as handsome, but she had kept her figure well and still rode a horse in the Grand Parade and the Cowboys-and-Indians tableau; sometimes she featured in the knife- and hatchet-throwing acts when the usual girl was ill. She had an alert, smiling, heavily wrinkled face, fixed in a disposition of curiosity and expectancy towards an ever-changing world.
Josef Simanyi, the head of the family, was not tall either; measured against his daughter he might have had an advantage of half an inch, but no more. He was square in build, inclined to be squat, and although, at fifty-five, his shoulders were beginning to be bowed, he was exceptionally strong. In the ring, apart from bareback riding, he bent iron bars, tore up telephone books and otherwise demonstrated his strength. He had also, at one time, been a fire-eater and sword-swallower, but had more or less abandoned these practices.
His son, Stefan, shared the trapeze act with Nadya. He had a white face and thick black hair which he kept combed back in a hard, glossy shell. His appearance otherwise was nondescript. He had small, uneven teeth and a small moustache.
When Thorsen came out, Stefan and the parents greeted him with enthusiasm.
‘So we are back, you see!’ Josef said. ‘As promised. We said we come back on the
Kreya
. So here we are.’
‘Did you have a good summer?’ Thorsen asked.
He shook hands with them in turn until he came to Nadya. She nodded at him and smiled briefly, her hands still engaged with the compact.
‘Not bad,’ Josef said. ‘In this country there is more money hidden away than one thinks at first. And not much television.’
‘And Katerina? Is she well also?’
‘For a time, in the west country, she was ill. I think she ate something bad, you know. But she is fine right now. She comes aboard soon?’
‘I suppose so. That is not my job. Will I show you to your cabins?’
‘Tell us the numbers and we find them,’ Josef said. ‘We know the way, remember.’
‘All the same, I’ll show you.’
He made way for them to enter and climb the stairs. The women went first. Stefan, waiting at the bottom, clutched Thorsen’s arm.
‘The weather – it will be bad, eh?’
‘Not very bad, I think. The glass is rising again.’
Stefan nodded in resignation. ‘I will be sick.’
‘Perhaps not. Last week it was very bad but it is better now. Maybe you will not be sick.’
‘I am always sick,’ Stefan said.
Thorsen followed them along the corridor. ‘No. 2 and No. 4,’ he said. ‘This, and the one at the end.’
Mrs Simanyi turned to him in surprise and consternation. ‘But they are not together!’
‘The other two had been allotted when your booking came in,’ Thorsen explained. ‘But they are all separate cabins, you know. They do not connect together.’
‘We had cabins side by side in April,’ she said. ‘I could knock on the wall to Papa, and he knocked back to me. I am not happy if there is another cabin between us.’
Josef pointed to the door of No. 3. ‘This one is empty. Maybe they are not coming. It is past six o’clock.’
‘They are coming on early tomorrow morning at Fishguard. Perhaps they would change then.’ Thorsen shrugged. ‘But perhaps not. They are English.’
‘And the other cabin?’ Mrs Simanyi asked.
‘A mother and little girl. Would you like me to ask if they will change with you?’
‘Yes. No, I will ask myself. She is inside?’
Mary Cleary came to the door in answer to the knock. She had taken off her coat and was wearing a blue wool dress. Behind her Annabel was sitting on the top bunk, her legs swinging. Mrs Simanyi explained her request.
‘Of course,’ Mary said. ‘It makes no difference to us. We’ll move over now.’
Mrs Simanyi took her hand in both hers. ‘You are most kind,’ she said. ‘You know how it is that a woman wishes to feel her husband is close at hand.’
Mary looked at her steadily. ‘Yes.’
‘Stefan!’ Mrs Simanyi called. ‘Carry the lady’s cases to the other cabin. She is like you, your daughter. A beauty.’ She fished in her shopping bag. ‘Can she have chocolate?’
‘Thank you – but not before supper.’
‘Then she will eat it after supper, or tomorrow, maybe.’
Annabel climbed down and came for the chocolate. Mrs Simanyi embraced her.
‘A beauty,’ she repeated. ‘Take an apple also. Eat the apple after the chocolate. That makes your teeth strong and white, eh?’
She went with Mary and Annabel to the No. 4 cabin, and looked round it appraisingly.
‘It is as good as the other, you think?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Mary said. ‘Just as good.’
‘I am glad. You travel also to Copenhagen?’
Mary shook her head. ‘No. Only as far as Amsterdam.’
‘You take a trip – just you and the little one?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your husband stays behind in Ireland?’
Mary said: ‘I’m a widow.’
‘I am sorry.’
The two women looked at one another, the older offering, the younger warily refusing.
‘You want to be alone now,’ said Mrs Simanyi.
The horses were brought up for loading about half past six. They were in lines of ten, loosely roped together, each attended by a groom. Mouritzen stood by the open forward hatch and watched them being slung over, two at a time, in the horse-box. One or two whinnied in anxiety as the box was lifted by the crane, but for the most part they were docile enough. The dock labourers, down in the hold, led them out and secured them in the wooden stalls which ran along either side.