Part 12 (1/2)

After the drinks we exited the Imperial Lounge, softly, and queued up for lunch. The restaurant was Empire style, the silks smelling of age and dust, the tapestries blurred. We ordered something called Bubble and Squeak because it sounded jolly, but it wasn't. And neither were the diners surrounding us.

Particularly those who sat alone. They all had an air of melancholy, and they stared at us throughout the meal, some surrept.i.tiously, some openly.

Finally we gave up trying to eat and fled back to the Imperial Lounge, because where else was there to go?

The sea of heads was calm. Except for one. It was red, and when we entered it nodded and bounced up.

Mr. Friendly's eyes were snapping. ”I beg your pardon,” he said. ”Hate to bother you. But my wife, Mrs. McKenzie, over there--she, uh, points out that I've been rude. Quite rude. And I expect I ought to apologize.”

”Do you?” I asked.

”Oh, yes! But there is something more important. Really good news, in fact.” It was strange to see the old boy smiling so happily; the frown seemed to have been a fixture. ”Mr. Burgess and I talked the whole thing over,” he said, ”and we've decided that you won't have to leave the s.h.i.+p after all.”

”Say,” I said, a trifle bitterly, ”that is good news. We were afraid we'd have to swim back and it's had us sick with worry.”

”Really?” Mr. McKenzie c.o.c.ked his head to one side. ”Sorry about that, my boy. But we were quite concerned, all of us, as I daresay you gathered. Y'see, it simply hadn't occurred to us that an _outsider_ would ever want to go on the _Lady_. I mean, she's primarily a freighter, as it were; and the last time she took on a new pa.s.senger was, according to Captain Protheroe, the summer of '48. So you can understand-- but never mind that, never mind that. It's all settled now.”

”_What's_ all settled?” asked my wife.

”Why, everything,” said the old man, expressively. ”But come, you really must join Mrs.

McKenzie and me for a bit of tea. That's one thing that hasn't changed on the _Lady_. She still has the finest tea of any s.h.i.+p afloat. Eh, my dear?”

The small square woman nodded.

We exchanged introductions as if we were meeting for the first time. The man named Burgess extended his hand and shook mine with real warmth, which was quite a shock. His wife, a quiet, pale woman, smiled. She stared at her cup for a moment, then said, ”Ian, I expect the Ransomes are wondering a bit about your and Mr. McKenzie's behavior this morning.”

”Eh?” Burgess coughed. ”Oh, yes. But it's all right now, Cynthia; I told you that.”

”Still--”

”Perhaps I can help,” said Mrs. McKenzie, who had not yet spoken. Her voice was a lovely soft thing, yet, oddly, commanding. She looked at Eileen. ”But first you must tell us why you chose the _Lady Anne_.”

Eileen told them.

Mrs. McKenzie's smile changed her face, it washed away the years and she became almost beautiful. ”My dear,” she said, ”you were quite right. The _Lady_ _is_ special. More special, I should say, than either you or your husband might imagine. You see, this is the s.h.i.+p Jack and I sailed on when we were married--which would be fifty-six years ago.”

”Fifty-five,” said the redheaded man. He took a drink of tea and set the cup down gently. ”She was a splendid thing then, though. The s.h.i.+p, I mean!”

”Jack, really.”

Eileen looked at McKenzie and said, in an even voice: ”I thought you told us that it was an old rust bucket.”

”Not 'it.' _She_.” Burgess blushed. ”Should both have been struck down by lightning,” he said.

”Greatest lie ever uttered. Mrs. Ransome, mark this: the _Lady Anne_ was and is now the finest s.h.i.+p that ever crossed the sea. Queen of the fleet, she was.””And quite unusual,” put in McKenzie. ”Only one of her kind, I believe. Y'see, she specialized in honeymooners. That was her freight then: young people in love; aye. That's what makes your presence so--what shall I say--ironic? Eh? No, that isn't it. Not ironic. Sally, what is the d.a.m.ned word I'm looking for?”

”Sweet,” said his wife, smiling.

”No, no. Anyway, that was it. A regular floating wedding suite, y'might say. Young married couples, that's all you'd ever see on her. Full of juice and the moon in their eyes. Dear me. It was funny, though. All those children trying to act grown-up and worldly, trying to act married and used to it, d'you see, and every one of 'em as nervous as a mouse. Remember, Burgess?”

”I do. Of course, now, that only lasted for a few days, McKenzie. The _Lady Anne_ gave 'em time to know each other.” The old man laughed. ”She was a wise s.h.i.+p. She understood such things.”

Mrs. McKenzie lowered her eyes, but not, I thought, out of embarra.s.sment. ”At any rate,” she said, ”although it was, needless to say, unofficial, that did seem to be the policy of the owners, then.

_Everything_ arranged for young people. For anyone else, I imagine the s.h.i.+p must have been a bit on the absurd side. Love has its own particular point of view, you know: it sees everything larger than life.

Nothing too ornate for it, or too fancy, or too dramatic. If it is a good love, it demands the theatrical--and then transfigures it. It turns the grotesque into the lovely, as a child does . . .” The old woman raised her eyes. ”Where a s.h.i.+pping line ever found that particular vision, I shall never know. But they made the _Lady Anne_ into an enchanted gondola and took that moment of happiness and--pure--sweet pain that all lovers have and made the moment live for two really unspeakably pleasant weeks . . .”

The redheaded McKenzie cleared his throat loudly. ”Quite so,” he said, glancing at his wife, who smiled secretly. ”Quite so. I expect they get the drift, my dear. No need to go sticky.”

”But,” said his wife, ”I feel sticky.”

”Eh? Oh.” He patted her hand. ”Of course. Still--”

Burgess removed his pipe. ”The point is,” he said, ”that we spent a good many fine hours aboard this old scow. The sort of hours one doesn't forget. When we heard that they were going to. . . retire. . .

the _Lady_, well, it seemed right, somehow, that we should join her on her last two-way sailing. And that, I think accounts for the number of old parties aboard.. Most of 'em here for the same reason, actually. Bos.h.i.+er-Jones and his wife over there, sound asleep: the bald chap. Engineer in his day, and a good one. The Whiteaways, just past the column. They were on our first sailing. Innes Champion, the writer: quite a droll fellow most of the time, though you wouldn't guess it now. A widower, y'know. Wife pa.s.sed on in '29. They had their honeymoon on the _Lady_--a better one, if possible, than ours: propeller fell off--that would be in 1906--and they were four days in repairing it, so he says. Terrible liar, though. Don't know that chap in the wheel-chair; do you, McKenzie?”

”Brabham. Nice enough, but getting on, if you know what I mean. Tends to tremble and totter.

Still, a decent sort.”

”Alone?”

”I fear so.”

Mrs. McKenzie took a sip of cold tea and said: ”I hope you understand a bit more of our att.i.tude, Mrs. Ransome. And I do hope you will forgive us for staring at you and your husband occasionally. It's quite impolite, but I think we are not actually seeing _you_ so much as we are seeing ourselves, as we were fifty years ago. Isn't that foolish?”

Eileen tried to say something, but it didn't work. She shook her head.

”One other thing,” Mrs. McKenzie said. ”You _are_ in love with each other, aren't you?”

”Yes,” I said. ”Very much.”

”Splendid. I told Jack that when I first saw you this morning. But, of course, that wasn't the point.

I'd forgotten the plan.”

”Sally!” McKenzie frowned. ”Do watch it.”

The old woman put a hand to her mouth, and we sat there quietly. Then Burgess said, ”I think it's time for the men to adjourn for a cigar. With your permission?”

We walked to the bar and Burgess introduced me around. ”Van Vlyman, this is Ransome. He'sAmerican but he's all right. Nothing to worry about.” ”Sanders, shake hands with young Ransome. He and his wife are on their honeymoon, y'know. Picked the _Lady Anne!_ No, no, I tell you: it's all been straightened out.” ”Fairman, here now, wake up; this is--”

The warmth of these men suddenly filled me, and after a while it seemed as though, magically, I wasn't thirty-two at all, but seventy-two, with all the wisdom of those years.

The man called Sanders insisted upon buying a round and raised his gla.s.s. ”To the finest, lovliest, happiest s.h.i.+p that ever was!” he said, and we drank, solemnly.

”Pity,” someone said.