Part 12 (2/2)

”No!” The portly ex-colonel, Van Vlyman, crashed his fist down upon the polished mahogany.

”Not a 'pity'! A _crime_. An evil, black-hearted crime, perpetrated by stupid little men with bow ties.”

”Easy, Van Vlyman. Nothing to get heated over now.”

”Nothing, indeed!” roared the old soldier. ”Easy, indeed! G.o.d Almighty, are all of you so ancient, so feeble that you can't see the truth? Don't you know why they want to sc.r.a.p the _Lady_?”

Sanders shrugged. ”Outlived her usefulness,” he said.

”Usefulness? Usefulness to whom, sir? Nonsense! D'you hear? She's the best s.h.i.+p on the sea.”

Van Vlyman scowled darkly. ”A little slow, perhaps--but, I put it to you, Sanders, by whose standards?

Yours? Mine? Thirteen, fourteen days for a crossing is fast enough for anyone in his right mind. Only people aren't in their right minds any more, that's the trouble. That's the core of it right there. People, I say, have forgotten how to relax. They've forgotten how to appreciate genuine luxury. Speed: that's all that counts nowadays. Get it over with! Why? Why are they in such a hurry?” He glared at me. ”What's the d.a.m.ned rush?”

Burgess looked sad. ”Van Vlyman, aren't you being a bit--”

”To the contrary. I am merely making an observation upon the state of the world today. Also, I am attempting to point out the true reason for this shameful decision.”

”Which is?”

”A plot, _doubtless_ of Communist origin,” declared the colonel.

”Oh, really, Van Vlyman--”

”Haven't you eyes? Are you all that senile? The _Lady Anne_ was condemned because she represents a way of life. A better way of life, by G.o.d, sir, than anything they're brewing up today; and they can't stand that. She's not just a s.h.i.+p, I tell you; she's the old way. She's grace and manners and tradition. Don't you see? She's the Empire!”

The old man's eyes were flas.h.i.+ng.

”Nothing,” he said, in a lower voice, ”is sacred any more. The beasts are at the gate, and we're all too old to fight them. Like the _Lady_ herself, too old and too tired. So we stand about in stone fury like pathetic statues with our medals gone to rust and our swords broken while the vandals turn our castles into sideshows, put advertis.e.m.e.nts for soap along our roads, and--wait! the time is soon!--reach up their hairy hands and pull the Queen down from her throne. Sc.r.a.p the _Lady!_ No. But how are we to stop them from sc.r.a.pping England?”

The old man stood quite still for several minutes, then he turned and walked away; and McKenzie said, beneath his breath: ”Poor chap. He'd planned this with his wife, and then she had to go and die on him.”

Burgess nodded. ”Well, we'll have some cards tonight and he'll feel better.”

We drank another; then Eileen and I had dinner with the McKenzies and retired to our cabin.

Mrs. McKenzie had been right. Love does have its own particular vision: the plaster cupids and golden door didn't seem grotesque at all; in fact, very late at night, with the moon striping the calm black ocean, it seemed to me that there could hardly be a nicer room.

The next twelve days were like a lazy, endless dream. We had trouble, at first, adjusting to it.

When you've lived most of your life in a city, you forget that leisure can be a creative thing. You forget that there is nothing sinful in relaxation. But the _Lady Anne_ was good to us. She gave us time, plenty of time. And on the fourth day I stopped fidgeting and began to enjoy the pleasures of getting to know the woman I'd married. Eileen and I talked together and made love together and walked the ancient decktogether, hoping that it would never end, secure in the knowledge that it would but not for a while.

We forgot, too, that the other pa.s.sengers were in their seventies and eighties. It wasn't important, any longer. They were married couples, as we were, and in a very real way, they were on their honeymoons, too. Twice we surprised McKenzie and his wife on the promenade deck well after midnight, and the Burgesses hardly ever stopped holding hands. The women and men who were alone looked melancholy, but somehow not sad. Even the old colonel, Van Vlyman, had stopped being angry.

We'd see him every now and then seated on the deck, his eyes looking out over the Atlantic, dreaming.

Then, treacherously, as if it had sneaked up on us, the twelfth day came, and the smell of land was in the air. Far in the distance we could see the gray spine of Cherbourg, and we wondered what had happened to the hours.

McKenzie stopped us in The Imperial Lounge. His face wore a slightly odd expression. ”Well,”

he said, ”it's almost over. I expect you're glad.”

”No,” I told him. ”Not really.”

That pleased him. ”The _Lady's_ done her job for you, then?”

”She has,” said Eileen, a different, softer, more feminine Eileen that I'd known two weeks before.

”Well, then; you'll be coming to the dance tonight?”

”Wouldn't miss it.”

”Capital! Uh ... one thing. Have you packed your luggage?”

”No. I mean, we don't dock till tomorrow night, so--”

”Quite. Still, it would do no harm to pack them anyhow,” said McKenzie. ”See you at the dance!”

Like so many others, the things he said frequently sounded peculiar and meant nothing. We went outside and stood at the rail and watched the old sailors--who were all part of the original crew--scrubbing down the s.h.i.+p. They seemed to be working especially hard, removing every trace of dirt, sc.r.a.ping the rails with stiff wire brushes, getting things neat.

At eight we went back to the cabin and changed into our evening dress; and at nine-thirty joined the others in the Imperial Lounge.

The incredible little band was playing antique waltzes and fox trots, and the floor was filled with dancing couples. After a few drinks, we became one of the couples. I danced with Eileen for a while, then with almost every other woman aboard. Everyone seemed to be happy again. Eileen was trying to rumba with Colonel Van Vlyman, who kept sputtering that he didn't know how, and Mrs. McKenzie taught me a step she'd learned in 1896. We drank some more and danced more and laughed, and then the clock struck midnight and the band stood up and played Auld Lang Syne and the people held hands and were quiet.

McKenzie and Burgess walked up then, and Burgess said: ”Mr. Ransome, Mrs. Ransome: we'd like you to meet our captain, Captain Protheroe. He's been here as long as the _Lady_ has; isn't that right, sir?”

An unbelievably old man in a neat blue uniform nodded his head. His hair was thin and white, his eyes were clear.

”A most unusual man, the captain,” said Burgess. ”He understands things. Like the rest of us, actually--except that his wife is a s.h.i.+p. Still, I doubt I love my Cynthia more than he loves the _Lady Anne_.”

The captain smiled and looked directly at us. ”You've had a pleasant voyage?” he asked, in a good strong voice.

”Yes, sir,” I said. ”We're grateful to have been part of it.”

”Indeed? Well, that's very nice.”

There was a pause, and I suddenly became aware of a curious fact. The vibration of the engines, deep below us, had stopped. The s.h.i.+p itself had stopped.

Captain Protheroe's smile broadened. ”Very nice, indeed,” he said. ”As Mr. McKenzie pointed out to me earlier, your presence aboard has been rather symbolic, if I may use the word. Us ending, youbeginning; that sort of thing, eh?” He rose from the chair. ”Now then. I'm afraid that I must say good bye to you. We've radioed your position and you oughtn't to be inconvenienced for more than a few hours.”

”Beg pardon?” I said.

Burgess coughed. ”They don't know,” he said. ”Thought it would be better that way.”

”Eh? Oh, yes, how stupid of me. Of course.” Captain Protheroe turned his clear eyes back to us.

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