The cutter was sweeping round towards them. Murray climbed over the side and shook hands with Mouritzen before climbing down the rope ladder.
‘Good luck,’ he said.
‘And to you.’
He continued to descend as the cutter came alongside and, with a lurch, jumped on board. A seaman began to haul in the ladder.
Mouritzen turned away and saw Thorsen coming along the deck from the direction of the galley.
‘Ready for dinner yet?’ he asked.
‘More than ready,’ Mouritzen said. ‘But I will wait for the Captain. He’ll be down when we clear the Howth lighthouse.’
Thorsen smiled. ‘Someone’s been looking for you. I told her you were busy with Mrs Cleary.’
‘You can keep her amused yourself, can’t you?’
‘You’re the one she wants. And these strong women make me nervous. I went to Stockholm on holiday when I was sixteen and it left a mark on me.’
Mouritzen did not care for the sly obscenity which, from Thorsen’s side, pervaded this kind of conversation, but he suffered it as a contribution towards shipboard harmony. At the moment, though, he did not feel up to contributing his share. He merely nodded, with a slight smile.
‘She’s nice,’ Thorsen commented, ‘the Irish woman?’
‘Yes, she’s nice. And the little girl.’
‘I offered to take her passport to give to the Customs Officer, but she insisted on keeping it to herself.’
‘It’s her first time abroad. She’s probably nervous of losing it.’
‘You think so? I was in her cabin while they were at dinner, seeing to the beds.’ He paused. ‘Your list is not quite accurate. It’s Miss Cleary, not Mrs.’
Mouritzen kept rein on his temper. As he had told himself before, Thorsen was what he was, and nothing could alter that or the fact that, for the time being, they must spend the greater part of their lives together. He merely said coldly:
‘How long have you been going through the passengers’ belongings?’
‘I didn’t do that,’ Thorsen said quickly. ‘There was no need. She had left the passport on her bunk.’
Mouritzen was not sure whether he believed him, but there was no point in expressing his doubt. He said:
‘Anyway, it’s her own affair.’
‘I thought it might be yours,’ Thorsen said. ‘A tip on form before the big race.’
‘You observe a lot, don’t you, Jorgen? You are a student of human nature.’
‘In this job, one has to be. And there’s plenty of opportunity.’
‘It’s a pity you’re not better fitted to take advantage of it. You are like a student of music who can only hear notes in one octave.’
‘And you – you read characters by intuition?’
‘Yes. By intuition.’
‘Does it tell you what success you will have with Miss Cleary?’
Mouritzen turned away. ‘I’m going to wash,’ he said. ‘I’ll be down in ten minutes.’
* * *
There had been grousing in the mess-room at the quickness of the turn-round after the rough westerly voyage. It was the kind of talk to which, normally, Carling was quick to put a halt: he had always been a strong disciplinarian and the outward show of authority had remained after the narrow spring of purposefulness which originated it had broken and grown slack. And Olsen was not a popular captain: the sardonic quality in his personality would only have been condoned in a man physically bigger. In him it was resented.
But this time Carling left them grumbling and went up on deck. He felt the thrust of wind and rain as he climbed up to the poop-deck. Behind him were the lighted port-holes of the passengers’ cabins and higher up the lights of the wheelhouse. He looked over the rail at the ship’s wake, fading away into the black night of the river. To his right the line of regular yellow lights marked the road from Howth to the city; opposite lay the scattered points east of Ringsend. Far back in the distance there was the city itself, a glow of brightness touched with the flicker of neon.
Was heaven like that, he thought – a bright ball in the faraway night, a city seen from the sea? There had been a story once, when he was a child, about a man who travelled over a dark desert land and came at last to the heavenly city, a light that grew and grew. But this light dwindled, as the Kreya left the Hill of Howth on her port side and drove out to the open waters.
Carling felt a brief despair that was close to anger. If there had been another day, time to go again to Mrs Guire’s, she might have spoken. She was there – she was always there – but she would not speak. During their courtship and the short year of their married life she had sometimes exasperated him with her mysteries, her teasing silences, but he had not seriously minded them. She would yield at last, overwhelm him with a torrent of talk and laughter, and that which remained of the enigmatic was always there to be resolved in the future. Each time he had left her with a sharper pang, and on each return the rein of anticipation had been tighter, more compelling.
He thought of their last time together, an afternoon in autumn, with the sunlight falling warmly through the windows of the little flat, and Tove lying on the couch, basking in it like a small cat. He had been collecting his things together; he was due to join the Kreya at five.
‘Eiler,’ she said. She spoke his name slowly, reflectively, as though for the first time.
‘I must be going.’ He went over to kiss her. ‘Don’t get up.’
‘I’ve been wondering.’
‘Wondering what?’
‘Why I married you.’
Carling knelt beside her, holding her soft hand against his cheek, making no reply.
‘Strong,’ she said. ‘Quite handsome. But old, so old. And a sailor. I’m a wife for a few days in each month – no more. I’m not sure that it’s worth it.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Carling said, ‘that I might give up the sea.’
She looked at him, brow furrowed, eyes half closed, as though he were a stranger whom she could not be sure of trusting.
‘Give it up?’
‘I might be able to get a shore job, in the docks. Karl Hansen there might be able to get me taken on.’
She said nothing. A faint smile was on her lips.
‘How would you like that?’ Carling asked.
He knew what one could expect of a woman; an ordinary woman would have shown him her delight, pulled his head down to her breast, kissed him and fondled him, in gladness and pride that her husband should sacrifice all that had been important in his life for the single joy of being with her continually. But an ordinary woman would not have been worth the sacrifice.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘do you think I should do it?’
‘We do what we have to do,’ Tove said. The smile faded, and was replaced by graveness, by sadness almost. ‘Come back to me soon, Eiler. Don’t be long away.’
‘Two weeks,’ he said.
‘So long?’
She spoke in a childish, wondering tone. In annoyance, he said: ‘You know how long the trip is. It’s no more than usual. I will be here less than half an hour after we dock. I cannot be here sooner.’
He spoke the final sentence with more emphasis. She would never go with him to the ship, or meet him there, as some of the women did. It had been an early disappointment; an affront to the pride with which he had pictured her standing there, for all the world and his shipmates to see. But she was Tove, and her uniqueness enthralled him.
‘Be as quick as you can,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’
As he had prepared to get up she had suddenly stretched up her arms to him and clung, kissing him with a wild passion.
And that had been the end. Nothing more. Only the stunning, inescapable fact. No letter. No motive. No answer now to any of the questions – to love no requital.
Carling clutched the rail in his agony, feeling the cold, wet metal sting his skin. Nothing made sense unless there was an answer, somewhere, somehow. She could not have
left him like that without a reason. The need to know, to understand, had grown instead of lessening in the year that had passed since. It was Tove who had gone, but it was he that was the restless ghost, doomed to walk until his cry was answered. This demand, this urgency, had moved into the centre of his being, and stayed there, like a cancer, devouring all other thoughts and feelings. Once again she had not spoken, at Mrs Guire’s, but if he had waited … The lights of Dublin coalesced into a fading star. Next time, next time she must speak.
And say what?
Carling shook his head. The thought probed deep and struck, touching fear that was an open wound. He swayed to and fro. He heard a thin cry, like a gull’s call, against the sounds of wind and water, and the throb of the engines. It was his own voice, naked and involuntary.
Chapter Three
The last two passengers were listed as Mr and Mrs Henry Jones. He was the elder, by perhaps fifteen years, a man in his early forties, with greying hair and a thickening waistline; he wore heavy-sided glasses and had the glib, worried look of an unsuccessful businessman. Mrs Jones was dark and rather thin. She wore a black and white check coat, open since the weather remained mild, and beneath that a red jersey under a navy suit. She carried a sturdy and well-worn leather handbag. Thorsen put her down as the kind of Englishwoman whose dress allowance is what she can save from a barely adequate housekeeping budget.
They stayed on deck to watch the ship sail. It was eleven o’clock and the sun, which had been only lightly filmed by the fast-moving clouds, broke through them at last. They stood on the starboard side, aft of the bridge.
‘We’re off, then,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
He looked not at her but at the water bubbling away from the ship’s sides beneath them. Heights were inclined to make him dizzy. He had a moment’s fear that his glasses would fall off into the sea, and pushed them on more firmly.
‘I didn’t think the ship would be so big,’ she said.
‘It isn’t very big.’
‘It is to me. I’ve never been on anything bigger than a ferry-boat before, remember.’
He took out a cigarette and lit it, turning away from the wind and cupping the flame between his hands. After he had drawn on it a couple of times, he said:
‘When I was a boy, I always looked forward to things up to this point. It was after that it all turned flat.’
‘Going out to India, or coming back?’
‘Both. It was the journey I looked forward to – the voyage especially.’
‘I wish I’d been able to travel.’
‘It was always a disappointment. Anyway, you are travelling now. With a long journey ahead.’
‘It’s different when you do things as a child.’
‘I suppose it is.’
She said: ‘If we’d gone by air, we would have been there by now, wouldn’t we?’
He heard the anxiety in her voice and put an arm round her shoulders. She was a slight thing, even wearing an overcoat. He thought of the thin back under the layers of clothing, the lines of bone under the white skin, and tightened his hold.
‘It’s safer this way,’ he said.
‘I suppose so.’ She looked up. ‘Which is our cabin?’
‘The second and third port-holes from that end.’
‘Did you lock the door?’
‘No.’
‘But …’
‘I locked the case,’ he said. ‘Stop worrying. Everything is all right.’
She said apologetically: ‘I’ll try not to fuss. It’s just that – I’m more nervous than I thought I would be.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘You have enough, without my being difficult as well. Darling, I think I’ll be all right. But back there – you know – I wanted to scream so badly. I had to, well, tighten myself up to prevent it. That’s why I turned away.’
‘You’ve done fine,’ he said, ‘and the worst is over.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘I feel tired,’ she said. ‘Could we go up now? I think I’d like to lie down for a while.’
He nodded. ‘Of course.’
They met Thorsen coming down from the cabins as they were preparing to climb the stairs. He stood back to let them come first.
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ he asked.
‘Not just at present,’ Jones said. ‘What time is lunch?’
‘One o’clock, sir.’
The two centre cabins were larger than the outside ones, and had twin beds instead of bunks. Their three suitcases were by the dressing-table; with them was a portable typewriter. Jones went to this and examined the lock. Sheila Jones closed the door and stood against it looking at him.
‘It’s all right, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘Nothing’s been touched.’
‘I want to make sure.’
He took a key-ring from his pocket. The key he selected was heavier and more complex than would have been usual for unlocking a typewriter case. He turned the case upside down, unlocked it, and lifted the base.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Everything’s all right.’
* * *
‘The bear goes a walk,’ Mrs Simanyi said. ‘Would the little Annabel wish to see this?’
‘I’m sure she would,’ Mary said. ‘Thank you. Where is it?’
She pointed and smiled. ‘On the deck. That way.’ She bent down towards Annabel. ‘You must not be frightened. She is a very good bear.’
The front of the crate had been removed, revealing the iron-barred cage within. While several members of the crew watched from a respectful distance, Nadya bent down and slid the heavy bolts that secured it. She was wearing blue jeans and a yellow jersey, and her hair was tied up in a red and yellow silk scarf. She secured a heavy leather lead to the bear’s collar, and called her out with endearments. Katerina shambled out, and Nadya led her round the corner of the hatch to a patch of deck that was empty except for a dozen steel lager casks. Katerina put a paw up on to one of the casks and followed it with the other paw. She stood up, leaning forward on the cask and looking out over the level waters.
‘Hi, up,’ Nadya said. ‘Come, my dear one, my love.’
She took one of Katerina’s paws and lifted it. The bear swung round and put both paws up to her shoulders. The brown, furry head peered forwards, and she licked Nadya’s face.
‘A little walk,’ Nadya said. ‘A little fresh air before dinner, eh?’
Katerina dropped back on all fours and ambled along the deck. The crew parted to give her room. A couple of them went round the other side of the hatch, and started to clean out the cage.
‘Do you like her?’ Mary asked.
Annabel said: ‘I think so.’
‘She’s quite tame, you know.’
Mouritzen, approaching from behind, put his hand on Annabel’s head.
‘Very tame,’ he agreed. ‘She’s a fine bear, too, isn’t she? Four years old. She is in her prime.’
‘They’ve travelled on the Kreya before?’ Mary said.
‘The Simanyis? They came out with us, in April.’
‘They seem nice people. And the girl is very good-looking.’
‘Nadya? Yes.’
Nadya led the bear along the deck in their direction. They both had, Mouritzen thought, the same kind of awkward, powerful grace. He lifted Annabel up on top of the hatch cover.
‘I’m not frightened,’ she said.
‘Of course not. But you can see better there.’
Mrs Simanyi was standing on the little promenade deck above and behind them. She called out to Nadya and threw an apple, which Nadya caught with her left hand. She held it in the air above the bear’s head, and Katerina rose on her hind legs and took it. Over her shoulder, Nadya called to Mouritzen:
‘Hello, there Lieutenant! I have had no chance to talk with you yet.’
‘I was on duty last night,’ Mouritzen said. ‘This morning, too.’
Nadya let her eyes rest on the w
oman standing beside him.
‘I did not ask for reasons.’ She smiled. ‘Have you thought of us – me and Katerina – on your voyages?’
‘Of course. How could I not?’
‘We have thought of you. Katerina was sick, pining for you, I think. She is very faithful, this bear.’
‘She may be contented,’ Mouritzen said. ‘Since she left, there has been no other bear in my life.’
‘But you do not even come to embrace her!’
Smiling, Mouritzen advanced towards Nadya and the bear, whose jaws were still working on the apple. Nadya jerked the lead slightly and Katerina turned clumsily round to meet him. She put her paws up to his shoulders, as she had done with Nadya, and reached forward to lick his face. There was laughter and some cheers from the crew members, who had moved up behind them. Mouritzen craned his neck to keep his face away from the wet tongue.
‘There!’ Nadya said. ‘He does not love you. He turns away from your kiss because he has found someone he likes better. It is so with men. Come to me; come to your Nadya, who loves you always!’
She pulled the bear back towards her and leaned forward into an embrace. There was a mock sensuality in the way she pressed her body against the bear’s and moved her head in a semblance of ecstasy, rubbing her face against Katerina’s jaw. But the mockery had its deeper significance and purpose; Mouritzen felt a quickening of excitement as he watched her. She looked at him over the bear’s shoulder again, her eyes now dreamy, half-closed.
Mary said: ‘It’s a very tame bear, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Mouritzen said. ‘But basically still a wild animal, you understand.’ He took her arm. ‘We must not be misled by the clever tricks.’
* * *
Annabel was delighted with the shower, which had great convoluted iron pipes painted white, patches of orange rust showing through, and was enclosed by plastic curtains. Mary had some difficulty in getting her out of it. At last she had the small body clothed in her pyjamas and lying peacefully in her bunk. She read a chapter to her from the book she had brought, The Little Dutch Boy. When she had finished, she asked: