Grand Canary (15 page)

‘I must go now. Yes, I must go.'

Silently he turned and accompanied her. Every movement that she made was precious, laden with meaning. In the alleyway they paused, then without a single glance they went to their separate cabins. He dared not look at her. They did not even say ‘Good-night.'

A long hush seemed to descend upon the ship. As in that succeeding hush, when the sun had fused in clear and undefiled beauty with the sea, so now there was something lingering yet chaste within this silence. The card players had at last turned in. The vessel seemed asleep.

And then, from the upper deck, breaking the omnipresent stillness, came the rapid padding of Robert Tranter's feet. He ought to have been in his cabin. He had gone down; and gratefully Susan had seen him go. But he had come out again. It was so hot, he simply couldn't breathe. Gosh, a fellow must have some air, come what may.

And so he was on the upper deck, surrounded by the serene loveliness of – well – his Creator's works, moving, moving restlessly up and down; up and down. Gosh, it was hot! He pulled nervously at his collar. A fellow couldn't be expected to stop down a night like this. And yet he supposed he must go down; yes, sir; couldn't stop out
all
night. A wan smile slipped across his face at the reflection. He – Robert Tranter – to do that Don Juan act! Then the smile faded, leaving his expression somehow frightened.

How he wished he had seen Mrs Baynham after dinner! She had promised; yes, doggone it, she
had
promised. Not like Elissa – yes, why shouldn't he call her Elissa, it was her name wasn't it – not like Elissa to break her word. He knew she was a woman who would stick to what she said.

Gosh, how hot it was! He felt all warm and uneasy. Mopping his brow with his handkerchief he tried desperately to compose himself. But it was no use. She had said, hadn't she, that she would accept the book. After dinner. And she had gone immediately to her cabin. The inference which he had faced before rose up and struck him with redoubled violence.

She must have meant him to call at her cabin and hand in the book. Yes, indeed, she must. And why not? He swallowed quickly and mopped his brow once more. Yes, why not? It wasn't that much after ten. And she was leaving the ship tomorrow.

‘Leaving the ship tomorrow.' A small whispering voice, that might now have been his own, kept repeating the words close to his ear.

Oh, he couldn't let Elissa leave like that. No, no. She would think he'd forgotten – a mean trick. No, sir. He couldn't play a mean, shabby trick like that.

All at once he paused in his pacing. With a hypnotised, frightened look in his eyes, he turned and went slowly down the companion. Cautiously he advanced to her cabin door. Quaking, he tapped lightly, fumbled, opened the door.

She was not in her bunk but, half undressed, reclining upon the settee. The rich profusion of her scattered clothing caught his eye; but it was the sight of her – there! – that dazzled him.

‘Well,' she said with perfect calmness. ‘ You've been a long time thinking.'

He did not speak. A loutish look crept into his frightened face. He stared at her again, her hair, her skin, the rich curve of her thigh. His throat went dry. He forgot everything. He stumbled inside the cabin. Then he closed the door.

But night succumbed in turn to morning and all the warm beauty of the darkness drooped into the ocean like a languid hand. Daybreak came cold and harsh, trailing slow streaks across the sky inexorably. The
Aureola
– anchored off Orotava since seven bells – rode the grey swell loosely, a coil of mist about her mast-heads, a thin dank vapour upon her brasswork. To leeward this same fine mist lay banked upon the beach, rising whitely across the town and falling in sullen clouds against the Peak, baffling the vision, in all but tiny shifting rifts through which a snatch of colour – a yellow roof-top, a feather of green palms, a burst of purple blossom – gleamed and vanished fitfully with evanescent, tantalising loveliness. Upon the black volcanic sand the surf obscurely pounded. And sea-birds, screaming and crying about the ship, threaded that distant booming with a note both desolate and ominous.

‘By the lumpin' Jonah,' said Corcoran as he stood upon the upper deck surveying the prospect with Mother Hemmingway. ‘ I'm not that sthruck on the looks of this lot. Ye can't see much, and what ye can see looks proper creepy.'

Without moving her beady eyes from the distant shore she shifted her cigar to the far corner of her mouth.

‘'Ark at the byby,' she ruminated contemptuously. ‘Just 'ark at 'im. W'y, you juggins, wot do you know about it? Wen this mist lifts the plyce is a blyze of every 'ue. You can't move for the lovelee flowers. Remember George Lashwood's number. “ Every morn I buys yeu vi'lets.” Great boy was Georgie. Well, 'e wouldn't ' ave 'ad to buy 'em 'ere. Nor you neithers. They jumps up everywheres an 'its you stryte in the bleedin' eye. Not that I give a Sancta Maria w'ether they does or w'ether they don't. That's me. See.'

‘I see all right,' said Jimmy gloomily. ‘Ye don't give a Sancta for nobody, that's why ye've the divil's own luck at the cyards. When do we sail?'

‘We'll up anchor soon enough. W'enever the hoity-toity, Gawd-Almighty passengers is took off. If you don't like the plyce the captain don't like this ' arbour. Not any too good. There's rocks you see, cocky, to leeward. Toss a biscuit on them from the stern. If you'd ' ad my early training in shipwrecks you'd sabe wot that spells. We'll be off in 'alf an 'our, I'll bet. Five o'clock we ought to myke Santa Cruz. Good old Santa! Then you won't see old 'Emmingway for dust. She'll be into 'er little Casa presto pronto. With 'er feet on the mat and 'er elbows on the tyble doin' a bit of comida. And in case you don't rumble it, that means ' avin' a proper feed. Some'ow I'aven't enjoyed my chow lytely. Not prop'ly. Wot with that bleedin' old toff stuck opposite, you can't let yourself go at it like you'd want to. Like eatin' a fish supper outside Buckin'am Palis. Vulgu-ar, awf'lly vulgu-ar, but the stricken truth.' Suddenly she half turned and gave him a sly side-glance. ‘And w'ile we're on the subject of the stricken truth. Wot d'ye think you're goin' to do when you'it Santa?'

‘Business,' he said, largely stroking his chin. ‘A foine business app'intment.'

She tittered unbelievingly.

‘Let's 'ave it stryte. You cawn't cod me. You and your business! You ain't no Rockefeller. I know what you done that afternoon in Las Palmas. You ' ocked your tie-pin. Yes, cocky, slipped it up the spout so's you could 'ave a little ready for to 'ave a little gyme of rummy. And now you've lost it all to 'Emmingway.' Complacently she slapped the bag upon her bosom. ‘It's 'ere. In the private syfe. And you're back agyne upon your uppers.'

His jaw dropped at her diabolic intuition; had he not been so disconcerted he might have blushed.

‘What are ye talkin' about, wid yer athrocious nonsense? Haven't I got a job waitin' for me the moment I stip off the boat? Isn't it all arranged? Isn't me friend Professor Sinnott waitin' to receive me wid open arms – and take me into partnership?'

She stared at him for a full minute in acute surprise. Then she began to laugh. She laughed at first silently, containing the full savour of the joke. Then she let herself go, screaming with mirth, holding on to the rail with both hands to sustain herself.

‘Sinnott,' she shrieked, ‘ old Bob Sinnott what keeps the little amusement plyce by the bull-ring. Oh, my Gawd! a little 'arf-baked shootin'-gallery for the bloods and a one-'orse roundabout for the bambinos. Oh, 'elp me criminy, it's rich. I knows old Sinnott. 'E's no professor. 'E's a ruin. A bleedin' ruin is Bob, I tell you. 'E's on 'is last legs. 'Is plyce is fallin' in pieces and, 'streuth, 'e's fallin' after it. And 'e's goin' – 'e's goin', to take you into partnership –' She exploded into another paroxysm.

He stared at her in incredulous dismay.

‘A pack of nonsense,' he stammered, ‘a pack of athrocious nonsense. Bob and me was pals in Colorado, sure, he wrote and asked me out.'

She wiped her eyes, took a voluptuous pull at her cigar.

‘You wyte and see,' she declared richly. ‘ You just wyte and see. Old Bob Sinnott owes money all over the plyce. 'E'd clutch at any straw would Sinnott. 'Asn't got a bloomin' brass to call his own. 'E's blotto.'

Dead silence.

‘Ah,' he muttered weakly, ‘yer all wrong.'

She nodded her head vivaciously.

‘I'm tellin' you, cocky. You're on the wrong 'orse. You'll be comin' in to see me soon. Spare a crust, ma'am – so 'elp me . Gawd – and break the news to mother. But don't fret! I shan't let you starve. 'Emmingway's 'eart's in the right plyce. An ugly old bit but an 'eart of gold.' She darted a sly glance at him. ‘'Undred and Sixteen Calle de la Tuna – that's the spot. Everybody knows my plyce. Fair word and no fyvour. Say “ Mother 'Emmingway's plyce,” and look simple. You can ask a peliceman if you please.' She inhaled another luscious puff from her cigar. ‘Don't tyke it so serious, cocky. Cheer up. You ought to be like Mrs B'ynam. Nothin' don't knock 'er about.' She seemed actually to try to rally him. ‘'Aven't you see her? She's walking about like a cat that's had cream. And wouldn't you like to know the reason w'y?' She raised her eyebrows knowingly, then tittered with delicious relish. ‘'Aven't you noticed? Tranty don't seem to ' ave appeared this mornin'. 'Avin' a prayer-meetin' after hours was Tranty. Sleep lyte, sweet chariot. Lie low, sweet ' armonium player, if you don't want to fyce the music.'

Corcoran stared at her with corrugated, distrustful brows.

‘Can't you let be?' he said at last – still disconsolate. ‘ You're always thinkin' the worst of somebody.'

‘The worst,' she burst out indignantly. ‘Didn't I see 'im standin' like a lost sheep at 'er cabin door, bleatin' ' is 'oly 'ead off to be took in? Didn't I watch 'im –' She stopped short, her eyes drawn suddenly to the figure of Susan Tranter approaching from beyond the chart-room.

‘Have you seen Dr Leith?' asked Susan.

‘No,' replied Mother Hemmingway with unctuous effusion. ‘We 'aven't see 'im, dearie. We just been standin' 'ere discussin' the weather and the flowers and wot not. The be-utiful roses wot bloom in the spring, tra la la. That's gospel, ask Rockefeller 'ere if it ain't. But we 'aven't seen nothin' of the medico. 'E's in 'is cabin like as not. Wot did you want ' im for, dearie?'

‘It's not important,' answered Susan quite cheerfully. ‘Not so very important.'

‘Your brother's not been took bad I 'ope?' asked Mother Hemmingway tenderly. ‘Nothing's upset 'im I do 'ope and pray.'

‘He does seem rather off colour,' said Susan. ‘But it's nothing really.'

‘Ah,' breathed the Hemmingway softly. ‘P'raps a touch of hindigestion, dearie. P'raps 'e's 'ad a troubled night.'

A silence fell; then, as though to ease that stillness, a faint creaking of oars rose into the captive air, and out of the mist a longboat dimly took form. Manned by eight men who pulled abreast in pairs, standing barefooted in the stern, it drew slowly towards the
Aureola.

‘Here's the boat,' said Jimmy suddenly. ‘They'll be goin' ashore now, the three that's for Orotava.'

‘And jolly good luck to the goin',' cried Mother Hemmingway, sending the end of her cigar hissing to the water. ‘I didn't feel like weepin' w'en they said good-bye to us at breakfast. The little lydy is the proper article, that I will admit. Stryte. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, 'ow does your garden grow?” You couldn't 'elp but tyke to 'er. But them two others! – well! 'uman nature's 'uman nature, but swipe me if you don't 'ave to draw the line somewheres.'

Again a silence fell whilst, with varying emotions, the three stared at the oncoming boat. And upon the deck below, through his open cabin door, Harvey Leith stared at that boat too. His eyes, dark and fixed, seemed bound not to the little, dancing boat but to some distant inexorable thought. His face, beneath its recent stain of sun-burn, had a curious pallor. All his faculties felt numb: his mind, with a sort of dumb wonder, seemed to contemplate detachedly this figure of himself, so alien – unrecognisable.

The boat drew closer, impelled by rhythmic movements of the heavy sweeps: nearer – and nearer still; then finally it slipped from sight beneath the counter of the
Aureola's
stern. Now it would be alongside.

His heart turned heavily within him; the mist was void now, encircling him transparently with a fume of desolation; little beads of moisture dropped from the lintel of the door like tears.

Dully he heard the scrape of baggage being heaved, the stamp of feet, the sound of voices; but it all came to him vaguely, without substance or shape. Suddenly he raised his head. She was there, Mary, standing in the alley-way, dressed for departure, her dark eyes upon him seriously, her face curiously intent and small.

‘I'm going then,' she said in a voice which barely seemed to reach him.

He stared at her in a dream. She was going.

‘I said good-bye – to you all – at breakfast.'

‘There wasn't any need, I know that. But I came. The boat's alongside.'

He rose.

‘Yes, I saw it come.' He broke off, looked stiffly, unreasonably at his watch. His hands were trembling.

‘It's so fantastic going off in this drizzle,' she said in that same small voice. ‘Everything seems queer. But tomorrow – I suppose the sun will come again. It makes a difference, doesn't it?'

‘Yes, it makes a difference.'