Voyage of Innocence. Elizabeth Edmondson

ballrooms of Mayfair or the country houses of Shropshire and Gloucestershire.

      Vee went slowly down the wide, mirrored staircase that linked the upper and lower decks. She attracted a good deal of attention; the junior officer on his way to the radio room with a sheaf of telegrams; the florist going the other way with an armful of flowers; the lady’s maid hurrying to the beauty salon to acquire some essential forgotten item; passengers, anxious to find their cabins; all of them noticed to some degree the particular allure that Vee had. Some noticed with only a fraction of their attention, some admired, some envied.

      Vee herself was oblivious both to her surroundings and her fellow human beings. Her ability to attract the attention – and the affections and desires, it had to be said – of those around her was an old story, and one that no longer interested her.

      A stewardess was hovering at the end of her corridor. ‘Mrs Hotspur? Cabin sixty-seven? It’s on the left, I’ll show you. Are you travelling with your maid?’

      She was not. A smile, a douceur, and this ungainly but kindly-looking woman would be her slave for the voyage. A maid! That was the last person she needed on this journey.

      It was a single cabin, spacious for a liner, with a dressing table and neatly fitted cupboards and drawers, an outside cabin, with a rectangular window looking out on to a secluded deck. No strollers or nosy-joes were allowed along this stretch of deck, this was a reserved area for the lucky occupants of cabins sixty-five to seventy-seven. Her luggage was already in the cabin, strapped and labelled with a large round H for Hotspur, First Class passenger to Bombay.

      She sat down at the dressing table, and took off her scarlet hat, laying it carelessly down on the glass top. The stewardess, hovering in the doorway, came forward and took it. Vee smiled at her. ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘Pigeon, madam.’

      ‘Thank you, Pigeon.’

      ‘Shall I unpack for you now, madam?’

      ‘Later, if you don’t mind.’

      Still Pigeon lingered. ‘We were expecting a Mr Howard to have this cabin.’

      ‘Mine was a late booking, a cancellation.’

      It had been a risk, leaving it so late, but the clerk at the shipping line had murmured confidentially that there was usually a cabin available at the last minute. It didn’t trouble the company, because there was always a waiting list, especially for a vessel like the SS Gloriana, and at this time of year.

      A smile, a note, and Mrs Hotspur moved to the top of the waiting list. What had happened to Mr Howard? she wondered for an idle moment. An elderly gentleman, struck down with apoplexy? A prosperous businessman with urgent business to attend to, that prevented him from sailing? A man of substance, undoubtedly, to travel in this type of cabin. A young man in disgrace, being sent out to the East by a distressed family? Did young men still get sent out to India to keep them out of harm’s way? What if her parents had sent Hugh out to India? No, she wasn’t going to think about Hugh. The list of people and things she didn’t want to think about was alarmingly long. Back to Mr Howard. ‘I dare say he was a family man, escaping to a new life,’ she said out loud.

      ‘I beg your pardon, madam?’ said a startled Pigeon.

      Vee laughed. ‘Oh, nothing. I was just thinking aloud.’ She got up, smoothing out the wrinkles from her slim-fitting skirt. ‘I’m going to look around, so you can see to my things while I’m gone. There’s a wine-coloured dress in that big suitcase, the one on its side. That’ll do for this evening.’

      ‘Best go and see the purser about your place in the dining room, madam,’ said Pigeon as she made a dive for the suitcase. ‘You’ll want to be at a good table at the second sitting.’

      One look at Mrs Hotspur, a fashionable woman and a real lady, you could see that at a glance, thought Pigeon as she held out her hands for the keys, and the purser would be delighted for her to sit wherever she wanted. Which wouldn’t be at the captain’s table, if she, Pigeon were any judge of a passenger. Too dull for such a smart and lively lady. She was sure she’d seen her picture in the Tatler more than once. It pleased her, she much preferred upper-class passengers to some of the riff-raff you got on board these days.

       TWO

      Peter Messenger loved ocean liners with all the enthusiasm of his ten years. He loved catching the boat train and arriving at the docks where the great sleek white liners were moored with unbelievably huge cables stretching far up into the bows. He loved the oily briny smell and the gulls and the gloomy customs shed and the piles of trunks, all labelled and waiting to be trundled up into the ship, some to disappear into the hold, that mysterious place where the Not Wanted on Voyage went, or to appear in your cabin, waiting to be unpacked and then stowed away by the baggage steward until the end of the voyage, three weeks in the future.

      The first time he’d been on a boat, he’d been overwhelmed by the size of it, by the notion that anything that big could sail without sinking. This time, he’d led the way up the gangway with jaunty steps, ahead of his stepmother, Lally, with that Miss Tyrell bringing up the rear.

      Miss Tyrell was the one blot on his happiness. What had possessed his mother to bring her?

      ‘Darling, I’m not bringing her. She’s on her way out to India in any case, to look after her brother and her nephews and nieces. Her sister-in-law died recently, so sad, a tropical disease she said.’

      Peter wished Miss Tyrell could be struck down by a tropical disease, right now, before they were even on board. ‘She’s a nanny.’

      ‘Not any more, and she’s coming to look after me as much as you. My clothes and so on. I shan’t be taking a maid, your father says an English maid is always a nuisance in India, they don’t adapt. Miss Tyrell will be very helpful, and you’ll grow to like her.’

      ‘I’m far too old for a nanny.’

      ‘You’re not too old to need some extra looking after, you’ve been so ill, darling. It’ll make me feel much happier when I’m not there to know that Miss Tyrell has you under her eye.’

      ‘Why won’t you be there?’

      ‘Well, there’s a social life on board ship, you know that. Bridge and games, and then dancing and so on in the evenings. I don’t want to have to worry about you all the time.’

      ‘I can look after myself.’

      ‘Of course you can. You’re the man of the family while Daddy isn’t here, but even so, we’ll be glad of Miss Tyrell. I don’t think she’s a fusser. She seems very practical and down-to-earth.’

      Lally kept her own doubts to herself. Miss Tyrell had, although she wouldn’t say so to Peter, been wished on her. Claudia’s sister-in-law had telephoned her.

      ‘Mrs Messenger? My name is Monica Sake. We met once, in London, when you were staying with Claudia, but I don’t expect you to remember me.’

      ‘Oh, of course …’

      ‘I hear from Agnes that you’re going out to India.’

      Lally’s heart sank, as it always did when her mother-in-law was mentioned.

      ‘On the Gloriana.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Then I’d like you to take our old nanny with you.’

      Visions of some decrepit family retainer sprang to Lally’s astonished mind. ‘Oh, no, really, I don’t think –’ And why was their old nanny going out to India in any case?

      ‘We’re desolated to lose her, she’s the best nanny imaginable, been with the family since she was a nursery maid, she was my husband’s nanny. And Claudia’s of course, she was nanny to all of them.’

      Monica