Read Online Every Man for Himself by Beryl Bainbridge - Free Book Online Page B

I ignored her; it gave me pleasure.
    I ran Rosenfelder to earth in the smoke-room, playing cards in pretty unsavoury company. I said, ‘Come with me. It’s urgent.’
    ‘I’ll be along presently.’
    I went so far as to tug at his sleeve. He was holding the cards close to his chest, a foolish indication that he’d been dealt a good hand.
    ‘He didn’t board at Queenstown,’ I hissed, which did the trick. He rose instantly, still clutching his cards, and followed me from the room.
    When we arrived on deck it was to see Scurra on his knees, clinging to the woman’s ankle. She was dragging him behind her.
    ‘Aie, yi, yi,’ wailed Rosenfelder.
    I’m ashamed to say I giggled.
    Between us we coaxed her indoors. Mercifully she’d gone quiet, and beyond a few curious glances in the foyer and the kindly interference of a steward who enquired if the lady was in need of the ship’s doctor, we got her safely to Rosenfelder’s stateroom. Here Scurra guided her towards the bedroom but Rosenfelder insisted on the sofa in the sitting room, out of delicacy I supposed. Having made sure her head was comfortably supported on a cushion he lit a cigar and stood at the dressing table, smoothing down his hair with a silver-backed brush. He patted the cards stuffed into his top pocket. ‘Such a good hand,’ he sighed.
    ‘Are you sure she doesn’t need a doctor?’ I asked.
    ‘And what would he tell us?’ said Scurra. ‘Everything is already diagnosed. It’s simply that we can’t see the whole picture.’ Taking off his jacket and hanging it carelessly on the edge of a painting screwed to the wall, he retired to the bathroom to clean himself up.
    The woman lay perfectly still, eyes closed, feet propped up on the arm of the sofa. She was dressed as I had seen her in the hotel. From my perchon the stool beside the writing desk I could see the soles of her shoes were worn into holes. Puffing on his Havana Rosenfelder switched on the electric fire and circling the sofa sank cross-legged to the floor, gazing intently into the woman’s smoke wreathed face. He wore a beatific smile and looked like a Buddha. Neither of us spoke; we were both waiting for Scurra to return and give us instructions.
    I studied the painting, of which only a corner was to be seen, the rest obscured by the folds of Scurra’s coat. I made out a scarlet brush stroke and reckoned it was a flower, possibly a detail in some pastoral landscape. It was very quiet, save for Rosenfelder inhaling on his cigar and the faint thrum of the engines far below us.
    Presently Scurra came out of the bathroom and dusted down his trouser knees with the silver-backed brush. His hair stood up in damp tufts and he was beaming. ‘Good boy,’ he said, turning to me and squeezing my arm. ‘Good boy. You behaved very well.’ I blushed quite as fully as Melchett. He had such an extraordinary warmth of manner that it was like lying in sunshine. You have to understand that the sort of men I mixed with, unless they were decadent types, kept each other at a distance, however involved by events or kinship. It wasn’t that I thought of Scurra as a father figure or looked up to him – how could I, seeing I scarcely knew him – simply that in his presence it was possible to attach the word love to what one felt, and not wriggle at its implications. All the same, I went on blushing. When he retrieved his coat I saw that what I had taken to be the petal of a flower was in fact a splash of blood on a canvas depicting the bloodiest of battles. Later I was to remember that moment; I had mistaken a part for the whole.
    ‘What do we do now?’ I asked. ‘Shouldn’t we wake her?’
    ‘She’s not asleep,’ said Scurra. ‘She’s composing herself, don’t you think?’
    So we waited, Scurra attending to his toilette and Rosenfelder reducing his cigar to a wet stub. The top buttons of the woman’s coat had been torn off in the struggle on deck, exposing the dress beneath. I glimpsed her