The Art of Love

SEVEN

Every time she walked up the gangway of an ocean liner, crossing the symbolic boundary between land and sea, Cynthia Harkness felt she could happily spend all her days on board ship. Although in truth, it was the limited number of days that made a voyage so appealing. Five days lay ahead of her, five days when she wasn’t in England or in America, but caught in a floating world that had no existence beyond its railings, a ship that might, it seemed, sail for ever on the surging grey ocean.

‘Perhaps we all have a bit of the Flying Dutchman in us,’ she said to her neighbour at dinner on the first night out.

The man, a stolid American, looked at her in some surprise, and then smiled. ‘I know you English people are renowned for your sense of humour,’ he said. ‘My business would surely fail if I were trapped on a vessel doomed to sail the seas for ever. And I guess the company on board wasn’t any too good, didn’t the guy lead a solitary life? For myself, I prefer company.’

The Aquitania, the Ship Beautiful as she was known, on account of the sumptuousness and extravagance of her fittings, was Cynthia’s favourite ship on the Atlantic run. This trip, she had made the booking herself, which meant that she could travel in a pleasant stateroom instead of in a suite, which would have been far too large for her needs, and which would have drawn the attention of everyone on board, exactly what she didn’t want. Mrs Harkness, with a stateroom on B deck, was an anonymous creature. Whereas if Walter had made the booking, she would be sitting at the Captain’s table, not where she was on the other side of the huge dining room, again quite anonymous, among less favoured passengers at a table hosted by a much more lowly officer. An attractive young man, dark and well groomed, but then the Cunard officers were in general a very creditable lot.

The man sitting beside her introduced himself as one Myron Watson, travelling to England on holiday with his wife, Lois. A woman of about her own age, with a smooth helmet of dark hair, and wearing a pale pink silk frock, smiled at Cynthia across the table

‘I do like the way you make friends on board,’ she said, her voice unexpectedly husky for one who had chosen pink. She wasn’t pretty, nor even handsome, but she had sex appeal, Cynthia decided. There was something about the tilt of her head and her mouth that would interest more men than Myron, her big, bland, genial husband. No doubt a rich man; no doubt one of those who had been lucky enough not to see his business wiped out in the Depression.

A courteous enquiry brought a flood of information about ball bearings. Apparently, the world couldn’t get enough of ball bearings, even in these sadly hard times.

‘There are those, ma’am, I regret to say, who see War on the horizon.’ Mr Watson was the kind of man who spoke in capital letters. ‘And where’s there’s War, or threat of War, or even suspicion that one day there might be War, why, there is Opportunity.’

The dining room on the Aquitania was a glittering sea of mirrors and pillars and white napery and silver and crystal. It was an absurd great room, with its panelling and decor — ated ceiling and Louis-Seize furniture and paintings. The decor of the vessel always made Cynthia smile, the mad medley of English and French architectural styles: Grinling Gibbons carvings here, Palladian pillar there, Louise-Quinze sofas and mirrors, Elizabethan and Jacobean and Georgian features and fittings all represented in the public rooms.

‘It’s all so Olde Englande,’ said Lois with enthusiasm. ‘I just love everything old, and here on board, I feel I get an extra five days’ worth of all the sights I’ll be visiting when we get to London. The Tower of London, Tower Bridge, St Paul’s Abbey…’

‘Cathedral,’ Cynthia couldn’t help murmuring.

‘Cathedral? Oh, yes. It’s Westminster Abbey, and St Paul’s Cathedral.’

‘There is a Westminster Cathedral as well,’ Cynthia said.

‘Is that so?’ Lois pursed her vivid lips. ‘That wasn’t on the list the travel bureau gave us.’

‘It isn’t very old. A lot of people think it’s ugly, it’s built of red brick. Victorian, you see, and then there are the smells and bells inside.’

‘Pardon me?’ said Lois, looking affronted.

‘Incense and so on. It’s a Roman Catholic cathedral. The others are Protestant. Anglican.’

‘That’s our Episcopalian, Lois,’ said Myron. ‘We’re Baptists ourselves, Mrs Harkness, but I confess I’m looking forward to seeing some of your great English churches, which people say are most impressive edifices.’

Cynthia was beginning to feel that a little of Lois and Myron Watson would go a long way, but that was the joy of shipboard company; it was only five days, you could endure a lot worse than the Watsons for five days, and then, when you stepped ashore, you need never set eyes on them again.

She escaped from them after dinner, with some difficulty, and retreated to the garden lounge. It was deserted, not being a popular spot at this time of day on a winter crossing, with the glass flinging back dark reflections instead of the light that shone through to the trellis work and imitation stone in the daytime to give the illusion of being in a garden.

Cynthia sat in one of the wicker chairs, and an attentive steward appeared to offer more coffee, liqueurs, brandy.

Cynthia asked for another coffee, she was feeling so sleepy that it wouldn’t keep her awake. It had been a busy couple of days, packing, paying farewell visits, writing letters. She had been in the States since the beginning of September, and she found she was looking forward to getting back to England. She hoped the fuss would have died down, it was ridiculous the interest the press and that amorphous thing, the public, took in divorce cases. At least they hadn’t had the pleasure of any sensational details, indeed, her divorce would hardly have been noticed if it hadn’t been bungled so that the first judge had thrown out the evidence from the hotel, knowing the lady in question and the chambermaid far too well. The next time, her husband had managed it better, paying more for a less well-known woman willing to spend the night in a hotel room with him. ‘Playing cards all damn night,’ he had told Cynthia irritably. ‘And hopeless with it. When she suggested a round or two of snap, I nearly lost my temper. However, we came out of it all right, and thank God I wasn’t up in front of that sarky old number of a judge like the one I had first time.’

Then it had been Cynthia who had put the divorce in jeopardy, when an eager press photographer, who had no business being at a private dance, had snapped her dancing very closely with Sir Walter Malreward — a man much in the news for his wealth and influence, a Member of Parliament, a man who didn’t care to have scandal associated with his name. Whispers of collusion were heard.

Sir Walter was annoyed. ‘If it comes to the judge’s ears, there’ll be the devil to pay, and of course those damn reporters are watching your husband like a hawk, he’ll do well to keep away from that woman of his, what’s her name?’

‘Sally Lupin,’ said Cynthia.

‘Otherwise you’ll have to start the whole damn process again. You’ll have to go abroad for a while. We can’t risk it. The decree nisi should be any day now, if you stay away until the decree absolute, they can’t touch us. I suggest America. I shan’t be going over myself until next year, no danger of any prying pressmen getting more illicit shots. And I’ll deal with that bloody photographer, make sure of that, he won’t be taking any more spiteful shots of us or anybody else. I shall miss you, of course, but it can’t be helped.’

Cynthia had wanted to demur at this high-handed arrangement of her affairs, but it was Walter’s way, and her husband accepted the news of her departure with some relief. ‘Best thing. You’re newsworthy, now your name’s been publicly linked with Sir Walter, and it makes me look a bit of a fool, really, I’d be glad if you felt like going.’

Walter set to work, booking the best suite on the next boat to sail, rather to Cynthia’s dismay, and all set to despatch telegrams and letters to his numerous acquaintances and business contacts in America.

‘There’s absolutely no need,’ Cynthia said crossly. ‘As it happens, I have family in America, my first cousin is married to an American and lives in Virginia, I can stay with them as long as I want. And I have a friend from my schooldays who lives in Boston, and friends in New York, I shall do perfectly well, thank you, Walter. Indeed, I don’t suppose I’ll have enough time to see all the people I want. I’ll have some clothes made as well,’ she added. ‘I’ve seen some lovely designs by Mainbocher worn by American women in London, I plan to give him a try.’

‘You could order your wedding dress. Blue, I like you in blue.’

That was going too far. She would choose her own dress for that ceremony, in a colour of her choosing, and it would come from Paris, not from America.

She stirred in her seat at the sound of voices. An English family had ventured into the garden lounge, a father and mother and two young women who must be their daughters. They were laughing and talking, but then one of the girls caught sight of Cynthia. Her clear young voice floated through the air.

‘I say, Mummy, isn’t that Mrs Harkness? The one who…’

Her mother sshed her.

‘Don’t you know them? Isn’t she some kind of relation of Daddy’s?’

The younger girl was staring with unabashed curiosity. ‘I tell you what, she’s Harriet Harkness’s mother. Harriet was in my form at Rhindleys, but she had to leave the school last term, Mrs Youdall made her parents take her away, because of the divorce. They’ve sent her to St Monica’s.’

And then the mother’s voice rang out, with the sharp arrogant edge that marked the self-righteous, indignant Englishwoman of her class who knew she held the moral high ground.

‘It’s a shocking way to behave, and her husband a war hero…’

Cynthia remembered the woman’s name. Gardner, that was it. Rosemary Gardner. Dreadful woman. She turned her head and smiled at the little party. ‘Good evening, Mrs Gardner, isn’t it? Won’t you come and join me?’

Without replying, the woman gave Cynthia a furious look and hustled her girls away, her husband following, after pausing briefly to give Cynthia a wry and apologetic smile.

The cut direct, Cynthia said to herself, as she settled back in her seat. Was that what she could expect when she was back in England? In which case it wouldn’t be pleasant, either for her or for Harriet.

Her mind floated back to thoughts of her wedding dress. How different her wedding to Walter would be from her first one. With Walter it would be the Ritz, no doubt, with lavish refreshments, and guests summoned from his parliamentary colleagues and those who had too much to gain from his acquaintance to snub him on account of his marrying a rather notorious divorcée. The fuss would die down soon enough, Cynthia was old and wise enough in the ways of society to know that. The faint stigma would remain, but as the wife of an immensely rich and successful man she need care little for that.

As she looked out through the glass to the dark seas beyond, her mind took her back to the tiny, cold church, where she and Ronnie had plighted their troth. They had been married by special licence. She had scraped together the money for it from her Post Office savings, and told Ronnie how to set about getting the licence. He had no money at all, there was no question of a reception at the Ritz or Savoy or anywhere else. No guests to cheer the young couple — the very young couple, for they were both only sixteen — on their way to their new life. The witnesses were a friend of Ronnie’s, a tongue-tied lad, a fellow soldier, ill at ease in his boots, who looked horrified at the whole affair, and, since the other witness who had promised to come never turned up, an obliging passer-by, who had consented to act as witness for the princely sum of half a crown.

‘I had to tell such lies to get the licence,’ Ronnie said as they came out of the church, the priest’s unconvinced-sounding blessing ringing in their ears. No church bells, no kisses and congratulations, just a street with indifferent passers-by, never a glance for the newlyweds. Ronnie was in uniform, she had worn a grey woollen frock; she couldn’t risk wearing anything less ordinary or she would have attracted the attention of her mother or her older sister.

They had gone straight back to Ronnie’s digs. An attic room, where they had fallen into bed, hungry again for each other’s bodies, lips, arms, hands legs entwining, desperate to lose themselves in one another.

What had brought all this back to mind? It wasn’t just the thought of the wedding that lay ahead of her, no, there was more to it than that. These were memories that had been locked away in her mind, memories from half her lifetime ago. Why should they surface now?

It was that man going up the gangway. The tourist-class gangway. He was hatless, and halfway up, he had pushed his hair away from his forehead with the back of his hand, a gesture that brought back with extraordinary resonance the young Ronnie, who used to smooth his hair back in exactly that way. This man was rather like Ronnie, come to think of it, very much the same type. What a wonderful body Ronnie had had. Unscarred by the battles he was going off so blithely to face.

‘I wouldn’t have signed up if I’d known I was going to meet you,’ he’d said. He lied about his age at the recruiting office, just as he had lied to obtain the special licence. But by that stage in the war, with a desperate need for men, and with Ronnie being big and tall and looking older than he was, no questions had been asked.

‘If you hadn’t been a soldier, we would never have met.’