Sea Fury (1971) (7 page)

And the irony of it was that it was she who had kept him alive through the ordeal in the Atlantic. The thought of her had sustained him when he might otherwise have given up the struggle. And perhaps at the very time when her image had been in his mind, urging him to endure for her sake if for nothing else, she herself had been in the arms of this other man, making love, laughing; laughing at him, the fool, the cuckold.

With a gesture of anger he crushed the letter in his hand and threw it away. If only he could as easily have thrown away the memory!

That night he went out and got drunk. Whisky was hard to find but he managed to buy a bottle. He drank it all and woke up next morning with a mouth like sand, a throbbing head and the agony of his loneliness. He had been hitting the bottle ever since, trying to forget and yet knowing that he could never do so; indeed not truly desiring forgetfulness.

His attitude to the woman who had been his wife was a strange mixture of love and hate; it was something that affected his whole life. Some men would have been able to get the sickness out of their systems and start afresh. But not Leach; just as he had kept her picture, so he had kept the memory like a brand burned in his flesh, and no day passed without bringing the bitter thought of that betrayal back into his twisted mind.

Leach raised the glass to his lips and poured the whisky down his throat. He felt the liquid fire of the spirit flaming through his blood and it roused him to sudden fury. With a jerk of his arm he flung the empty glass at the photograph of the smiling girl on his desk. The glass missed the target, broke against the back of the desk and fell in fragments. He seized the whisky bottle and flung that also. It, too, missed the photograph, broke on the desk and fell among the papers in a shower of glass and liquor.

Goaded to even blinder fury by the failure of his aim, Leach pushed himself up from the chair, lurched to the desk and grabbed the photograph-frame with his right hand. He threw it to the floor and jumped on it, dancing up and down,
grinding
it underfoot.

“Bitch! Whore! Jezebel!”

His face was contorted, his eyes staring; saliva dribbled from his mouth as he spat out the words.

It was thus that Maggs, the radio officer, had the ill fortune
to surprise him. The moment could not have been more badly chosen.

Maggs had knocked twice before entering and then had
misconstrued
the muffled words coming through the door as an invitation to walk in. Maggs walked in to find Leach in the middle of his dance of hate. He stopped dead just inside the cabin and stared in amazement at the spectacle of the master of the
Chetwynd
behaving as though demented. His immediate impulse was to retire at once, but a kind of awed fascination held him there, gazing in wonder at this remarkable exhibition.

Leach continued with his leaping and stamping, his
mouthing
of words of hatred, for perhaps half a minute before he noticed Maggs. When his eyes did light on the radio officer he stopped immediately. He was not so demented that he failed to realise how ridiculous he was making himself. And in front of this wretched apology for a man of all people. His fury, deflected from the photograph, vented itself instead on the unfortunate Maggs.

“Damn you, Sparks! What in hell d’you mean by bursting in here like that? Where are your manners, man? Or is it too much to expect manners in a product of the back streets and the gutter?”

Maggs turned white. He was not to know that any other man standing in that particular place at that particular time would have received exactly the same kind of greeting.
Sensitive
as he was in the matter of his birth and upbringing, the remark cut deeply. He began to tremble. He trembled because he had an almost irresistible impulse to hit Captain Leach right in his filthy, insulting, saliva-dripping mouth. And he knew that if he did that the consequences for him might be very unpleasant indeed.

“Well?” Leach demanded. “What do you want? Why
don’t you say something? Why are you standing there like a dumb bloody bastard?”

Again, by mischance, he had found just the word most nicely calculated to touch on Maggs’s sensitive spot. Knowing himself to be illegitimate, he took the word in its literal
meaning
and resented it all the more bitterly for the fact that it happened to be an accurate description. Maggs would never have told a man to smile when he called him that, since to him it was an unacceptable insult whether offered with a smile or with a scowl. He had turned pale at first; now the blood rushed to his face, making it glow all over as though it had been scorched with fire.

Leach glowered at his silent radio officer, growing more and more angered by the man’s silence, which seemed to him very much like dumb insolence. He shifted his feet and the broken glass of the picture-frame grated harshly under the soles of his shoes.

“Well, out with it, can’t you? You’ve got a tongue, for God’s sake. What do you want?”

Maggs licked his dry lips and felt venomous. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Nothing.”

Leach glared at him. “Nothing? Then why come in here? You can’t have come for nothing.”

“A mistake.”

“A mistake!” Leach’s voice rose in anger. “You push your way in here without so much as a knock on the door and then you have the infernal impudence to call it a
mistake
!”

“I did knock.”

“You’re a bloody liar.”

“I knocked twice. Perhaps you were too busy to hear.” Maggs had not bothered to keep the sneer out of his voice. “You seemed to be busy.”

Leach glanced at the photograph and wrecked frame lying under his feet. He glanced at the broken glass on the desk, at the whisky dripping to the floor. His gaze switched back to Maggs and he detected, or thought he detected, a twist to the little man’s ugly mouth that might have been a grin. Mockery from such a man! Leach’s fury rose to boiling-point. He took a step towards Maggs and swung a clenched fist. Maggs ducked, but not quickly enough. Leach’s fist struck his head, slamming him back against the door.

“Get to hell out of here,” Leach snarled. “Go back to your bloody hole, you weasel.”

Maggs was hurt. A blow from Leach’s fist was no light matter. But it was not the physical injury that he felt most; it was the indignity of it. All right then; if that was the way he was to be treated, all right. To the devil with Leach; to the devil with the whole flaming lot of them. Let them take what was coming to them and see how they liked it. Maybe that would teach them not to be so high and mighty. Yes, you bet it would.

Without another glance at Leach he turned and walked out of the cabin. He went up on deck and crossed to the port rails. From his pocket he took a sheet of flimsy paper, rolled it into a tight ball and flung it into the sea.

He watched it floating away on the surface of the water, a tiny atom in a waste of ocean. He watched it until he could see it no more. Then he turned away from the rails with a feeling of exultation, a kind of power. He felt as though he held the lives of all the people in the ship in the hollow of his own small hand.

Only he knew that on the paper that he had just tossed overboard was a signal that had come through on the radio, a warning concerning a storm called Jessie. It was the kind of storm that had different names in different parts of the
world: in the West Indies and the United States it was a hurricane; in the Bay of Bengal and the Arabian Sea it was a cyclone; in the China Sea it was a typhoon; while in the waters in which the
Chetwynd
was then steaming it was known by the aboriginal name of willy-willy. If the ship stayed on her present course and if Jessie also moved as predicted by the weather men it was almost inevitable that sooner or later the two would meet, since their paths were slowly converging like the two sides of a triangle.

For the
Chetwynd
such a meeting was likely to prove at best a highly unpleasant experience, at worst disastrous.

The chip on Maggs’s shoulder was now so heavy that he could even contemplate with equanimity his own involvement in that possible disaster if only it might be the means of taking his revenge on Captain Leach.

Maggs, without doubt, was more than a little mad.

S
YDNEY
E
AST
was exercising his fingers on a rubber ball, squeezing it, allowing it to expand again. In his business you had to keep the fingers strong and supple.

Pearl was sewing a button on one of his shirts; the female half even of an acrobatic and juggling team had to turn her hand to domestic tasks, especially when the team was not terribly prosperous.

She said, not lifting her eyes from the sewing, voicing that uneasiness concerning the future which she could never banish completely from her mind, “Do you really think it will work out, Syd?”

He went on squeezing the ball, his fingers pressing and relaxing, pressing and relaxing, again and again. He was
standing
with his back to her, looking out through the porthole, watching the glitter of the sunlight reflected in the sea.

“Do I think what will work out?”

Though he asked the question, he knew what she meant; only too well, he knew. And it worried him a little also, though he never admitted it.

“You know. Australia. Will there be anything for us there? Will there?”

He did not turn. She severed the cotton with her teeth
and looked at his strong back, at the muscular shape of his neck that she knew so well. She was worried for him more than for herself; she could always find something to do; if it came to the worst she could go back to the old kind of job, become a waitress again.

But Syd was different; the world of show business had been his world from childhood; it was everything to him. Whenever she suggested that there might be other ways of earning a living, easier, safer ways, he would dismiss the idea with contempt.

“You expect me to work in an office or something? Me, Sydney East? You must be out of your mind.”

It was useless to point out that it did not have to be an office job, that there were plenty of other openings for a man of his age and ability. But it might not always be so; he was not getting any younger; if he were going to make the break now surely was the time. But would he? Would he not go on trying to fight his way back to the top even though he must surely realise the attempt was doomed to failure?

“Of course there’ll be something for us,” he said. “It’s a big country, Australia. Growing fast. New people pouring in. People need entertaining, don’t they? They don’t work all the time. They’ve got to have relaxation.”

“They’ve got television.”

Television was the villain of the piece. It was television that Sydney East always blamed for the death of the music-halls, the provincial theatre circuits. Pearl believed they would have died anyway; television just gave them the final push. But it was no use telling him that.

Now he switched his ground. “Why shouldn’t we get on television? The telly has to have entertainers too, you know. Somebody has to get up in front of the cameras and
perform
.”

It was an old dream. He had dreamed about it in England too, but it had never come to anything. The competition was too fierce. And why would it be any easier in Australia? She wished he would come to terms with the situation, stop
dreaming
about impossible successes; that way there could lie nothing but disappointment. She was woman enough to hanker after security, and she could see no security in the East and West line of country.

East pursued the subject; he turned away from the porthole and faced his wife; he even stopped squeezing the ball. “If we could just get a chance on Australian television it might be the start of something really big. Millions see you. Maybe they like you. They want more.”

She could see that light in his eyes that she knew only too well and had learnt to distrust. It was his visionary look. But what could there be for them on Australian television? Most of the programmes were probably canned imports from the United States or Britain. Australian performers emigrated, didn’t they? So what hope was there for newcomers? She wanted to tell him not to kid himself; that it was all wishful thinking and would never come to anything; but she could not bring herself to damp his enthusiasm.

And perhaps there was no need for her to do so; perhaps he realised that it was just a pipe-dream, for the light in his eyes faded and he threw the ball away with a gesture that had about it a certain hint of defeat. He gave a laugh, but there was more of bitterness in the sound than gaiety.

“Ah, why worry our heads about all that anyway? We’re not there yet.”

He looked at himself in the mirror above the wash-basin and pushed his fingers through his hair. Not as much of it to resist the combing fingers as there had once been, and those flecks of grey were showing through again. Yet he was not
old, not yet, not by a long chalk. A few years older than he had been when he had teamed up with Pearl though; no
denying
that. He grinned suddenly, recalling their first meeting; the memory never failed to bring a warm glow into his heart.

“Remember that day, honey?” He always used that
American
term of endearment. It seemed to be so right for her.

She liked to hear him call her that. She knew the day he meant too; there was no need to ask that.

“It was raining.”

Of course it was raining; it was one of those wet summers. The beach was practically deserted and you could see the deck-chairs flapping damply in the wind. There were boats pulled up on the sand, the rain beating against their sides and dripping down the boards. Nobody wanted to go for a sea trip on a day like that.

He was feeling cold and miserable. Three days ago Shirley had taken a powder, gone off with some man who had been down there on holiday and had seen her on the stage at the Pavilion. Shirley was not irreplaceable; she had very little talent for anything except looking sexy in tights and spangles; but it had made things awkward. He had to get one of the chorus girls to fill in; all she had to do was hand him things, but some girls couldn’t even do that without dropping them and getting a laugh in the wrong place. It made him edgy and he was not giving of his best; he knew that. The manager of the Pavilion knew it too, and remarked on it. Which was not the kind of remark Sydney East liked to hear.

He went into a little café just off the sea front, one he had never been in before. It was a slack time and there were only half a dozen other customers. They all looked depressed, and maybe that was what made the waitress who came to take his order seem such a contrast. He would have expected her to
be depressed too; after all, it was not much of a job, carrying trays of food round all day, being at everyone’s beck and call, picking up threepenny tips under plates. But, amazingly, she looked as bright and cheerful as if she had been doing
something
as enjoyable as roller-skating or taking a ride on the scenic railway.

It was her cheerfulness that induced him to strike up a conversation; that and the fact that she was very pleasant to look at. She was easy to talk to; in two minutes he had found out that her name was Pearl West.

“Well, now, that’s a coincidence,” he said. “I’m Sydney East.”

She smiled, and it was the most enchanting smile he had ever seen, and utterly without guile. “I know. I’ve seen you on the stage.”

He discovered that she had in fact seen him more than once and that she thought his act wonderful. “I don’t know how you do it, Mr. East; I really don’t.”

“It’s practice.”

“But you must have a gift.”

“Well, yes,” he admitted, “it’s got to be in you.”

“I could never do anything like that.”

He looked at her, and already the idea was taking form in his mind. She had the figure; a little too plump perhaps, but it would soon fine down; and she had the face of an angel.

“You never know till you try.”

But he said nothing more at that time; he was not the man to go at things blindly. Nevertheless, the name seemed like an omen. He could picture the billing with his mind’s eye: East and West. It had a ring to it.

A ring in more senses than one, because by the time he had made up his mind to suggest that she should become his
partner on the stage he had already fallen in love with her and wanted her as his partner for life. Three weeks later they were married. A comedian named Hector Hanbury, who was billed as Hilarious Hector (Has Them In Hysterics), was best man and the manager of the Pavilion condescended to give the bride away, seeing that she had been brought up by Dr. Barnardo’s and had no known relatives.

Sydney East had never regretted taking this momentous step. He would have married Pearl even if she had been quite useless from the theatrical angle; the fact that she took to the business as if born into it was just a bonus, and a very useful bonus at that. Soon she was doing far more than hand him the apparatus and look decorative; she was really part of the act. East and West had arrived.

The years that followed were the good years. East and West were in demand; there were long runs in pantomime, good seaside engagements for the summer months, provincial theatre bookings; never top of the bill but not in the worst position either. There was money in the bank. He even bought a car, which made travelling easier.

Then things started to go wrong. He twisted an arm and was out of action for several months. After that engagements were somehow not so good and became less and less easy to get. They spent more time “resting”; the bank balance dwindled; the car had to be sold. The circuits were shrinking as more and more theatres closed their doors.

It was the time of the nude shows, a last desperate attempt to keep the music-hall going; but it was not the same music-hall any more and the audiences were different; mostly male, mostly there for the erotic part of the bill, unappreciative of real talent, even derisive. Playing to a house like that could be sheer hell; there was none of the old rapport between
performer
and audience, none of the elation when applause came
for a particularly difficult feat. Too often there was no applause at all; just a chilly silence that was like ice in the heart.

The true performers no longer headed the bills; the real attractions were Les Nudes, Les Girls, Les Lovelies. Sydney East could remember one occasion when an entertainer who did a kind of Fred Astaire turn and called himself Les Legs went on in a grubby little North Country theatre. He was practically hooted off by a disappointed audience that had been expecting something altogether different. It was the day of the strippers and the blue jokes, and real artistry was at a
discount
.

But even the nude shows failed to save the music-hall. The strippers went into the more intimate atmosphere of the clubs and the theatres continued to close down or become bingo halls. East and West did more resting than work, and it was no longer a case of picking and choosing engagements; you had to take what was offered, even if it was a pretty miserable offer at that, even if, in the last resort, it carried you off with a strange, mixed company to parts of the world as distant as Malaysia, to makeshift theatres in out-of-the-way towns and villages, finally to Singapore and the decision to try Australia.

It could scarcely be worse there. It might be a great deal better. It had to be.

“There’s an alternative, you know,” Pearl said.

He glanced at her, wondering what she was talking about. He had been lost in his memories. “Alternative to what?”

She answered without looking at him, as if nervous of meeting his eyes. “To East and West.”

“I don’t get you. Do you mean change the name of the act? How would that help?”

“I mean drop the act altogether.”

So she was on to that again. She wanted him to get a job. Him. “You’re crazy.”

“I think we’re finished, Syd. It’s time we faced the facts. Things are never going to get any better.”

“We’d be finished if we dropped the act. It’s all we have.”

“No, Syd, not all.”

“You tell me what else then. Go on, tell me. Money in the bank? An estate to retire to?”

“I’m not talking about retirement.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

She faced him now, not flinching. “About you getting a job, Syd.”

He made a gesture of impatience. “I knew we’d get round to that. I knew that was coming. I thought we’d settled that once and for all.”

“I wish you’d change your mind.”

“Then you can go on wishing.” He was angry and his voice had grown harsh. “And you’ll be wasting your time
because
that’s one wish that’s never coming true. Never.”

She did not attempt to plead with him. She just gave a sigh. He saw the way her shoulders drooped and was sorry for having lashed at her with his tongue. When he spoke again it was in a gentler tone. It was almost as though it were he who was pleading.

“Don’t you see how it is, honey? Don’t you see what you’re asking? You’re telling me to throw away all I’ve worked for. Everything. My whole life.” He moved to her and began to stroke her hair, her neck. “You do see, don’t you? You see why I can’t do it?”

“Yes,” she said, “I see.”

She could have told him that there was no need to throw
it all away; it had already gone. But she did not tell him that. She only wished he could accept the fact for himself.

“We’ll manage,” he said. “We’ll manage, honey.”

Moira Lycett was alone in the cabin when she heard the knock on the door. She was writing in her diary. She was one of those people who are habitual compilers of diaries; but she never kept them for long. As soon as a volume was full she threw it away; she had no desire to read any of it again and she was far too realistic to believe that what she had written would ever be of any value. In a way she supposed she wrote for therapeutic reasons, to get things out of her system. If she had had a bosom friend she might have confided in her; but she had never had a friend of that sort, not at least since her
school-days
, so instead she gave her confidences to the diary, which at any rate had the virtue of being thoroughly discreet.