Rum Affair (11 page)

“My God, is she there?” said Rupert, craning to see over the coachroof as he eased the tiller. “Jane! Cindy!”

Two reclining figures, one in a man’s shirt and the other in an arrangement of string fulfilling the minimum requirements of decency, rolled over on the decks of a big motor cruiser as we slid past, and waved. Victoria was there too, in her patched trousers and bare feet, with a screwdriver, half-sunk, in her hand. “And my God, Ogden will dig that,” said Rupert as he reversed and cut.

“He doesn’t like the
Cara Mia?
”
It was not hard to see why. Compared with this, Cecil Ogden’s
Seawolf
was a cereal packet, with a hole in the bottom instead of a gift.

“Dotty subdebs aren’t much in Cecil’s line,” said Rupert. “The boat belongs to Moody the financier – that’s Tim Moody over there.”

True enough, a young man came into view in very small boxer shorts and a peaked cap from the Aquatic Sports Club, Barbados. Two other boys and a fat girl in a catsuit made their appearance, and there was a general clinking and pouring. Daddy, clearly, was absent at work in the City. Music, of a sort, shuddered out from the decks.

“Huddy Leadbetter’s new single,” said Rupert thoughtfully, effecting a final clove hitch. He avoided looking at Johnson.

“Goodbye,” said Johnson lazily. “Give them my love, and don’t smoke anything I wouldn’t smoke.

In five minutes, Rupert had gone.

In five more minutes Michael too had gone, hell-bent for the hotel and the telephone, leaving a fallout of Trumper’s Eucris behind him. A succession of working parties began to move round from boat to boat, like bees preparing to swarm. The clinking of glasses, competing strains of tape, radio and record player, and loud bellows of laughter, live performance, were heard all over the basin. Some of the parties came aboard
Dolly,
and Lenny served drinks.

Their jokes were all very long, and some of them were in dialect. They seemed to have had a very dangerous summer. Eventually, Johnson said something about fixing dinner at the hotel and clambered ashore, leaving me to change in my locked cabin, with Lenny as watchdog. Trouble seemed unlikely. But then, trouble always seems unlikely.

I dressed in white cotton matelassé and uncut turquoises. I was very brown, from the South America tour, and my hair had bleached itself almost silver. After a little thought I let it down smoothly over my shoulders and brushed it with Givenchy’s Le Dé. I had just finished this when a voice said:
“Hey, Missus!”

I was no one’s
Hey Missus
now. I slipped on little kid slippers by Jourdain, and fastened my watch, that Byng gave me, in three colours of gold; by which time I had had three
Hey Missuses
more. Then heavy feet sounded on the deck over my cabin, there was a thud as someone jumped into the cockpit, and the same rough voice: “Are ye there, Mistress Rossi? I’ve word from Dr Kenneth at Rum!”

And at the same moment Lenny’s voice, damn him, said near at hand: “Now wait a bit. Let’s hear who you might be first . . . oh, it’s you, Tom.”

And the first voice, softening, said: “Aye, man. Tom McIver. I’ve a wee note for the lady. She’ll be in?”

I ran to open the door.

He was from the puffer. He had a Breton beret and a three-day beard, and he stank of kippers and coal dust. But he had a message from Kenneth. I looked Lenny straight in the eye, and Lenny grinned and said: “Tom McIver’s all right, ma’am. You’ll excuse me. I’m cleaning the cooker.” And he disappeared, tactfully, across the saloon and into the galley.

I asked McIver in, and said: “He’s here? Dr Holmes is in Crinan?”

Mercury cleared his throat. Under the bristle his big face was scarlet. “Na, na. He’s no on Rum either. You’ve maybe no heard of the
Lysander’
s accident?”

“Of course I’ve heard.” If I was short, it was because I was cold with alarm. If he wasn’t on Rum, where the hell had he gone? Or did the idiot mean he was dead?

“Aye. Well.” The stupid man shifted from one great foot to the other. “He’s been moved from Rum to South Rona, Dr Kenneth, while they look into that business. The submarine was on trial off South Rona, ye’ll ken.”

Where the hell was South Rona? My face must have betrayed my exasperation and dismay, for the man added quickly: “It’s not far away: it’s a wee island next to Raasay, ye ken.” And as my face remained blank: “Just over from Portree, Skye. There’s nothing on it but a few wee huts where the sub. crew and the scientists stay. Well, he’s there now; and he canna get to Rum, and I was to seek you out, mistress, and gie ye this.”

I snatched it. It was an old OHMS envelope, sealed over with sticky tape, with a scrap of paper inside. On that were a few words only in Kenneth’s big, personal writing. “Don’t come now. Don’t come ever – it isn’t safe. Goodbye. I love you.” There was no signature and no need of one. It was Kenneth, I knew.

I looked at it for a long time, and I smiled as I looked. Oh, he was still afraid for me, still protecting me. He was giving me the chance to retreat. But he must know perfectly well that he had also now given me an address where I could reach him in privacy far more easily than before. For South Rona was only a short sail from Portree. And in three days’ time, I should be in Portree on the
Dolly,
on the race’s last call before Rum.

I touched my friend’s kippery arm and said: “Thank you for bringing this. I know you won’t speak of it to anyone else . . . Did you see Dr Kenneth when he gave you this? Is he well?”

My friend had removed his beret, at last. He cleared his throat. “Oh, well enough. Aye. They’re all a bit pressed, ye ken, since the accident.” He paused, and then said: “Would there be a reply?”

I hadn’t dreamed a reply would be possible. Now I realised that this puffer was probably taking regular supplies to South Rona for both lighthouse and base. With the mellow evening sunlight all about me, and the convivial sounds from the concourse, the lap of water and the distant Niagara of the locks, the cry of gulls and the sundown song of the land birds, with all the saltwater togetherness going on all around me, I thought of a dead man swinging slowly in a cupboard in Rose Street and said: “Yes, there’s a reply. Tell Dr Kenneth . . . tell him that there has been a death in the family, and might be another. Tell him . . . particularly to take care of himself. Say it exactly like that. And tell him that on Saturday I am coming to Portree on
Dolly,
and that he must not fail to meet me privately there.”

There was a pause. I could not tell whether Mercury was shocked or approving, or whether he had even absorbed what I had told him. I dared not put it in writing. The high-coloured, unshaven face showed no reaction. After a moment though, McIver said: “He mightna manage to cross. There’s a fair stramash on the now, with the submarine boys, ye understand.”

“Then I’ll come to South Rona,” I said.

There was another pause. “Ah,” he said. “But the boat you’re on isna going to South Rona, though. The race only calls at Portree.”

“I know. But other boats must make the crossing sometimes from Portree to his island; your own, say?”

It was a risk. I wanted no publicity. Tina Rossi in this land of porridge and peasants being smuggled from one place to the next in a puffer – that would be a manquet for
Oggi.
Already, as I waited for the slow-witted creature to answer, approaching footsteps resounded on the quayside.

I drummed my fingers. Rupert or Lenny I did not mind. But I had no desire to be found by Michael in conference with this man.

It was too late. The seaman had actually drawn breath to answer when the footsteps halted on the quay above
Dolly
and a loud, commanding, and familiar voice demanded: “And who the hell may you be, bothering Madame Rossi? Get off this boat before I get the owner to put you in charge!”

I smiled. “Mr Hennessy, can’t I have an admirer in the shipping lanes? This gentleman simply wanted to shake my hand because he has all my records. Don’t be angry with him, or you’ll leave me with no public to sing to!”

My friend from the puffer, who probably could not tell the difference between Beatrice di Tenda and the Fairy Queen from
Iolanthe,
looked surprised, but said nothing except: “Well, I’ll have to be getting back.”

“I beg your pardon,” began Stanley Hennessy, a little less heated, but I was already suggesting kindly to the pufferman that he should call for a beer when Johnson returned. Anything, anything to hear more about Kenneth.

“I’m sorry.” The fellow stared stolidly back. “I’ll have to go, mistress. We’re due out on this tide: we’re in the sea lock as it is, and the boys are waiting.” He must, God save us, be the skipper. Hennessy looked as if he were bolted to the deck: clearly he would not leave while McIver was there. It was hopeless.

“Well, goodbye, Mr . . .”

“Tom McIver. Just call me Tom.”

“Goodbye, Tom. And thank you. I hope we’ll come across one another again.”

“Oh, aye. Ye don’t have to look far for the
Willa Mavis
. . . We’ll be at Portree on Saturday,” he said. And, unsmiling, he put on his beret and left.

It was a pleasure, after Tom McIver had gone, to greet Stanley Hennessy and to give him, out of Lenny’s hearing, a sketch of life on the
Dolly.

He wanted me to dine with him that night but I had, regrettably, a prior engagement with Johnson and Rupert at the hotel. I agreed, instead, to post-dinner liqueurs, if my hosts would permit, on
Symphonetta
alone. He wanted advice on the hanging of my Rhu menu portrait.

To be frank, I had forgotten about that picture of Johnson’s. There was a better one half-finished on board. But I agreed. I do not antagonise people like Stanley Hennessy. But I make them pay highly for what they buy.

Dinner was pleasant in the hotel overlooking the islands, with the moon risen, a round pallid primrose over its field of satin and hessian on the dark sea. Within, it was warm and smoky and comfortable, with talk and laughter filling the room. Rupert had not come back and Lenny was busy elsewhere so I dined with Johnson, at a table which was soon pushed against three others to allow the quips to be heard, and explained to me. Crackling with animation, Johnson behaved like a cobalt bomb, and towards the end did a small character sketch of Thalberg which had me in tears. Then Michael Twiss joined us.

I knew by his face at once what had happened. There was one thing and one thing only that rejuvenated Michael, despite his copy of Be Young with Yoga, and that was money. The particular sleekness this time, the little, crisp gestures as he joined us were due, I was sure, to the fact that he thought he had separated Kenneth and me.

And so it turned out. A contract – a big contract, the largest even I had ever been offered – to sing
La Gioconda
on Friday at the Colón. Which meant, of course, flying tomorrow from Abbotsinch to London, and to Buenos Aires on Thursday.

“No,” I said. And I thought, it was a strange thing that never, even in my recent career, had I had so many lucrative offers from abroad as I had had now, just before and just after singing in Edinburgh.

Michael smiled and said: “Tina, my dear,” as if reproving a child, “we’ll discuss it later. It will be a beastly wrench for us both, I know, to give up this marvellous voyage, but Mr Johnson will have to forgive you. A great singer belongs to the world. Is this chair taken? Do you know, I’m quite hungry?” Bloody Michael. Bloody-minded Mr Manager Twiss.

Being Michael, of course, he would not risk an explosion in public; and neither would I. But once the tables around us had cleared, and we had nothing to do, Johnson and I, but watch Michael finish his disgusting pudding, I opened my attack. I was not accepting any engagement in Buenos Aires. Or, it appeared, in Mexico City the following week. I had announced that I was taking a rest, and that was what I was proposing to do.

“Tina, we can’t bore Mr Johnson with all this.” Michael was furious at having to discuss it here and now. “You know how concerned I’ve been about this whole trip. The continual draughts are bad for your voice. You can’t practise; you haven’t done a single half-hour of exercises since Saturday. Now you are throwing aside a contract which may never be renewed. You know how touchy these people are. Once it gets about that you are snubbing them, other people will hold off.”

“Let them,” said I. “Do you really think I’ll starve?”

Michael was really
aufgeregt:
his face had gone quite pale under his suntan, with red spots on the cheeks. He said: “It’s easy to say so; but you don’t have to smoothe down these bastards and fight through new bookings. It isn’t good enough, Tina. You promised to give all this up if an offer arrived. You can’t expect me to manage you unless I can depend on some simple cooperation.”

He had finished, and we were standing up, while Johnson was paying the bill. I had just enough sense left to keep my voice down. “Then don’t,” I said coldly. “If ten days’ holiday are going to ruin my voice and all my future engagements, then it’s exceedingly sad. For ten days’ holiday is what I am going to have.”

Johnson was occupied still with the waiter. “All right. Take them, ducky,” said my manager. “And then try singing without me. You’ll be having a damn sight more than ten days’ holiday, my sweet. You’ll be lucky if you sing in anything better than “Radio Scrapbook 1903” for the rest of your life.
What can you do without me?”

“Save money,” I said.

“Hullo! Has Mr Twiss gone?” enquired Johnson, turning towards us just then.

“He had to rush out,” I said. I was more shaken than I tried to show. In some ways Michael was my genius: it was true. But there were other things besides singing. And for the first time . . . for the very first time in my life, I was becoming a little weary of work. So, when Johnson said with sympathy: “He was a bit upset, I’m afraid, about your new contract. I feel guilty because, of course, I very much want you to stay.” I replied at once: “I mean to. Michael is a little neurotic. He’ll recover . . . And now in any case I must leave you – I hope you forgive me – to meet Mr Hennessy on
Symphonetta.”