Free Dangerous Sea by David Roberts

five days, as would this transatlantic crossing, depending on the weather, or weeks, had the destination been Australia or India, the time would pass both very slowly and so fast that, when dry land was achieved, the days at sea would be immediately forgotten. Intimacies, even love affairs, fanned by the sea breezes or the music of Henry Hall’s dance band, would dissolve in the dirty air of reality when feet were once again on solid ground. ‘It was a dream,’ a passenger would say to herself or himself. ‘I must have been bewitched. Did I really give those awful people our address and
beg
them to come and stay whenever they were next in London or Leeds, Boston or Philadelphia? Did I really think this man handsome enough to kiss by the lifeboats? Or, the girl with her appalling mother – did I really ask her to spend the rest of her life with me?’
    Fortunately, it was generally agreed, promises made on a luxury liner were as gossamer. There was a code or formula, Edward had once been told, which excused actresses’ indiscretions on the film set – DCOL. Amy Pageant had told him it stood for ‘doesn’t count on location’ and, when it had been explained to him, he was shocked and Amy had laughed at him. However, he was soon to think there must be a similar exculpation covering shipboard flirtations. He had happened to see his nephew deep in conversation with a pretty American girl. Frank said something – Edward could not hear what – and the girl threw back her head and laughed, exposing her exquisite throat. Frank half raised his hand as if to shield himself but had then laughed too, with the delicious complicity of the acknowledged lover. Edward sighed as he watched the besotted boy and then chided himself. Were he Frank’s age, would he not be in love with this elfin child? Hadn’t he seen Verity looking at Sam Forrest with just such intense fascination? He wondered if, after all, this was going to be the right moment to ask Verity to be his wife.
    An elderly couple called Dolmen, who came aboard at Cherbourg, were immediately and instinctively judged to be beneath the notice of many of the English. It was generally held to be unfortunate to be foreign, a deliberate affront not to speak English and thoroughly reprehensible to be German. Mrs Dolmen fell foul of all of these tenets. She spoke no English and only a little French. Mr Dolmen spoke English with a heavy accent but Frank, who was the first to meet him – he had the cabin on the other side of his – rather liked the look of him.
    He had no such feeling about the couple occupying the cabin on the other side. ‘Major Cranton,’ the man had barked, thrusting his hand out to Frank when they had happened to leave their cabins at the same time. His little moustache, wrinkling as he spoke, and military bearing advertised the truth of his assertion. From what Frank overheard – quite involuntarily – the Major seemed to have little time for his wife whom he ordered about as if she were his batman. The walls of the cabins were not thin but nor were they completely soundproof and Frank, registering this, hoped he wasn’t going to be disturbed by the Major’s parade-ground expletives.
    Once they had left Cherbourg, it was time to dress for dinner. Marcus Fern, who had been to the States on several occasions, agreed with Edward that it was important to make ‘a good impression’ on the first night, particularly as they were invited to sit at the Captain’s table – a compliment they owed to being stars in Lord Benyon’s firmament. So it was that, come seven o’clock, Frank could be found struggling with his white tie, cursing his starched shirt front and hopping about on one leg looking for an errant sock. Ready at last, he leant over the basin to peer in the mirror and prepared to do battle with his hair. Springy at the best of times, it could not be made to lie flat. He risked a little brilliantine but in the end gave up. He cursed for the last