Free Dangerous Sea by David Roberts Page A

time as one of his gold shirt studs popped off his chest and down the plughole. Awash with pleasurable self-pity, he comforted himself that, whatever he wore, he would still feel inadequate when he saw Philly Roosevelt again.
    He went to Lord Benyon’s suite on the deck above where Edward, Verity and Sam Forrest were already congregated, drinking cocktails. He noticed that Sam had chosen to wear a dinner jacket, or tuxedo, as he referred to it to Frank who had not heard the word before. Instead of a waistcoat, Sam wore a white cummerbund. He looked rather dashing and Frank felt overdressed and half-throttled by his collar.
    ‘Where have you been?’ Verity demanded. ‘I told Mr Forrest he needn’t put on the whole soup-and-fish but never mind,’ she said, seeing Frank’s face fall, ‘you do look very handsome in it. I would kiss you but I don’t want to smudge my lipstick.’
    If she was looking for a compliment from her young admirer, Frank did not oblige. He still hadn’t altogether forgiven her for the part she had played in his ignominious return from Spain. In any case, for the last three hours there had been only one girl in his life and it wasn’t Verity.
    ‘According to my uncle, First Class passengers never wear dinner jackets on the first night at sea,’ Frank replied, then, seeing the American wince, realized he had been rude. He added hurriedly, ‘But what does it matter. It’s all bunk anyway!’
    Verity appeared not to have noticed the slight to her friend because she carried on as if Frank had not spoken. ‘Sam wants to tell you about the Youth Congress and the struggle for workers’ rights,’ she continued bossily. Frank was unable to feel any enthusiasm for a political lecture and his face must have shown it because Forrest winked at him and after a moment’s hesitation the boy smiled back. He decided that Sam was ‘a good chap’ for all he was an American. In fact, come to think of it, he was starting to like Americans more than some of his own people.
    Verity looked at Frank sharply. ‘What
have
you been up to? You’ve been up to something.’ Then, remembering she had no rights over this young man, she added hastily, ‘Not that it has anything to do with me, of course.’
    ‘I was swimming. You said you didn’t need me, sir,’ he said, turning to Benyon.
    ‘No, that was all right by me, my boy, but I’m not in charge of your political education.’
    Verity looked a little put out. She had a feeling she was being teased. Given that her political example had led Frank – or so his family thought – to run away from school and nearly get himself killed in someone else’s war, her attempt at ‘educating’ him might be seen by two or three of those present as something of a disaster.
    ‘I’m hungry,’ Edward announced to his nephew’s relief. ‘Shall we go in to dinner? I confess to being curious as to what the food will be like. I hear they have employed a famous French chef.’
    ‘I agree,’ Benyon said. ‘All my instincts – and I should add the steward’s instincts – suggest that we’re in for a bit of a blow, so who’s to say we’ll feel like dining tomorrow night.’
    ‘Don’t say that,’ Verity wailed. ‘I really mean to live like a capitalist exploiter for a few days. I’ll be devastated if I spend the whole trip writhing on my bunk, or whatever you call it.’
    As they entered the restaurant through the silver-metal screens, they were all struck by the magnificence of the scene that presented itself to their gaze. Surmounted by a vast dome, the great room, the whole width of the ship and over a hundred feet in length, glistened in subtle, indirect lighting. A huge painting of the English countryside embraced the bronze grille doors which dominated the room. The tables laid with silver were reflected in glass wall panels but the brilliance was tempered by the wood and bronze. Most striking of all, a huge map of the Atlantic Ocean, decorated with