Decline in Prophets (7 page)

“I told you, Matthew is a deacon,” Edna corrected. “He hasn’t actually been ordained yet.”

“The other one—Murphy—he’s much more priest-like,” Milton continued. “You don’t find him inviting pretty girls to Mass.”

“I don’t know,” Clyde muttered. “Maybe he’s canvassing the second class deck.”

5

R
owland sketched the party of high-haired women who sipped from tall frosted glasses at the table opposite. They were typical of the matrons who
inhabited the first class decks: greying hair, coiffed in upward-sweeping styles, fox stoles draped like wreaths about their shoulders. Rowland grimaced unconsciously as he drew in the sad
glass-eyed faces of the garments. He looked up briefly for Milton. The poet had struck a conversation with a becoming young lady in tennis attire. It appeared she had come into the Long Gallery to
ask the purser about replacing a lost ball. Milton was assisting her with her enquiries. The poet was nothing if not gallant. Rowland returned to his notebook.

In time, Milton returned and then Hubert Van Hook joined them both. It seemed he had been wandering the ship in search of some distraction, and so he approached them most warmly. Van Hook took a
cigarette from a slim silver case and fumbled for a light, chatting without pause as he did so. It was he who raised the subject of Orville Urquhart.

“This malarkey about an accident…,” he started.

“Don’t ask, Hu,” Milton warned.

Hubert stared at them. “Old Ahab gagged you guys, did he?”

“Ahab?… Oh, you mean Madding…,” Milton laughed and dealt him in. “In a word, yes—so don’t ask. Rowly is particular about these things.”

“Okay,” Van Hook grinned broadly, affably. “I’ll shut my trap.”

“Had you known Urquhart for long?” Rowland asked.

“Since we were kids,” Van Hook replied. His expression hardened. “He used to make the crossing often enough—his parents were loaded—big shots in the
movement.”

“What did you make of him?”

Van Hook shrugged. “Couldn’t trust him. Real wiseguy… looked out for number one if you know what I mean.”

“So, he had enemies?”

“I suppose so. He could turn on the honey when he wanted to. The babes seemed to like him and he had old Annie snowed.”

“I think Annie may have worked him out,” Rowland said, as he recalled their conversation the previous evening.

“Baloney!” Van Hook returned. “His manners may have made her burn up occasionally, but she thought he was the cat’s pyjamas! Spoke up for him every time.” He looked
at Rowland. “Heard you boffed him in the kisser for messing with Edna… Don’t blame you… she’s a doll.”

There was a pause, partly because it took Rowland a second to work out exactly what Van Hook was saying, and partly because, once he had, he wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Yes…”

“Attaboy! Don’t feel bad about it. He had it coming.” Hubert Van Hook tossed down his hand. “You fellas going to sit around beating your gums, or are we playing
here?”

“We’re playing,” Rowland replied, glancing at his hand.

It took the Australians about an hour to bring the game to a profitable conclusion.

“Well fellas, it’s been a real gasser,” Van Hook said, standing up. “But I’m going to scram. You boys have cleaned me out—haven’t got jack.”

Rowland and Milton watched him go.

“Seems wrong to take his money,” Milton said quietly. “Poor chap can’t even speak English.”

Rowland nodded. “We have a week’s stopover in New York. We could be in trouble if they all talk like that.”

“Is a gasser a good or bad thing, do you think?”

“It’s hard to tell… could be either.”

Edna and Clyde came into view. The sculptress was dressed in a becoming floral, with a chaste Peter Pan collar. Her hat was stylish, but conservatively so, as were the kid gloves she wore.

“Well?” Milton asked as they sat down.

Rowland turned to Clyde. “Did Ed manage to pass as—”

“She took communion.”

Milton laughed. “Don’t you have to be admitted to some kind of holy order for that?”

“It is traditional to be confirmed in the Catholic Church before one partakes of the Eucharist,” Clyde said tightly.

Edna pulled off her gloves. “Stop fussing, Clyde,” she said, patting his arm. “It’s not all that different from our communions… except there was no wine. Did you
know they didn’t share the wine, Rowly? I daresay Bishop Hanrahan likes to keep it all for himself.”

Rowland tried not to laugh for Clyde’s sake. Milton had no such inhibitions. He called over a waiter and ordered drinks for them all in an attempt to compensate the deprivation.

“So how was the service?” Rowland asked once the drinks arrived.

“Hanrahan’s certainly heavy on the brimstone,” Clyde replied shaking his head. “Scared the hell out of me.”

Milton raised his glass. “Don’t worry mate, we’ll put it back.”

“Did you see Isobel?”

“Yes—pretty girl. Cried a lot and spent the rest of the time glaring at Hanrahan. Ed spoke to her.”

“Only for a little while. Poor thing seemed in need of a friend.” Edna added reflectively. “She’s taking tea with me at four o’clock.”

“Well, if she’s pretty, we might all join you,” Milton suggested.

“Oh yes, do,” Edna invited. “She might even find you amusing.”

“How about we try our hands at deck tennis in the meantime?” Milton suggested stretching. “Provided Rowly’s delicate constitution can cope with the outside
air.”

Rowland looked sharply at the poet, recalling the young lady who’d lost her ball.

Milton smiled innocently.

Rowland sighed. “All right, why not.”

They made their way onto the appropriate deck and found a purser, who equipped them with racquets and erected a net. The deck court was so small that Rowland found he could play a reasonable
game standing still and relying on his reach. The mild exercise of the game mitigated the cold a little. Milton on the other hand, carried on as if he was centre court at Wimbledon, turning
regularly to acknowledge an audience of young ladies who’d abandoned their own games to watch.

Despite the bleak day there were several people out playing shuffleboard or simply taking a turn about the ship. Rowland noticed Annie Besant walking, arm in arm, with Jiddu Krishnamurti. Hubert
walked with them.

Some time later they noticed voices rising above the background of passengers at play.

Rowland caught the tennis ball in his hand and turned towards the sounds of argument. Hubert stood near the rail, facing Bishop Hanrahan. The wind carried most of their words away, but they were
clearly heated. Hanrahan was shouting something about blasphemy; Hubert was returning with derision. Jiddu Krishnamurti appeared to be trying to soothe the situation whilst Annie looked amused, if
anything.

Suddenly Hubert poked the bishop in the chest. Hanrahan reacted explosively, punching the young man in the jaw. Hubert reeled, falling back heavily against Annie who was leaning against the
rail. The passengers on deck seemed to react as one, arms outstretched, as the old woman was pushed hard against the balustrade and for a moment, seemed about to plunge over. Jiddu
Krishnamurti’s hand flew out. He caught Annie about the waist and dragged her away from the railing. A collective sigh of relief. And then spontaneous applause. Crewmen appeared to ensure
that no one had been hurt, and to reassure the shocked passengers.

“Maybe he can walk on water,” Clyde said quietly as the crowd burst once again into applause for Krishnamurti, the hero of the moment.

For his part, Bishop Hanrahan was anything but contrite. He finished with a few further words to Hubert and stalked off the deck, with his deacons in tow.

“That was too close,” Edna said, frowning.

“His Grace can pack a punch,” Clyde muttered. “Hubert’s no lightweight and he sent him flying a fair way.”

“No wonder the Holy Father’s scared,” Milton agreed.

6

H
igh tea was being served in the Garden Lounge on the
Aquitania
. There was no actual garden to speak of. The lounge was not unlike a
conservatory. Large picture windows allowed passengers to take in the vista of the ocean whilst sitting at wicker settings with their teapots and cucumber sandwiches. A string quartet provided a
refined musical background. Isobel Hanrahan sat at a table towards the back, looking furtively about her from time to time.

“You weren’t lying, Clyde,” Rowland murmured as he looked appreciatively at the classic Irish beauty. The bishop’s niece had long dark hair and large, heavily lashed
eyes. Her figure was very slim, girlish, but there was something seductive about her nonetheless.

Isobel stood as they approached. She looked alarmed by the arrival of so many.

Edna grabbed her hand warmly. “Hello, Isobel. I brought some friends—I hope you don’t mind.” She introduced her gentlemen.

Isobel appeared a little flustered, but she took the seat that Milton pulled out for her. A waiter arrived with a trolley of cakes and petite sandwiches from which Clyde and Edna chose a
generous selection with all the excitement of children. Silver teapots were placed at the table’s centre and fine china, which bore the crest of the
Aquitania
, at each setting. For a
short while, Isobel Hanrahan was lost in a friendly flurry of pouring and pastry passing whilst Clyde and Milton argued over who had actually won the game of deck tennis which had been interrupted
by Annie Besant’s near accident.

Rowland poured tea into Isobel’s cup. “Do you take milk or lemon, Miss Hanrahan?” he asked.