Grand Canary (4 page)

‘'Streuth,' she gasped, ‘what a gyle! It would knock the pins from the twelve apostles.' She arranged her skirt with a certain volatility. ‘Sancta Maria, it's too much of the mucho – drove the blood right into my 'ead.' And patting her left breast sympathetically, as though to encourage her heart to draw the blood back again, she stood striving to regain her wind.

She was fat, was Eliza Hemmingway, so fat her breadth seemed almost to exceed her stature; the depth, indeed, of her advancing bosom so reduced the cabin space that Robert found himself retreating defensively against the farther bulkhead. Her face was shrewd, hard-favoured; her eyes bright black beads; her cheeks plump and shiny; her forehead squat, rather like a toad's; her expression, in consequence, a strange mixture of the bold, the cheerful, and the malicious. Her hair was dark and oily, very profuse. Upon her upper lip a few stray roots sprouted unashamedly, emphasising her air of spirited effrontery. She was draped in clothes of a lively plum shade, and around her neck, suspended, was a black handbag which gaped upon her bosom like a pelican's pouch.

Tranter stared at her with extreme distrust.

‘Would you care to sit down, ma'am?' he said at length, doubtfully indicating the settee.

She shook her head till the earrings rattled, eased her corsets with a tug, then with an impulsive movement went forward and spread herself largely upon the lower bunk.

‘Carajo coño, that's better,' she declared, pointing her native cockney with the Spanish idiom. ‘ Come up the ladder too 'asty, I did. 'Aving a small pow-wow and a drop of brown with the wardress – meanin' the stewardess.'

A chill seemed to fall upon the cabin for almost a minute, then with a sort of uneasy politeness Robert said:

‘I had hoped, ma'am, my sister Susan might have the lower berth. She's a kind of poor sailor and she'd feel the roll much more up top there.'

Mother Hemmingway wrinkled up her squat brow and grinned like a ferret.

‘'Oo finds keeps,' she quoted slyly. ‘'Oo loses – you know the rest, mister. 'Ere I am and 'ere I stye. Why didn't you swipe it before I come in? I respects your 'on'able request. I respects your feelings as a brother. I'm heart-broke for Susan. But it's age before honesty these dyes. So it's up aloft for Susannah, and 'ere below for the elders. Carajo coño, and by Jesu-Maria, I only ' ope and pray she won't sick down on me.'

There was a stricken silence intensified to horror as Mother Hemmingway slipped her fat ringed hand into her open bag, drew out a small brown cigar, struck a match on the side of the bunk, and nonchalantly lit up.

‘Carajo,' she went on coolly, pursing her lips to a small round hole from which trickled a thin thread of smoke. ‘ It brings a smile to my fyce to get back on the briny. Yes, mister. I'm all agog for the islands. Blymed funny, though. There's dyes in Santa I'm that mucho longin' for Wapping, I'd give fifty peseta for a sniff of the pubs on a foggy night. ' Uman weakness – 'ome, sweet 'ome, you see – like you blubs w'en you 'ears Melbar on the phonograph. But, by Cristo, w'en I am 'ome I'd give five 'undred peseta to be hout of it.'

‘You live, then, in Santa Cruz?' said Robert stiffly; only for his sister's sake did he feel himself constrained to conversation.

‘Thirty year come next Ascension Dye,' answered Mother Hemmingway with a reflective wave of her cigar. ‘My ' usband, blast 'is mem'ry, was master of the
Christopher
– little coasting barque – five 'undred tons – guano tryde. I can smell ' er as I lies 'ere on this bunk. Thirty years come next Ascension Dye 'e went on the lush roundin' Teneriffe like 'e ' ad the playful little 'abit. Lost 'is course and lost 'is bleedin' ship. Run 'er on the Anaga rocks, slap-bang like that, and sunk 'er to the bottom of the deep blue sea. 'E'd 'ave sunk me too if 'e'd'ad 'is dyin' wish. Out of spite, you see. But I done a Crusoe on 'im. The only one syved from the wreck, like Corney Grain used ter sing. That's 'ow I come to 'it Santa Cruz. And, Madre de Dios, come to think on it, that's'ow I styed.'

‘You have certainly acclimatised yourself, ma'am,' said Robert uncomfortably. ‘Do you find the Spanish people agreeable?'

‘Tyke as you find,' replied the other complacently. ‘ I can't sye I likes and I can't sye I 'ates. They're 'uman, ain't they? And they ain't all Spaniolas on the islands. You'll see every colour of 'ide from a full buck negro to an 'alfw'ite blonde. But wot's the odds? I think on the proverb: We're all alike under our skins. And I love my coloured brother just the syme. That's gospel, that is, in the Book, strike me blind. 'Ooever comes to my plyce gets fair word and no favour.'

‘You are in business, then,' queried Robert stiffly, ‘in Santa Cruz?'

‘I'm in business, señor. I just keep a little hanky-panky towny place.'

Susan, in her corner, had been silent, studying the other woman's face, but now she asked almost wonderingly:

‘What kind of a place, ma'am, do you keep?'

Mother Hemmingway knocked her ash to the floor and spat a shred of leaf sideways from her tongue. Then she turned, compassed Susan with her knowing bead-like eye, and smiled with her lips.

‘A kind of an 'otel it would be, dearie. Very simple. Bed and breakfast – odds and hends in that line. Nothing flash. Just a plyne goddam honest business.'

There came a silence, then Susan, inhaling unexpectedly a breath of smoke-filled air, began suddenly to cough. It was a momentary spasm but, accentuated by a vague preliminary undulation of the ship, it recalled Tranter's attention to the odious business of the cigar. When he had given Susan a glass of water from the carafe on the tip-up stand, he cleared his throat uncomfortably and said with some earnestness:

‘I trust, ma'am, you are not going to resent my words. We are Christian people, myself and my sister, missioners of the Seventh Day Unity of Connecticut, and we do not hold with the use of tobacco, especially in the case of females. And more. You see, my sister cannot stand the odour of the weed. With this in mind, might I beg you, in the name of Christian charity, to withhold from smoking in the cabin during this present voyage?'

Mother Hemmingway's jaw dropped; she stared at Robert; then all at once she began to laugh. She laughed with a secret convulsive merriment which shook her fat body – as in the contortions of a terrific grief – like a blancmange agitated by an earthquake. She declared at length:

‘That's blymed funny. Mucho richo, señor. Thanks for the caracajada. Beats the bleedin' band. Wye, don't yer know, charity begins at ' ome. 'Ere,' she tapped her still quivering bosom. ‘ Wye, I punishes an 'undred cigars a month – my own brand – Perfecto 'Emmingway – made special at Las Palmas. Might as well ask me to give up my gyme of w'ist. No, mister, I wouldn't stop my seegarillos if you offered me salvation on a plyte.'

Robert flushed richly, but before he could reply Susan interposed.

‘It's no good, Robbie,' she said, aside. ‘Let her be. I'll manage.'

Mother Hemmingway caught up the words.

‘Of course she'll manage. Me and 'er'll be bosom pals when the ship gets into Santa.' She darted an oblique glance at Robert from beneath her bulging forehead. ‘You're good-lookin', mister. But you want to see the joke. Sabe. Laugh and grow fat.'

Again Tranter made to speak, but he looked at her and thought the better of it. He turned instead to Susan and, his colour still high, remarked self-consciously:

‘I guess I'll get round to my cabin. Reckon I might put through an hour's study before we eat.'

She nodded her head, pressed his hand understandingly as he opened the cabin door and with his head in the air stepped out.

On deck it was cold, and the wind blew with force, striking gratefully on his heated face. The estuary now lay behind, the land likewise a thin elusive blur upon the ship's port quarter. Soon he felt calmer – it was typical of his emotional nature that he would cool as quickly as he flushed – and with a step again springy he swung into the alley-way towards his cabin on the starboard side. As he did so, Mrs Baynham entered the passage from the opposite end, her tall figure trimmed to the breeze, which already had whipped a fine blood to her cheeks. He stood aside, hat in hand, to let her pass, and as she brushed by him in the narrow alley he said suavely:

‘Good morning.'

It was, he knew, no more than courtesy: and courtesy had its roots in Christian charity.

But she did not even look at him. Her big sulky eyes seemed fixed upon infinity. Then she turned at the corner and was gone, leaving a queer uneasiness about him and a tenuous fragrance which vanished instantly upon the breeze. He stood still, quite unusually upset by this rebuff following so closely upon the other; then he moved off slowly. It was the wind, he thought, his face downcast; she couldn't have heard. And, only half reassured, still thinking of her look, rather unhappily he entered his cabin.

The ship was slapping into the Irish Sea, the bugle had blown, and with one exception the passengers met together at lunch and seated themselves at table with the captain. The
Aureola
was at heart a cargo ship – often the phrase banana boat was levelled with derisory intent – but not to Captain Renton. To Peter Renton she was a ship, a sweet taut ship, and he that trim ship's master. For he had a deep instinctive understanding of the sea and a rare sense of that dignity which, he held, should vest those who seek it out. His own kin for years had followed the sea; he knew their histories and the histories of others more eminent than they. He had served his time in sailing-ships, and known the rigours of the South-West Passage. His library held books on famous mariners, on Nelson, whom he revered. And when the spirit took him he would speak with kindling eye of these great men and their connection with the islands where he coasted: of Columbus sailing from Gomera to discover America for Spain, of the assault on Las Pahnas by Drake and Hawkins, of Nelson losing an arm at Santa Cruz, and Trowbridge battering his way through the Plaza de la Iglesia when all – beside the Spanish treasure – seemed lost.

That was the man and this his method: with an autocrat's eye and tongue he kept his vessel fit, ran it to a proper order even to the niceties of his table – which he held to mark the standing of a gentleman. At table, in his phrase, he liked things so: the napery spotless, the glass gleaming, the cutlery ashine, a fresh flowering plant to soothe the eye. And, though his officers messed aft, he had his whim, fostered by a social sense, to dine with his passengers.

‘A captain is a lonely man,' he would say, ‘and this his compensation.' And again: ‘To a point my passengers are my guests.'

At this moment, critically eating his omelette, he sent his scrutiny round the table. Lady Fielding was on his right; and next to her, stiffly upright, Daines-Dibdin, whom he classified already as an ass. Then came Mrs Baynham, a d——d fine woman, he thought, but a devil to go; and Tranter, the missionary man, a dull effusive fellow – he had never liked the Yankees: his grandfather had been shot running the blockade on the S.S.
Alabama
– but sincere, at least, he felt. Upon his left sat Susan Tranter, of whom, despite his prejudice, he vaguely approved; she had a queer directness in her face which pleased him. And next to her a vacant chair, which made him frown. Then came Corcoran, whom he had met on shore – a little matter anent the easing of the passage money! – and whom be couldn't help but like. And finally, as far to leeward as he could arrange – she had sailed with him before – the vulgar bulk of Mother Hemmingway.

And now, his inquisition ended, he gave an ear to the conversation. Dibdin, his neck craned forward, his long, bony face filled with mulish curiosity, was speaking.

‘Captain, what's that odd box over there? Bless my soul, but it's an odd affair.'

‘It is a harmonium, sir,' Renton answered shortly, ‘ belonging to one of the passengers.'

‘A harmonium,' echoed Dibdin blankly, and his eyebrows flew into his scalp. ‘ But aren't they finished? On my oath, I thought harmoniums had gone out with hair-nets.'

Mother Hemmingway leered down the table.

‘'Aven't you ever been to a revival meetin'? That's w'ere'armoniums sprouts like hartichokes. And this ' armonium's on the syme gyme.' She jerked her thumb towards Susan. ‘ It's 'ers. Goin' with 'er brother to convert the Spaniolas. An invalid 'is.' And, having discharged her information like a cuttle-fish its venom, she returned cheerfully to her hash.

There was a short silence, then Mrs Baynham looked across at Susan.

‘Is your brother really an invalid?' she remarked pleasantly. ‘He seems a healthy-looking animal.'

Susan bit her lip and lifted her eyes resentfully to face the other. It cost her a painful effort to control a rising dislike for this indolent creature who now so brazenly mocked her Robbie.

‘My brother,' she said steadily, ‘is not particularly robust.'

Tranter laughed, that deep pleasant laugh which even in the pulpit he freely used.

‘Come now, Sue' – and his tone was unusually mild – ‘Mrs Baynham was just asking. And there ain't no harm in asking. The fact is,' he went on seriously, turning to Elissa, ‘that I am quite organically sound but rather anaemic. My physician back in Connecticut – well, to cut a long story short, he found my haemoglobin index registered point five off normal. I follow the new liver extract treatment; and we hope of course that the sunshine of the islands will send that odd index right up where it belongs.'

She stared at him incredulously, then gave a short amused laugh.

‘Dibs,' she exclaimed, ‘you've got a vast experience, indecent and otherwise. You've never met a missionary with an index?' She paused gracefully. ‘In the meantime, will someone give me the butter.'