Snow Angels (15 page)

‘Why don’t we leave it at that then and do the best we can?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘If I ever meet up with that bastard again, I’ll kill him,’ Gil promised and got out of bed.

*

There were plenty of distractions on board ship. He was glad of them and more pleased than he had thought he would be at John Marlowe’s presence. He was grateful to Edwina, who kept Rhoda occupied and, after a day or two, Rhoda seemed to relax and begin to enjoy herself. John knew a great deal about shipping but nothing about ships, Gil thought, but he also knew what he wanted. As they went over the ship, Gil explained in great, though not very technical, detail; he kept the problems to himself and they were vast.

For a long time now people had preferred intermediate liners like this one, with lower running costs, but things had changed. Germany and America were becoming powerful and it was time for might and skill to be shown. The British government had its face to keep up and, though the cost was high, it might be even higher if they did not. They could not afford to lose their hold on the claim that they were the greatest shipbuilding nation in the world. Gil knew very well that Germany educated its engineers and designers, that it trained better its skilled men, that it took more quickly to the ideas of new machinery. The British were rightly famed for their lack of schooling, their inability to move around. They clung to one piece of land as though every other part of the earth was foreign territory, like small animals in burrows. As for new ideas …

Gil stood by the rail and watched the water and thought of himself, his hatred of school, his love for Newcastle. There was something which mattered here that he could not quite comprehend. It was nothing visible, nothing tangible, he only knew that somehow the ship would be built at Collingwood’s, that in spite of wrong ideas and mistakes and sheer pigheadedness, if he
was given the word to build this new ship in a year it would be rising like a soft monster, dwarfing the men who had gathered resources, materials and skills. In a year and a half it could be a being such as had never been seen on Tyneside before, the greatest ship the world had ever seen. Part of him was still looking at his reflection and seeing lack of education and experience, but his father had been right. Designers had to be people with uncluttered minds, men with goals, without distractions, fresh, new, exciting. He could feel this ship inside his head and inside his heart and he knew that it would be built.

To win a place on the Admiralty list to build large liners was what most shipbuilders dreamed of and he would have it. Other people might tender for the liner, but it was his and he would promise John Marlowe the whole earth to gain it, recklessly propose dates and times, and finance, skills and feats of magic. He would do anything to gain this ship.

Gil discovered that he liked John Marlowe. He had been prepared to cultivate the man for what he wanted, but during the voyage they became friends and that was more than he had hoped for. John was much older and when they had met Gil had seen disbelief in his face that a young man could produce anything close to what he wanted, but as the ship made its way towards New York they sat up into the night over a drink and talked and Gil could see that John’s confidence in him grew with each hour. He was a rich, influential man who knew other rich, influential men. He was shrewd, so that in a way Gil began to see himself as John saw him and he was happy about this.

Less successful was his relationship with Rhoda. She avoided him during the day, but that wasn’t obvious because the whole purpose of the trip was business and she had no place there. He knew that she was ashamed of what she had done and he was ashamed of the way that he had reacted, so when they did meet they spoke softly to one another as people might think newly weds did. At night, Gil put a pillow between them that she should feel easier. He let the business matters sweep over him
like a tide. It was important that he should not falter because his marriage was a disaster. The one had nothing to do with the other. He put them into different sections of his mind and dismissed the marriage. He treated Rhoda as though they were good friends and, as they drew nearer to New York, he could see the look change in her eyes. The building of the new ship was all his concern. If he could secure this contract, no one, least of all his father, would ever doubt him again.

If Gil had had nothing more important to think about he would have been thrilled with New York, its huge buildings – the skyscrapers – the different communities of people from different lands, the Irish, the Blacks, the Jews, the Italians. It was noisy such as London could never be. The Marlowes had friends there and in some ways, Gil thought with surprise, it was as class-conscious as anywhere at home. Your name and your background were everything. The women were very beautiful and extremely well dressed. Abby, Gil thought, would have hated it.

John introduced Gil to his business acquaintances and to Wall Street and business in the city. Rhoda went to see Central Park, the animals in the zoo, the shops. They stayed on Park Avenue and it seemed to Gil that for somebody off the felltops, Rhoda dealt with this sophisticated, scurrying life as though she had been used to it. John seemed to take great pleasure in showing Gil around. He took him to a German beerhouse on the Upper East Side and, in contrast, to the newly built Waldorf Astoria, but nothing touched Gil, not the glamour, the money, the music, the intricacy, the poverty or the people. Rhoda would come home with wonderful tales to relate of whom she had met and how she had spent her day. She went to the opera and he was obliged to go with her. He hated it and all the time his mind did a tortured dance between the way that she would not let him touch her and the ship he might not be allowed to build. His dreams had in them the frenzy of New York and a hunger which went round and round. He couldn’t sleep; he was full before every meal and, on the second to last night of their visit, the
worry and frustration were too much. She was inclined to chatter now in the bedroom but he silenced her with his mouth, put her reluctant body down onto the bed and slid his hands inside her evening dress.

If she had fought he didn’t know what he would have done, but she did what he imagined she had done with Allsop. She pretended she was not there. He knew very well where she was, up on her beloved moors, probably on some warm August evening, when the bell heather was as rich as rubies and there was nothing but land, sky and the occasional cry of the sheep. Her face was turned away, the blood drained, her eyes distant and her body like marble. Gil saw himself and was revolted. He dropped her and got up off the bed.

‘Christ Almighty, I’m sorry.’

It all seemed so incongruous. The room was enormous, and it had gold-coloured curtains. The bed and the other furniture looked like it had come out of some French brothel, he thought savagely, having never been into a French brothel. It was all gold and white and spindly as though it would break from even slight ill-use. It was not often that Gil wished himself back at Bamburgh House; he did not often feel safe there, but he wished it now. He tried to get out of the room but Rhoda, nimble-footed from the fells, reached the door before he did. When he turned, she put herself into his arms and said, ‘Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t your fault.’

‘I want to go home,’ Gil said.

‘We will and you will have the ship. You will, you will. It will be all right.’

‘We will. We’re fit to build the first express liner. We are.’

‘Now let’s go down to dinner.’

There were always eminent people there but tonight John had made sure that Gil was seated opposite a railroad millionaire. Soon the talk was of shipping and railways. The little fat man with the clever eyes impressed Gil.

‘The idea is that you could buy a ticket in London to pay for
your passage to New York and then go on anywhere in America by rail. Does that seem like a good idea to you, Mr Collingwood?’

‘It might if I could have some part in the deal,’ Gil said.

John laughed.

‘Mr Collingwood is my man,’ he said. ‘He’s going to be involved in all my best endeavours from now on.’

‘I think we did it,’ Rhoda said when they got back to the bedroom at an advanced hour.

‘I think we did it too.’ Gil said.

*

When they got home, relations between his father and Edward were worse than ever, but it was his mother who told him.

‘Edward has stopped going into the office and he comes home once or twice a week to see Matthew and Helen. I don’t understand what’s going on,’ she said.

Gil went to Toby’s house, but when Toby opened the door he was alone.

‘Yes, he’s here,’ Toby said, beckoning Gil inside. They went through the house and out into the garden. It was late spring and the day was soft. Toby offered Gil a wooden seat. ‘He’s in bed asleep. He was drunk.’

Toby gave him wine that tasted of gooseberries. The garden was filled with herbs, lavender and thyme, rosemary, a dozen different kinds of mint and various tall flowers which Gil did not recognise, pink and violet and white. The garden was like some kind of tapestry woven in Toby’s favourite colours.

‘Did you get the contract?’

‘Nothing’s signed yet.’

‘But it will be.’ Toby stretched out his long legs in front of him. ‘You have to admit, Gil, you’ve turned into Golden Boy.’

Gil squirmed in his chair.

‘I wish we could be as we were. I don’t seem to be able to have my father and Edward.’

‘Having everything is an extremely costly business,’ Toby said.

‘He spends a great deal of his time here.’

‘He has spent a great part of his life away from here.’ Toby said, looking at him.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Gil said slowly.

‘Of course it’s me. What did you think it was? You knew. Don’t pretend to be so innocent. You went to school. Tell me nobody tried to bed you, you with your sweet face. Didn’t you ever?’

‘No.’

‘How very boring.’

‘It’s not that, it’s just—’

‘That you like women. I had noticed.’

‘If it was you, then why did he marry Helen?’

‘Because. Happiness is a myth. It’s something either in the past or in the future. You think you can catch it if you say your prayers and eat your cabbage and please your father, but all you really have is now and pleasure. He did try very hard.’

‘Who did try very hard?’ Edward said loudly behind him. Gil looked into his brother’s bloodshot eyes and knew then that he had always known what could now be spoken of.

‘You did,’ Toby said, putting back his head. Edward looked straight back at Gil before he kissed Toby on the mouth.

Gil thought of his father. There was no way William would ever believe that his son could love another man. Gil thought that if William found out it might kill him. Yet Gil could understand why his brother had fallen in love with Toby. There was something very special about him. He oozed peace and Edward had not known peace in his life. The small white house with the wooden floors; the books and cosy fires; the smell of bread baking and chocolate cake cooking, and beef with onions bubbling gently on top of the stove; the garden with its tall trees at the end of the paths thick with greenery in summer; herbs for the pot and the small secret places where you could sit and dream
– who would not have wanted to escape to such a place, to a person who demanded nothing, was always on your side, to be loved without criticism, to be accepted without question? Women could not do that. The war between the sexes could never be over. In some ways it was easier to give in. Toby could understand Edward’s problems as a woman could not. They had been brought up together, gone to the same schools, knew the same people.

‘And how is married life?’ his brother asked softly.

When she was in Northumberland Abby very often went to visit her father on Saturday afternoons. He usually finished work at lunchtime when the men did and she would arrive in time to have a meal with him and to stay the night. Sometimes Gil was there, calling in after work or coming on Sunday afternoons, when he would have Rhoda, Helen and Matthew with him. The baby made Abby feel uncomfortable. Henderson seemed taken with the child and, although Abby did not think herself particularly maternal, she knew that it was expected she would provide an heir and at least one other male child. She had not thought about this when she had married Robert, but he seemed to take for granted that they would have children. So far nothing had happened and by the time autumn came, Abby was starting to worry. She also thought that if they had a child, Robert might not care quite so much for the socialising, or at least differently, though Matthew’s birth had not encouraged Edward Collingwood to be seen about any more frequently with his wife. Helen was so pale and listless that she was no advertisement for childbearing, Abby thought. Gil was very thin. In fact, Rhoda was the only one of the three who looked at all happy.

Abby wished that Robert had been with her. She loved him and she knew that he loved her, but he would not go with her to see her father, much less anybody else’s father. She knew that Gil
went to see Henderson because they had business interests in common and Henderson was, surprisingly for him, delighted to see another man’s success. Gil had gained the contract to build the biggest ever liner and Henderson was as proud as if Gil had been his son. It made Abby wretched to see them together. All Robert seemed to have in common with his friends was enjoying themselves and, while there should have been nothing wrong in that, Abby was uncomfortable with it. Robert would laugh and call her middle class, but it seemed to her that money and position brought responsibility with it. He had frowned at that.

‘Are you telling me that I treat my people badly?’ he had said.

It was a source of pride to him that ‘his people’, as he called them, were well paid, well housed. He looked after them; he did more, Abby thought in honesty, than William Collingwood had ever done for his workforce. Abby tried to tell him firstly that they were not his, and secondly that he could have done much more with his money to help other, poorer, people. He didn’t understand what she was talking about, nor would he let her use any of his money for what he called her good causes. People who did not work for him were nothing to do with him. He had no sense of general responsibility.