—

After first light I slept for an hour or two, then awoke clear-headed, with a joyous sense of anticipation.

The wind had dropped a little, the steward told me, but was still blowing hard and there was a very heavy swell; ‘which there’s nothing worse than a heavy swell’, he said, ‘for the enjoyment of the passengers. There’s not many breakfasts wanted this morning.’

I looked in at my wife, found her sleeping, and closed the door between us; then I ate salmon kedgeree and cold Bradenham ham and telephoned for a barber to come and shave me.

‘There’s a lot of stuff in the sitting-room for the lady,’ said the steward; ‘shall I leave it for the time?’

I went to see. There was a second delivery of cellophane parcels from the shops on board, some ordered by radio from friends in New York whose secretaries had failed to remind them of our departure in time, some by our guests as they left the cocktail party. It was no day for flower vases; I told him to leave them on the floor and then, struck by the thought, removed the card from Mr Kramm’s roses and sent them with my love to Julia.

She telephoned while I was being shaved.

‘What a deplorable thing to do, Charles! How unlike you!’

‘Don’t you like them?’

‘What can I do with roses on a day like this?’

‘Smell them.’

There was a pause and a rustle of unpacking. ‘They’ve absolutely no smell at all.’

‘What have you had for breakfast?’

‘Muscat grapes and cantaloup.’

‘When shall I see you?’

‘Before lunch. I’m busy till then with a masseuse.’

‘A masseuse?’

‘Yes, isn’t it peculiar? I’ve never had one before, except once when I hurt my shoulder hunting. What is it about being on a boat that makes everyone behave like a film star?’

‘I don’t.’

‘How about these very embarrassing roses?’

The barber did his work with extraordinary dexterity – indeed, with agility, for he stood like a swordsman in a ballet sometimes on the point of one foot, sometimes on the other, lightly flicking the lather off his blade, and swooping back to my chin as the ship righted herself; I should not have dared use a safety razor on myself.

The telephone rang again.

It was my wife.

‘How are you, Charles?’

‘Tired.’

‘Aren’t you coming to see me?’

‘I came once. I’ll be in again.’

I brought her the flowers from the sitting-room; they completed the atmosphere of a maternity ward which she had managed to create in the cabin; the stewardess had the air of a midwife, standing by the bed, a pillar of starched linen and composure. My wife turned her head on the pillow and smiled wanly; she stretched out a bare arm and caressed with the tips of her fingers the cellophane and silk ribbons of the largest bouquet. ‘How sweet people are,’ she said faintly, as though the gale were a private misfortune of her own for which the world in its love was condoling with her.