Every Man for Himself Read Free Page A

I was confronted with such bewildering stretches of passageways and companionways, each thronged with a confusion of people, that I got into the wrong elevator and was first transported, packed like a sardine, down to the racquets courts on G deck, and then swept too far up and spilled out, starboard side, into the gymnasium on the boat deck. Here, a singular sight awaited, that of the stout man who had earlier breakfasted in the South Western Hotel, still clutching that oblong box and with hat now jammed over his eyes, seated astride a mechanical camel. I learned later he’d been persuaded into this undignified pose by a photographer from the Illustrated London News .
    When I eventually reached my accommodation on C deck it was a relief to find my luggage not only installed but in the process of being unpacked by a steward who had sensibly made enquiries as to my status. The resulting information rendered him suitably deferential, yet not sufficiently so as to arouse contempt; I like people to know their place, just as long as I’m not required to step on them. He said his name was McKinlay and in common with his kind he was more than eager to discuss my fellow passengers. As a proud native of some Scottish village with an unpronounceable name, rather than a product of the huddled masses of my adopted country, his approach was almost subtle. On my complaining that I’d had the devil of a job getting to my cabin, he expressed astonishment and promised to mention it to the chief steward.
    ‘Very mysterious, sir,’ he said, ‘seeing we’re at full muster and fewer passengers than expected owing to cancellations. Mr Vanderbuilt, sir, telegraphed only yesterday, although his luggage and valet are already aboard. I gather his mother, Mrs Dressler, has an aversion to maiden voyages. Same with Mr Frick, sir, and family, down as joining us at Cherbourg . . . now there’s a gentleman and no mistake.’
    ‘Yes, indeed,’ I agreed; my endorsement was insincere. When I graduated from Harvard my uncle had approached Frick with a view to my being slotted into the steel magnate’s empire. Choosing to sound me out in the vulgar cha^teau he had built for himself on Fifth Avenue rather than his office, he put me at a disadvantage, for his drawing room was so gloomy with panelled oak and the windows so obscured with velvet drapes that I failed to notice his sleeping Pomeranian. Paws stepped upon, it scuttled squealing under the ottoman. The mishap undid me, for though I expressed concern, indeed sorrow, it was reported that my mouth smiled. There followed a brief lecture in which ‘bad blood’ was mentioned in connection with certain incidents concerning my early life. My aunt, when told of his diatribe, wept. My uncle, after testily bidding me to be more careful where I trod, advised me to accept Frick’s recommendation that I seek employment in the gold mines of South Africa. Mercifully my aunt intervened.
    ‘Mr Vanderbilt’s suite,’ continued the steward, ‘has been taken over by a gentleman who was to have travelled second class. It’s rumoured he comes from Manchester.’
    ‘That’s in the north,’ I said, as though I wasn’t sure.
    ‘Indeed it is, sir, and a very prosperous city. The gentleman in question is in the clothing business.’ Here the steward tried to relieve me of my overcoat. I shook him off; the picture frame was still tucked against my ribs.
    ‘May I say, sir,’ he blabbered on, ‘how sorry we are not to have the pleasure of your uncle’s company this trip. Business commitments, I shouldn’t wonder.’
    ‘Mr Morgan,’ I said, ‘is a glutton for work,’ and feared I sounded too dry. My uncle, possibly at that moment, was strolling the beach at Aix-les-Bains in the company of his mistress. ‘Mr Frick,’ I added, ‘is equally burdened.’
    ‘As I understand it, sir,’ the steward replied, ‘his is in the nature of a domestic dilemma. His lady wife has broken her ankle.’
    Presently he