We Saw The Sea (22 page)

“Good heavens, it’s Mr Sammidge! “

Mr Sammidge looked furtively over his shoulder. “If you please, sir, my name is Rinaldo, now.”

“Dear me, I’m so sorry.”

“That’s all right, sir. It’s Mr Hobbes, isn’t it?”

“Good heavens, you must have an astonishing memory! “ Mr Sammidge shrugged modestly.

“It pays, sir, it pays.”

“You own this place, Mr . . . Rinaldo?”

“I collected a few friends together when I left the service and started here. That’s the Captain’s steward, Knowles, behind the bar and Lieutenant-Commander Morton, at the piano. Everyone calls him Jellyroll now.”

“I hear you’re doing well here.”

“Can’t complain, sir. Let me find you a table. I’ll put you near the floor.”

“I didn’t know you knew Rinaldo?” Mary said, as she sat down.

“Chap I used to know. It’s astonishing how you meet people.”

Towards midnight the club filled up for the floorshow. The band arrived and several couples danced. Rinaldo had a reputation for engaging the best artists available and he had at that time engaged a dancer of international fame. In the space of one year “La Pompadour” had risen to the top of her profession. Her name was known as far afield as the Far East.

Michael considered himself an expert on strip-tease. He had watched discarded feathers, beads, veils, and even snakes, all over the world. He had tucked notes beneath navels in Istanbul, trafficked for strange webs and pinched naked bottoms in Tangier, and had admired the universal shape of woman from Piccadilly to Suki Yaki by way of Dhon Phon Huang. Michael had seen many dances but after a few moments of “La Pompadour” he acknowledged that he was witnessing one of the finest.

La Pompadour’s face was veiled and her body clothed in layers of gauze which she shed without breaking the rhythm of her dance. The dance was enticing, perfectly timed. Michael thought it quite beautiful.

As the dance progressed and more of “La Pompadour” became visible, Michael felt a faint twitching of memory. The twitching grew to a turmoil. Michael racked his brains. When at last the ultimate veil was dropped and “La Pompadour” stood revealed, Michael remembered.

“La Pompadour” was Phyllis Featherday.

At the same time, Michael had another thought, blinding in its certainty and in its irrelevance.

“Mary,” he said, “will you marry me?”

In the morning, Michael woke to the sound of tyres swishing through water. He got up and went to the window. The weather had broken. It was hard to imagine the street outside as the one down which he had skipped the previous evening.

Michael rubbed his chin. He tried to remember something The Bodger had said, years ago. “If you want to make up your mind about a woman, sleep with her. There’s nothing like it for separating the sheep from the goats.” Once again, The Bodger had been absolutely right. Michael made up his mind to marry Mary the minute it could be arranged. He dressed and went out to look for a shave.

Michael walked thoughtfully, thinking of the term who had joined the Navy with him. They were now separated all over the world. Some of them were even dead. Some he had met, others he had merely heard of; most of them could hear but not see each other, like troops thrashing through thick jungle.

When Michael became conscious of his surroundings again, he found blue sky, and Euston Station. He had walked the rain away.

The station was in a state of excitement. Flags hung over the roadway, officials were bustling about, and a large crowd lined the station approach.

Michael did not enquire the reason for the crowd. He joined it and was content to wait until something happened.

A black car flying the Royal Standard swept through the crowd and drew up at the station entrance. The crowd cheered and several small children waved flags.

Once the reason for their assembly had passed, the crowd dispersed. A woman with a shopping bag who had been standing next to Michael jogged his arm.

“That was nice, wasn’t it?” she said. “I always stop to see Them go by. Sets me up for the day. I shall have to tell Irene--that’s me daughter--I seen ’em when I git home. Fair crazy on Them she is.” The woman turned and looked squarely at Michael. “He used to be in your mob, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Michael said. “Yes, he was.”

“Well, cheer up then. He might make you an admiral some day.”

“He might,” Michael admitted.

Michael walked on. After a few yards he stopped, so suddenly that a man cannoned into him from behind.

“Watch where you’re going, chum.”

Michael paid no attention. He was examining himself in a shop window. He was still wearing evening dress, with a grey top coat and no hat. He was unshaven and his eyes were bloodshot.

Michael addressed himself to the shop window. “How the
hell
did she know?”