Every Man for Himself by Beryl Bainbridge Read Free Book Online

you have formed an opinion?’ He actually seized my arm, which startled me.
    ‘I can’t help you,’ I said.
    ‘You must pay attention,’ he urged. ‘I have no time for subterfuge. I am a man of strong passions.’
    ‘You surprise me,’ I said, looking pointedly down at his hand.
    He released me at once. ‘I have made a mistake,’ he muttered. ‘You are, after all, too young to be curious.’ Yet he still transfixed me with those moist and sentimental eyes.
    ‘Morgan,’ interrupted Ginsberg, a glass in either hand, ‘I gather the purser’s the fellow to ask about average speeds. What say you and I go in search of him?’
    I rose immediately and followed him into the revolving doors which spun us out into the foyer. From the Palm Court came the strains of jazz-time.
    He said, ‘You seemed to be having trouble with our stout friend, Rosenfelder.’
    ‘You know him?’
    ‘Scurra introduced me.’
    ‘You know Scurra?’
    ‘Don’t you?’
    ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, and left it at that. For a man who continually played the fool he was remarkably astute, from which I concluded he was not quite straight. I’m capable of making such a judgement, being often not entirely straight myself.
    The information we wanted, the purser told us, would be available tomorrow, once we had left Queenstown. He agreed with Ginsberg that they wouldn’t be pushing the ship this trip. ‘Perhaps 500 miles a day,’ he estimated. ‘Maybe more, maybe less.’
    ‘But you reckon we’ll reach New York Tuesday?’ pressed Ginsberg, and the purser replied, ‘Tuesday night, yes. Barring accidents,’ at which they both laughed.
    The office was cosy from the warmth of an electric fire. Above the desk was pinned a photograph of an infant scowling beneath the shadow of a summer bonnet. ‘A fine little chap,’ Ginsberg remarked. ‘What do you call him?’ Assuming a sugary expression he touched the child’s paper jowls with the tip of one finger.
    ‘Eliza,’ said the purser. ‘After her mother.’
    Remembering I hadn’t a receipt for the luggage transported by Melchett’s chauffeur, I enquired if it was to hand. After much rifling through the compartments of his desk the purser produced the relevant docket. ‘One medium sized trunk,’ he read, ‘and a consignment of theatrical manuscripts in the name of J. Pierpont Morgan.’
    We were about to leave when Ginsberg said, ‘I noticed when looking out of the saloon windows that while the sea and the skyline were evident on my left, only the sky was visible to starboard. From which I gained the impression we’ve a distinct list to port.’
    ‘Very well observed, sir,’ exclaimed the purser. ‘It’s no doubt due to more coal being consumed from the starboard bunkers than from the port side.’
    ‘Which is occasioned, no doubt,’ said Ginsberg, ‘by the fire blazing in the stokehold of Number 10 bunker.’
    The purser looked shaken. ‘A fire, sir? What do you mean?’
    ‘Come now. We both know what I’m talking about.’
    ‘A fire?’ I reiterated, stupidly enough. ‘What sort of fire?’
    ‘The sort that burns,’ retorted Ginsberg.
    ‘If what you imply was true, sir,’ the purser said, ‘the Board of Trade inspector would never have signed the clearance certificate for us to leave Southampton.’
    ‘Well then,’ cried Ginsberg, ‘we have nothing to worry about, have we?’
    ‘What was all that about?’ I asked, when we were in the corridor. He replied that he was a cautious man, which struck me as absurd, and that he had always found it inadvisable to take anything on trust.
    I didn’t return with him to the smoke-room; his know-all attitude irritated me. Sissy has constantly warned that my intolerance will land me in hot water. I’ve always felt that if a man tries to adopt attitudes which are not innate then sooner or later he will discover Nature cannot be forced. We are what we are, and it’s no good dissembling.
    Pleading lack of sleep and a mild