The Lovers Page 5

And decked with flowers of spring,

  No flower was there that could compare,

  With the charming girl I sing,

  As we drove in the low-backed car,

  The man at the turn-pike bar,

  Never asked for the toll,

  But just rubbed his old poll,

  And looked after the low-backed car!

  Ten minutes after they had dropped anchor off St Tropez, Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh stripped down to his jockey shorts, buckled on a tool-belt and, armed with a torch and a plan of electrical circuits and plumbing conduits, started his long, claustrophobic crawl through the bilges of the Salamandra d’Oro.

  He began right at the stern where the propellor shafts pierced the hull, and the cables of the steering system were connected to the rudder. He inspected the bearings and the watertight glands. He ran his fingers over the shafts in search of tell-tale irregularities. He shone his torch on the plumbing outlets in search of leaks.

  He was just about to climb out of the well and move on to the next section when he caught a dull gleam of metal in the torchlight. He reached for it and his groping fingers found a gold coin, a Swiss twenty-franc piece coated with oil and dust. He studied it for a moment then shoved it into the small leather container clipped to his tool-belt, which held a miscellany of small nuts, bolts and assorted fasteners.

  On the next stage of his journey he had to lie on his back with his nose against the bottom of the fuel tank, draining off water from the sump where it had settled out from the diesel oil. There was more of it than he expected; which meant that somewhere along the line the Salamandra’s fuel supplier had pumped in watered stock. There was only one remedy: to refuse to accept delivery until the consignment had been tested by pumping a sample into a clean glass demijohn and waiting until any water content settled out. Many tanker drivers raised a stink about the slow procedure. Most came swiftly to see reason, under the threat of a complaint to the company and to the police.

  The most complicated area was under the engine room itself, where the big diesels were bedded and all the electrical wiring converged on the main fuse box. By the time that was all checked Cavanagh was black as a coalminer and greasy as a fairground pig. Only two more areas remained to be inspected, the plumbing under the forepeak and the chain-locker. No sooner was he down in the darkness again when Hadjidakis called to him.

  ‘The crew toilet’s packed up. I’ll pass you down a bucket and a wire probe, see if you can clear it, like a good man!’

  Cavanagh said nothing. He unwrapped the sweat-rag from his forehead and tied it in a mask around his nostrils. Then he prayed quietly that he wouldn’t throw up . . .

  Later, when the last chore was done, he dived overboard and swam a thousand yards down the bay and back again, purging his angers with the long, flailing crawl which had won him a long-distance championship in his last year at college. Later still, shaved and showered and dressed in clean shorts and a tennis shirt, he sat on the afterdeck and ate asparagus and fresh lobster washed down with a local blanc de blancs that lay clean and crisp on the palate.

  When the coffee was served, he took the gold piece from his pocket and slapped it on the table in front of Hadjidakis.

  ‘I found that under the owner’s cabin this morning.’

  Hadjidakis glanced at it, then pushed it back with the tip of his index finger.

  ‘Finders keepers. It’s yours.’

  ‘I don’t want it, thank you.’

  ‘The offer offends you?’

  ‘You offend me, Hadjidakis.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You planted the damn thing! You’ve got wealthy guests coming aboard. You need to be sure the new boy isn’t a bandit. I understand that; but you insult my intelligence with a childish trick!’

  ‘Don’t take it too hard, Cavanagh.’ Hadjidakis gave him a big happy grin. ‘I’ve met a lot of dock-rats in my time. I’ve learned to be careful.’

  Cavanagh gave him grin for grin and added a piece of advice for good measure.

  ‘You’ve had your fun, Georgy-boy; but now the game’s over! Next time anyone stops up the plumbing with cotton waste from your engine room, I’ll personally shove it down your gullet and stand by while you eat it. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Anything else you want to get off your chest?’

  ‘No. That’s the lot – except to pass a compliment to the Chef. That was a splendid lunch.’

  ‘You earned it,’ said Giorgios Hadjidakis amiably. ‘Now can we call a truce?’

  Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh thought the word was ill-chosen. A truce signified only a temporary break in hostilities. However he raised his glass and toasted it in the dregs of the wine.

  Early next morning they took on fuel and water, and the tanker-man waited, cursing, until his product was tested. A van-load of provisions was checked and stored. Bedrooms and bathrooms were made up with fresh linen and expensive toiletries. Flower arrangements were delivered for the saloon, the dining room and the guest cabins. When the last messenger had stepped ashore, the decks were scrubbed and pumiced, the brass and bright-work polished, the windows and port-holes wiped mirror clean.

  Just after lunch, a taxi drew up on the dock and decanted one Miss Lenore Pritchard, late of the Cunard Steamship Company Limited. She looked like a very superior nanny. She carried herself straight as a guardsman. She wore a blue serge costume, low-heeled black shoes, a white blouse and a basin-like felt hat that hid the upper part of her face. Hadjidakis handed her aboard with more than casual respect and took her immediately to her quarters – a small single-berth cabin opposite to his own and separate from the rest of the crew’s quarters in the forepeak.

  Half an hour later, she emerged a different woman. Dressed in summer whites she looked five years younger, with auburn hair, a peaches-and-cream complexion, an athlete’s figure and a devil-may-care look in her bright blue eyes. She was obviously at ease in shipboard company. She raised a ready laugh from Leo and Jackie. She gave Cavanagh a thorough inspection and a final grin of approval. She managed a passable French and a fluent Italian with the Chef. To Hadjidakis she delivered a set of trenchant judgments.

  ‘. . . So far, no complaints! The deckhands are good-looking. The navigator can read. The Chef knows how to make English tea. The engine room’s as clean as a new pin. I only hope the guests are able to live up to the crew!’

  ‘We’ll soon know.’ Hadjidakis had summoned all hands to the afterdeck for coffee and a final briefing. ‘I spoke to Mr Molloy last night. These are his orders. We leave Antibes at 1600 hours and coast quietly down to Monte Carlo, arriving at 17.30. All crew will wear summer whites, and in addition to the courtesy flags we’ll fly the pennon of the Farnese family. Cavanagh, you’ll take us into harbour. Our berth is number seven; that’s on the starboard hand as you enter. I know you’ll give us a classy docking, because Mr Molloy will be waiting with his guests to see us in. The moment we’re secure, all personnel will assemble on the afterdeck to welcome Mr Molloy and his guests. There will be two ladies, the Princess Giulia Farnese and her aunt, the Countess Lucietta Sciarra-Tebaldi. Miss Pritchard, you will take them below and get them settled. Leo, you’ll look after the Prince and his friend, who is Count Galeazzi from the Vatican.

  ‘The moment they’re all below, we clear harbour and set course for Calvi at the northern end of Corsica. It’s a hundred-mile run, and the forecast is for light and variable winds with low seas; so it should be a comfortable shakedown cruise for the guests. Cocktails will be served on the afterdeck at seven, dinner in the saloon at eight. That’s all for now. All hands will be ready to winch out at 1600 hours . . .’

  The small gathering dispersed. Cavanagh went up to the bridge to mark up his charts and read the pilot books for the ports they were to visit. Hadjidakis had made it clear that, unless Molloy decreed otherwise, Cavanagh should act as navigator on the voyage. It was a left-handed compliment which at once affirmed Cavanagh’s competence and relieved Hadjidakis of responsibility f
or piloting the vessel in unfamiliar ports and seaways.

  A few moments later, Miss Pritchard came up to the bridge and perched herself in the pilot’s chair.

  She announced calmly, ‘I thought we should get acquainted before the circus begins.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Cavanagh gave her a cheerful grin. ‘How do you like to be called?’

  ‘In front of the guests, Miss Pritchard. In private, Lenore. And you?’

  ‘For the guests, Mr Cavanagh. The rest of the time I answer to Cavanagh, Bryan, hey-boyo, whatever the mood dictates.’

  ‘Are you moody then?’

  ‘No. Most of the time I’m a happy chappie.’

  ‘Good! I’m a happy soul myself, and I like clear signals. Are you married?’

  ‘No. Are you?’

  ‘Not any more. Tried it once and didn’t like it. Don’t get me wrong. I like men and I like sex. And I like the job I do, which is coddling the wealthy and the famous for the Cunard Line. With the wages and the tips, it pays well. What I don’t like is me making the money for some layabout husband to spend. How do you feel about women, Cavanagh?’

  ‘I love ’em all. I have sex with some of them, by mutual consent for mutual pleasure. Does that answer the question?’

  ‘It will do for now. But listen Cavanagh! I’ve been working the Cunarders for a lot of years now. I’m good at my job because I know it’s a chameleon act. You change colours to suit the customer – and the crew too for that matter, because you serve the customer but you have to live with the crew. Leo and Jackie, for instance, they’re as camp as a canvas tent, but we’ll get along fine. Live and let live is my motto. The Greek fellow – Mr Hadj-whatever – he’s much harder to read. He’s all dark and screwed up inside. Mr Molloy on the other hand . . .’

  ‘You’ve met Molloy?’ Cavanagh stared at her in surprise.

  ‘Sure I’ve met him! How the hell did you think I got this job? Won it in a parish raffle? Molloy made several trips with Cunard. Each time he had the same cabin suite, but a different woman. Each time I was the stewardess. He liked me. He had friends in top management. He arranged with my boss that I could take a summer leave to do this job . . . So here I am!’

  ‘Obviously Mr Molloy gives very clear signals too.’

  ‘Clear as a bell!’ Miss Pritchard gave a high, happy laugh. ‘With him it was always simple: “Do you, don’t you? Will you, won’t you? If the answer’s yes, lock the door and let’s have your skirt up and your knickers down. I’ll pay a hundred quid for your time and my pleasure.” I like that sort of man. He must like my sort of woman, otherwise he wouldn’t have offered me this job, would he?’

  ‘I guess not. Our Mr Molloy is a man who knows his own mind.’

  ‘But he needs someone who knows how his mind works.’

  ‘Which is you?’

  ‘Which is me, of course. He told me so in plain words. “Listen, Lenore,” he said, “I’m marrying a young and beautiful woman, the flower of the old nobility in Europe. This is tradition with a capital T. We’re going to be cruising for three months, and Giulia’s going to be chaperoned every hour she’s on my ship. That’s fine. I wouldn’t expect less. I wouldn’t want it otherwise; but if I’m going to last the distance I’m going to need some regular relief from an understanding woman. I’m going to need discretion too – and that’s what I’ll be paying for, and paying generously . . .”’

  ‘So why,’ asked Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh, ‘why would you be telling me all this, when the whole essence of the deal with Molloy is discretion and secrecy?’

  ‘Not secrecy, Cavanagh! You’ve that part wrong. How do you keep a secret on any ship, let alone one this size? The answer is that you don’t try. The crew are one world; the guests are another. The crew see everything and say nothing because their jobs are on the line. The guests say nothing because they’re too busy with the scenery and their own gossip. And why am I telling you? Because Mr Molloy pays well, but he plays rough. He knows I’ll need a change, and I won’t get it from the dancing boys, or the Greek – and the Chef just isn’t interested.’

  ‘But you’re sure I will be?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Her eyes were bright with cheerful malice. ‘It’s going to be a long cruise. Mr Molloy promised me a playmate for when he couldn’t be around. You’re the chosen one, Cavanagh!’

  ‘And if I have other ideas?’

  ‘Feel free. Enjoy, enjoy! But remember, I’m the only woman available on board and you’re too lusty to waste your nights baying at the moon! Never fear! We’ll get together sooner or later! Ciao for now, Cavanagh!’

  She touched the tips of her fingers to his mouth then left him staring into the empty space where she had stood. Suddenly, the madness of it all hit him, and he found himself choking with uncontrollable laughter.

  So this was the great Molloy, banker to princes, friend of cardinals, betrothed to a princess, soon to be dubbed a knight by the Pope himself. This was the stern moralist demanding clean hands and hearts of all who would serve his virgin bride, while he himself bought in a whore to be her chambermaid, and picked a vagabond from down-under off the beach to be a gentleman of the whore’s bedchamber.

  And yet, and yet, the Chef was right. Molloy did have style; but it wasn’t the wild baroque excess of the Borgias or the Farnese themselves, but rather the finicking conspiratorial ruthlessness of the Black Irish who would rather win than enjoy the game, who would rather surround themselves with complaisant minions than risk their potency in the jousts of love.

  Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh knew them well; he had, after all, been born into the clan; but he himself was still untested. Now, like a character in an old-time melodrama, he was faced with almost comic questions. What would he do when Lou Molloy clapped him on the shoulder, man to man, and told him to keep Pritchard happy because the last thing in the world Molloy needed was woman-trouble on the Salamandra d’Oro? Came then a more sinister query: what would Molloy do if he felt himself betrayed or his great project jeopardised?

  For the moment, however, it was all theory and conjecture, based on the dubious word of Miss Lenore Pritchard who might well turn out to be the most monumental liar since Baron Münchausen. So Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh turned back to his charts, laid down the short courses to Monaco and Corsica and then began to study the Admiralty directions for pilots entering the harbour of Monte Carlo and mariners homing from the north-east on the Calvi light.

  The boarding ceremony for Molloy’s princely guests turned into a minor disaster. In the late afternoon there was a buildup of local weather behind Monaco. The clouds piled up over Mount Mounier and a small, treacherous wind began searching down the valley of the Var. Hadjidakis ordered extra speed, and Cavanagh was safely tied up in Monte Carlo harbour fifteen minutes before the appointed time.

  Exactly on the half-hour a big limousine arrived; the chauffeur handed Molloy and his guests on to the quay and then began unloading a small mountain of suitcases. Hadjidakis went down the gang-plank to welcome them. Jackie and Leo followed him to deal with the baggage.

  The party was still bunched on the quay, admiring the vessel, when the rafale hit: a flurry of wind and rain and hail that swept across the exposed quay and sent them scurrying like drenched cats up the narrow gang-plank and into the shelter of the lounge. As soon as the last piece of baggage was on board, Hadjidakis snapped out an order.

  ‘Start engines, Cavanagh, and let’s get the hell out of here. This is local weather only. There’ll be clear skies to the south.’

  Which was how it came to pass that Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh was presented in private audience to the Principessa Giulia Farnese di Mongrifone. He was at the wheel, heading southward into sunlight and quiet water, when Molloy brought Giulia up to the bridge. Beside Molloy, she looked small, young and very vulnerable. Then, as if by some inner transformation, she was suddenly imperious and full of fire. Her glance was a mockery; her smile a condescension. Was she beautiful? Cavanagh made silent answer to the unspoken question. Y
es, by God, she was beautiful; but arrogant as one of Lucifer’s angels, demanding deferment, quizzing anyone presented to her like a royal visitor. Cavanagh bowed over her hand and greeted her in Italian. She gave him a small smile of approval and a patronising compliment.

  ‘Your accent is very good. Where did you learn?’

  ‘There are many Italian migrants in my country. Some families have been there for several generations. I was taught by a distinguished scholar, a friend of Pirandello.’

  ‘That’s a surprise!’ She was teasing now. ‘I thought all Australians walked upside down and talked out of the sides of their mouths.’

  ‘Regrettably, my dear Principessa, you have been cruelly deceived. But that is the fate of many beautiful women.’

  ‘Perhaps you may find time to instruct me more accurately, Mr Cavanagh.’

  ‘I, too, am in need of instruction. I have always been interested in the history of your illustrious namesake, Giulia the Beautiful.’

  It was a risky line; but she took it without a blush. Molloy, excluded from the talk, cut in abruptly.

  ‘What’s he telling you, my dear?’

  ‘He’s showing me – very politely, I must say – that he knows more about my country than I do about his.’

  ‘He’s a surprising fellow, our Mr Cavanagh. We haven’t seen half his talents yet.’

  To change the subject, Cavanagh suggested that the Princess might like to take the wheel. She agreed readily. Cavanagh snapped off the autopilot and stood back, while Molloy demonstrated the feel of the steering mechanism and showed her how to manage the swing of the sea, to read the radar screen and the depth sounder.

  Watching the small sexual rituals between them, his lips brushing her cheek, his hands smoothing a trailing wisp of her hair, Cavanagh felt a sharp pang of jealousy, a sudden irrational urge to wrench them apart and take Molloy’s place beside the woman. The swift onset of the madness startled him. He had to mock himself back into sanity.

  What was Giulia Farnese to him? What could he ever be to her? Her betrothal to Molloy was already half a sacrament, contrived and blessed by God’s anointed, ratified by the ministers of mammon in a pre-nuptial agreement. The three circles of religion, family and money were already linked together and closed. There was no standing-place within them for a vagabond lawyer from the Antipodes.