Love in Our Time (6 page)

“Has any Brother Mariner here to-night any other
name to offer for election to the distinguished post of Commodore?”

It was the Sea Lord from Gresham Street who was speaking: he had assumed command of the ceremonies from the moment when the retiring Commodore had sat down and handed over his Commodore's cap. The Sea Lord himself wore an Admiral's hat, braided and gold laced.

A small man at the back got to his feet. “Brother Sea Lord, I propose Brother Biddle's name,” he said.

Mr. Biddle turned and stared. The small man was Mr. Winall, who still owed him for re-roofing his garage. Mr. Biddle could not help wondering if the proposal and the debt were in any way connected.

“Will any Brother Mariner second that proposal?”

“Brother Sea Lord, I will second Brother Biddle's nomination.”

It was Mr. Cunningham who spoke this time. The man was a solicitor. Altogether it was one of the more pleasant surprises of life to find a man like Mr. Cunningham supporting him. And the man immediately behind Mr. Biddle seemed pleased too, about the nomination.

“Good old Biddle,” he said. “Hope you get in. You deserve it.”

Mr. Biddle shifted awkwardly in his seat.

“They don't want me,” he said. “They've got plenty of 'em already.”

“Very well, Brother Mariners, let us record our votes in the ancient manner of our Order.”

The Sea Lord bent down and placed a ship's bucket on the table.

“Write down the names in ink and fold the paper over,” he said.

The candidates themselves were not allowed to vote. They formed a little group of their own. But Mr. Biddle was aware that in a subtle way he was excluded from it. He had, moreover, the self-conscious feeling that he had somehow gate-crashed into the nomination. Against his judgment and his inclination he had suddenly been picked up from the quiet, third row where he had been sitting and pushed into notoriety. He tried to catch Mr. Vestry's eye and smiled apologetically.

But it was unnecessary: Mr. Vestry was wonderfully disarming.

“Hope you get it, Biddle,” he said. “I've got enough on my shoulders without this on top of it. Wouldn't ever have agreed to stand if the boys hadn't insisted.”

“Very nice of you to put it that way,” Mr. Biddle replied. “But you won't get out of it like that. They want you and they mean to have you.”

“You think so?” Mr. Vestry inquired with the easy confidence of the successful man. “Well, we'll see.”

One by one the Mariners returned to their places. Mr. Biddle did not take the trouble to go up to the front again. He took the last chair in the back row and sat across it cornerwise; he wanted to get on with his collection for Brother Millward as soon as the election was over. But apparently there was some sort of disagreement on the platform. The Sea Lord and Mr. Bowler, the retiring Commodore, were conferring together anxiously: they had the sheepish, muddled air of men who had found that their figures did not tally. The company in the body of the hall began to grow restive. There was the sound of coughing and clearing of throats. Mr. Ankerson and Mr. Hill discussed fruit trees. Mr. Biddle closed his eyes and sat back in his
chair; he felt himself soothingly sinking off into a light doze.

Then the presiding Sea Lord broke the silence.

“Brother Mariners,” he said slowly, “in the name of the East Finchley Fleet I have the honour to report that by this Harbour Election, freely and without prejudice undertaken, our Brother Mariner, Brother Biddle has been raised to the eminent and distinguished rank of Commodore.”

There was the sound of cheering and Mr. Biddle sat up with a jerk. It seemed to him afterwards that he had never been asleep at all, that he had actually heard those momentous words spoken from the platform. It was merely that at the actual instant of the announcement he was a little confused. At one moment everything was quiet and peaceful and, at the next, he found himself being suddenly clapped on the back and pulled to his feet and pushed forward up the aisle.

He reached the steps leading up to the platform—the Captain's ladder as it was called—in a kind of exalted daze. He felt like a newly-arrived soul in an enthusiastic company of angels. He knew that people were cheering him and he knew that they could be cheering him for one thing only. His common sense told him that much; but his caution would not let him believe it. He was terrified lest it should be some incredibly-minor post such as Quartermaster, whose duty was seeing that the chairs and carpet were in readiness for Harbour Meetings, to which he had been elected; the Fleet would never stop laughing about the Quartermaster who thought he was a Commodore. That was why he stood still at the foot of the Captain's ladder without attempting to ascend. It was the look of extreme disapprobation on the face of
Mr. Bowler, the retiring Commodore, that finally reassured him; the man was regarding him with an expression of damaged prestige that made it clear that he was resenting the fact that a pillar of Mincing Lane should be succeeded by a local builder and decorator.

“Come along, Commodore Biddle,” the Sea Lord commanded. “The Fleet is waiting.”

At the words Mr. Biddle felt a great lump come into his throat. He took the Sea Lord's proffered hand and shook it desperately.

“Thank you,” he said.

The actual ceremony of handing over the Commodore's hat band and receiving the pink silk sash of office passed off smoothly enough. Then the Sea Lord thrust a little slip of printed paper into Mr. Biddle's hand and he found himself taking a new oath.

“I swear,” the words ran, “by this my Commodore's cap of authority “—he had not put the band on very well; it had a make-shift, bulging appearance “and by this my sash of office, and above all by my original and binding oath as a Mariner in the Venerable Order of Mariners that I will uphold the honour of this, the East Finchley Fleet, and will so command it in obedience to my supreme officers that never will I allow myself to come before the Fleet, that never will I use my high rank for my own profit and that always will I preserve and cherish those ideals for which our Order was founded.”

The Sea Lord turned and saluted him. Mr. Biddle saluted back and everyone in the room cheered. It was the kind of atmosphere in which if there had been a cannon they certainly would have fired it.

Mr. Biddle was aware that the Sea Lord was whispering in his ear.

“It's usual to say a few words,” he was saying. “Something to show that you mean business. Give them a few practical ideals to live up to.”

Mr. Biddle wanted to refuse; but he couldn't. For the next twelve months he wouldn't be able to refuse anything that the Order asked of him. They had elected him; and he was now their property to do what they liked with. Until next March he was theirs to consult and worry and harass and annoy to their hearts' content. When he looked down from the platform at the faces of his friends and saw them applauding he knew that he was helpless.

“Brother Mariners,” he suddenly blurted out. “You have done me a signal honour and I'm very grateful. I shall try hard to justify your faith. I'm not a speaker and I can't say what this means to me. But it does mean a lot, believe me. It's because it means a lot that I want to do something as a small token. And I'd like you to do something too. I know there isn't the same reason for you because you haven't just been elected; but all the same I reckon you might just put it to yourselves and see if you can't do something. It's the widows and children I'm thinking of. And my first duty as Commodore is to say that I propose to start the collection with a personal cheque for twenty-five pounds.”

He sat down abruptly before the clapping began again. Now that he had said it he wondered what on earth had made him do it. He couldn't afford twenty-five pounds any more than the rest of them could: he saw the little grey stone house with the white shutters in Dorset disappearing before his eyes. In a single gesture he had given half the roof away.

But already the Sea Lord was speaking again.

“Don't let your Commodore's splendid action pass
for nothing,” he was declaring. “Remembering that it might be your own wives and your own children who are gathered round a death bed looking out wide-eyed into the future. Remember that and follow your Commodore's example.”

There was a rustle in the body of the hall and wallets were pulled out. Handfuls of notes were being gathered together by stewards and passed up to Mr. Biddle. He took them automatically and just sat there—with nearly thirty pounds' worth of money in his fists, looking at his friends giving their wives' house-keeping money away. They were good fellows these; they didn't just pass by on the other side. A widow or an orphan cried out in the wilderness and they answered. It was men like these who kept the world a decent place to live in. He only wished that Mrs. Biddle could have been spared to see this day; it would have shown her what brotherly love properly organised and directed really meant.

She, for her part, had always been rather scornful of the Mariners.

It was Celia who rang up Gerald.

He had determined on the night of the party that he would do nothing about seeing her; she was a portion of yesterday that refused to detach itself from to-day. Even her new phone number was forgotten. He had felt that he owed it to Alice to tear up the little scrap of paper that Celia had given to him.

But here she was on the phone.

“Gerald Sneyd speaking,” he said dubiously. “Who is it?”

He knew perfectly well who it was—there was only one voice as melting and caressing as that—but he was trying hard to keep his distance; and not to recognise her put him at an immediate advantage. Also, he was seeking to keep the conversation within the possible bounds of a business talk.

“It's Celia,” she said. “I was afraid you'd forgotten all about me.”

“Oh, no,” he answered helplessly. “I hadn't forgotten you.”

There was a moment's silence. “Well, you hadn't done much about it, had you?” she said. “I was afraid things really
were
different.”

“That's silly,” he assured her. “Why should they be?”

He wondered as he spoke if he should suddenly put
his hand down hard upon the receiver and pretend that they had been cut off in the middle of a sentence; but he reflected that it would be no use. Celia wasn't the sort of girl to be put off as easily as that, and he knew that he would be jittery every time the phone rang for the rest of the afternoon.

“Then why don't you come and see me?” he heard her ask.

“You mean both of us?” he said.

“Oh, yes, I'd love to have Alice; you know I would,” Celia answered. “I think she's sweet. But I wasn't thinking of a proper party. I meant just you. Why don't you come in for a drink on the way home?”

“Thanks,” said Gerald; “I'd like to sometime.”

“Then why not to-night?”

He tried to invent an excuse; but Celia had always been able to see through his excuses. She would only laugh at him and think that he was afraid to come. That was the last thing he wanted; and, in any case, perhaps the sensible thing would be to drop in quite casually and show by his attitude that everything was over between them. All that it required was a rather elaborate display of deliberately offensive good manners.

“Will you come?” Celia persisted.

“O.K.,” he said.

Her voice sounded even smoother than ever. “You get off just past the Russell,” she said, “and it's the first turning on the left. Woburn Gardens. Number twelve. You can't miss it. Mine's the top flat.”

“O.K.,” he said again.

“About six.”

“Just about.”

“So long, then.”

He rang off and passed his hand across his forehead. Someone told him that Mr. Hubbard was asking for him and he got up hurriedly. He walked with the guilty and unnaturally rapid tread of someone whose private business has abruptly been interrupted by the firm's.

He found Woburn Gardens without difficulty. The houses were tall, grey and identical; they looked more like a theatrical back-cloth than a row of real houses. As a product of the pre-concrete age they were a miracle of commercial standardisation. But, within them, there blossomed a wild and astonishing variety. The tenants ranged from ecclesiastical charities and coloured students' clubs to dubious little publishers and cheap actresses.

As Gerald reached number twelve and went in through the fine, imposing front door, which required only a push to open it, he began to regret more than ever that he had come. There is something strangely irrevocable about a top flat. In his bachelor days he had been friendly with several sporting and agreeable girls who occupied top flats. It had been like storming heaven to get to them; and almost as difficult to get away again afterwards. He mounted the last flight of stairs—they were maid's stairs by now: high, steep and narrow—and came to Celia's door. He was just a little out of breath and strangely apprehensive. As he rang, he told himself that his top flat days were over.

Celia opened the door herself. She looked very smart and fashionable in a new coat and skirt. Her pale gold hair was brushed in waves almost to her shoulders. He was grateful, that at least she wasn't wearing a kimono or
a pair of beach pyjamas; she usually did when she was alone.

The inside of the flat impressed itself as soon as you entered. It was at once luxurious and feminine. There were two lots of bright colours and shaded lamps and large, unnecessary cushions. Most of the living-room was taken up by a wide divan that led a spacious, vaguely sinful existence by the wall. It dominated everything that divan—so that anyone who stood about or sat upright appeared to be doing it as a kind of gesture.

Celia took Gerald's hat and coat and put them somewhere obscure in what seemed to be the bedroom. Then she threw herself down on the divan.