‘No.’ Fen bit her lip. ‘Were you?’
‘Oui, mademoiselle! And you tell me he is the “poor man” here.’ The officer held her gaze and Fen couldn’t tell if what he had just said was a statement or a question. ‘It is my duty now to ask you to remain quiet about meeting him, please.’
‘Of course,’ Fen agreed, and watched as the officer headed back down the corridor. She mumbled a quiet ‘how odd’ to herself too as she wondered why any German would want to travel out of their own country, to America no less, knowing the controversy their presence created, especially now that Hitler and his cronies were gone.
Fen opened her own cabin’s door, with a slight shake in her hand following that bizarre confrontation. Both bizarre confrontations really. Everything was, of course, as she had left it, and the sight of the chintz curtains and comfortable-looking little bed cheered her up no end. She took her thin, well-worn trench coat off and hung it up on the hook on the back of the cabin’s door, then crossed the cabin, closed the curtains over the porthole and turned on the bedside light.
Despite the cabin being made of solid steel, the chintz and side lamp lent the place a cosy feel. Still, as she pottered around the cabin, she couldn’t help but think again of the German. What did he mean by deserving to die here at sea, like so many other men?
Turning to face the mirror above the basin, she checked that her lipstick and victory-roll curls passed muster. The damp had caused her hair to frizz, and that man has got me quite frazzled, Fen thought, so she delved into her old suitcase for her hairbrush, hoping that a few good strokes would clear her head as well as sort out her hair. She didn’t want to have to wash and repin it before dinner; trying to do that with only a handbasin would have been interesting indeed. As she set about her curls with her brush she thought how lucky it was that the ship wasn’t due to leave port until later, so at least she didn’t have to cope with the sea’s rolling waves, as well as her hair’s own wavy rolls.
Putting her brush back in her suitcase, relatively pleased with her quick fix, she noticed for the first time something brightly coloured sitting underneath the old battered leather, getting creased between the bottom of the case and the counterpane on the single bed.
Fen pulled it out and discovered that it was a leaflet, advertising the French Line itself and filled with pictures of the ship, both interior and exterior. She recognised the saloon bar that they’d had drinks in and gawped at the luxury of the indoor swimming pool and gymnasium. Those staying on until America could have a jolly old time of it, all told.
There was a photograph of the auditorium, with a stage the size of a West End theatre and a cinema room too, plus a few boutique-style shops, which Fen assumed must have closed since the ship’s heyday, as there was a typed apology sheet from the ship’s captain mentioning the fact that not all of the facilities would be usable thanks to the De Grasse’s recent and chequered history.
Fen slipped the typed sheet back into the sales pamphlet, then noticed that another leaflet poked its way out from under her case. It, too, was very stylishly designed with pennants floating across the cover and the curvy signature font of the French Line jazzily splashed across an azure-blue-sky background. This one was actually more of a booklet and was several pages long. It proudly stated on the front cover that it was a souvenir of the voyage: the passenger list, no less.
Fen had never seen such a thing, but had heard of them. It was how all the newspaper journalists and gossip columnists knew who was arriving on the docks and when; the likes of the Astors and Rothschilds could never travel quietly, it seemed.
She sat herself down on the bed and had a good flick through. Sure enough, listed in first class, she spotted James, included here as ‘the Viscount Selham’, and then, a few lines down, ‘Miss E. Miller-Wright’ and, immediately above her, ‘Mrs M. Archer’, the intimidating aunt.
She flicked a few pages along to her own class.
‘Ooh,’ Fen exclaimed as she saw her name a few lines away from Mr Spencer McNeal, and below him there was Miss Jean Higginbottom. ‘Oh.’ Fen whispered to herself. ‘Genie must have changed her name for the stage.’
She kept scanning through the list, but among all of the Capt. George Cooks and Philip Lawson Esqs, there wasn’t one Hans or Klaus or anything like that. The German man wasn’t officially on board this ship at all, and if he wasn’t officially on board… then what was he doing here?
10
It wasn’t long before Fen was refreshed and dressed as smartly as her small trousseau allowed. She had left England not more than two months ago, with not much more to her name than some sensible work clothes and something decent to travel in. Her brief stay in Paris had awarded her a few more nice dresses, inherited from a dear friend and slightly out of fashion, but salvageable when cinched in with a new belt and paired with a dash of Revlon’s finest on her lips.
She’d also been given a rather beautiful silk scarf from a chic atelier, but Fen decided it wouldn’t match the pretty daisy pattern of the tea dress she had decided to wear for her first – and only – night on board ship. This was the problem with having second and first class combined for saloons and dining rooms – she’d be up against socialites and heiresses, not to mention stars of stage and wireless.
‘Where’s my tiara, eh?’ she asked herself as she carefully folded the silk scarf up and laid it gently on
