Мариус Габриэль - The Ocean Liner

‘So you’re optimistic about the war?’

‘Oh, very. But gentlemen, you must have mercy on a girl. I have to prepare for the voyage.’

‘Miss Ward, can we have just a few more poses?’

‘Naughty, naughty boys.’

She obligingly threw some kittenish poses, redolent of the Edwardian era, lifting one foot prettily behind her, pulling out her spectacular pearls (frankly envied by her friend Queen Elizabeth) and tilting her head back. The flashbulbs sizzled, despite her admonishment. Her movements dislodged a cloud of face powder, momentarily bright against her silhouette, as though she were literally crumbling into dust before their eyes.

‘Miss Ward. Miss Ward!’

But Fanny was making her bow and heading for the exit.

Mrs Kennedy was waiting to be connected to her husband. The telephone lines were maddeningly congested as a result of the war. And quite possibly, she thought, he would be occupied with his bouncy new secretary (whose smirking presence she’d had to put up with for the past few weeks) and too busy to talk to his wife. Rosemary was sobbing on the bed.

‘I can’t stand this much longer,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘Can’t you shut her up, Patricia?’

‘I’m scared of her.’ At fifteen, Pat was no match for Rosemary when she was like this. Her sister was capable of lashing out at anyone who approached. Rosemary was the eldest sister, bigger and more robust than Pat in every way. Only Eunice among the girls, and Jack and Joe among the boys, could deal with her tantrums. Even Mother didn’t seem able to do anything any more.

‘Don’t be a goose,’ Mrs Kennedy said tersely. ‘Try and distract her.’

Pat twisted her hands together, shaking her head. ‘Mother, please don’t make me.’

Joe was finally on the line, his voice impatient. ‘Hello? Hello?’

‘It’s me. I can’t cope with this any longer, Joe.’

‘Cope with what?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Rosemary is becoming impossible. She’s throwing one of her tantrums as we speak. Luella’s not here. I just have Pat to help me, and the poor child is terrified. Rosemary is like a wild beast.’

‘What set her off?’ Joseph Kennedy asked wearily.

‘This man, of course. I’ve prevented her from seeing him and she’s raging. All she thinks of is—’ She glanced at Pat, who was listening, pale-faced. ‘You know what,’ she concluded, tight-lipped.

‘She’s in love with him?’

‘That’s dignifying it. It’s unbridled lust.’

He sighed. ‘Jack said he spoke to the fellow.’

‘It’s Rosemary who is intractable. She’s obstinate beyond belief.’ Mrs Kennedy covered the mouthpiece and hissed at Pat. ‘This is not for your ears. Do as I say. Go to your sister. Don’t you dare disobey me!’

Reluctantly, partly because she wanted to hear what Rosemary had been doing with ‘that boy’ and partly because she was afraid, Pat obeyed. She picked up the latest copy of Hollywood Magazine, which she had been reading, and went to sit beside Rosemary on the bed.

‘They’re remaking The Hunchback of Notre Dame , Rosie,’ she said, ‘with Charles Laughton and Maureen O’Hara. Do you want me to read you the article?’ She showed Rosemary the page, but she might not have been there at all. Rosemary was lying on her side with her face half-buried in the pillow, her body convulsing with strange, choking sobs.

Pat persevered. ‘A bear escaped on to the set while they were filming. They thought it was foaming at the mouth, and everyone ran away screaming, but it was just eating a bowl of ice cream. Isn’t that funny?’

Rosemary was only dimly aware of her sister’s presence. She was in a wilderness, battered by every sound, clawed by the light. Everything hurt. Nothing made any sense. Except pain. She couldn’t bear her own feelings. She couldn’t bear the skin that was wrapped around her flesh or the hair that clung to her sweaty face. She couldn’t bear the organs inside her; she could feel every one of them in rebellion. She couldn’t bear her own bones. But there wasn’t anywhere to go. Because she was the wilderness, and everything was howling around inside her and nothing was bearable. She wanted Cubby, but she couldn’t let him see her like this. She couldn’t even think of him like this. He didn’t belong in here.

‘It takes three hours to put on Charles Laughton’s make-up,’ Pat went on, ‘and an hour to take it off, so they can only film for a short while every day. He has such a chubby, cute face. I guess it takes a lot of work to turn him into a monster.’

The word monster lanced through Rosemary’s wilderness like a lightning bolt, cracking open the sky, becoming a snarling shape with fangs and claws. She tried to bury herself, like a terrified animal, but her world was rock, unyielding.

Pat looked up at Rosemary, and saw that there were now watery, red stains on the pillow. Her heart sank. Rosemary’s tantrums were really awful lately. She dreaded the thought of the voyage to come, and wondered how they were going to cope with Rosemary in the States, without Dad. She turned to another of her magazines, Film Weekly .

‘Hitch is coming to the US. That’s Alfred Hitchcock. He says he wants to direct American stars for a change. He says British actresses bottle up their feelings. He says you can throw them into an ice-bath and they come up still trying to look aloof and dignified.’ She giggled.

Rosemary covered her face clumsily with her hands, sobbing. The light from the window was savage, stabbing into her eyes, prying between her fingers to get into her brain. She hadn’t understood anything of what Pat had said except the word ice-bath . She could feel the piercing cold of the ice, feel the slippery blocks sliding across her skin, pushing inside her. Everything was too cold, too hot, too hard, too loud, too raw. Everything tortured her. The only sense anything made was pain.

‘Please stop crying, Rosie,’ Pat begged in a quavering voice. But the stains on Rosemary’s pillow were bright red now. Pat put the magazines down and stroked Rosemary’s convulsing shoulders. ‘Mother,’ she called out, ‘she’s biting her tongue real bad.’

Exasperated, Mrs Kennedy came away from the telephone to look at Rosemary. She groaned. ‘You stupid, wilful girl. What is the point of this?’ She pushed Pat out of the way and shook Rosemary hard. ‘These dramatics impress nobody.’ The shaking had the effect of silencing the jerky sobs for a moment. Mrs Kennedy hauled Rosemary upright and pulled her mouth open. She had champed her tongue until it bled. Her face was swollen and blank, all her beauty gone. She glared at her mother for a moment, then her eyes rolled away. She spat bloodily.

‘Don’t you spit at me,’ Mrs Kennedy said furiously. ‘Go and wash your mouth out. Get up, get up.’

With the aid of Pat, she got Rosemary to her feet and pushed her towards the bathroom. Rosemary stumbled inside. Mrs Kennedy went back to the phone, leaving Pat hovering nervously outside the bathroom door. The sounds from within were scary, as though there were a wild thing in there. She cracked the door open and peered in. Rosemary was groping at the blank wall, leaving streaks of bloodstained saliva on the white tiles.

‘There’s nothing there, Rosie,’ Pat whispered.

But Rosemary could see the door in front of her. Except there was no handle. And push as hard as she may, it wouldn’t open. There was no way out.

‘There’s nothing there, Rosie. Please come and rinse your mouth.’ She tried to steer her sister to the sink, but Rosemary abruptly turned on her, flailing in panic. ‘You’re hurting me,’ Pat gasped, trying to protect her face. ‘Stop it!’