A Brief Journey

The cufflinks proved themselves impossible. One of them had cost Richard Crawford several minutes to pin and the other one, by the rolling of the ship, had fallen off the dark oak cupboard upon which the mirror was poised and now lay unidentifiable in the cranny the cupboard made with the sombre wall of the cabin. It was a cramped cabin. Apart from the base utilities of a chair, an oak bed and wardrobe; a shaving basing was placed between the privy and the bed, ever so inconvenient when Crawford wished to shave and brush himself up as a proper gentleman must. It was undeniably nefarious in his eyes.

But then again, an extensive number of things were.

Richard Crawford had always greatly prided himself in his virtues. It was no wonder, as both his parents and teachers had sworn upon it. While he was aware that behind his back many claimed him to be conceited and flagrant in his overall demeanour, he had always acted as if it couldn't possibly bother him. Being too proud to alter his ways, of a sort.

He had always wanted to be an actor, but he'd never be a very good actor. Richard was very aware of this. He knew it to be the kind of dream that people of mediocre talents are fond of but never pursue. They may dream and fantasise about it, but they know very well it will never come to be. And in a way, recognising that he wasn't deluded about it, brought forth another certain sense of pride. The kind of pride which you pat yourself on the back for; being so utterly self-conscious and wise, after all.

But the fact remained that Richard Crawford was a very ordinary young man who liked to think he was extraordinary.

And so he tried to act as if he didn't care, and as if he were perfectly happy and leading exactly the kind of life he wanted to lead. He had led an easy life. His father held huge financial holdings oversees, especially in railways, and hence he had never wished for anything.

Nevertheless, life was beginning to get him down. His father disapproved of the leisure way in which he spends his time and constantly compared him with his elder siblings, who were doing much better. Allie in particular. Damn accomplished Alexandra 'Allie' Crawford. Curse her and curse her intellect.

Apart from that, Richard had also gotten himself into an awkward situation with Mathilda Aldouin, a rather charming girl he had met in Paris last season.

The year was 1904 and Paris had been starting to grow old anyway; as England had felt half a year ago when he had bid his parental home goodbye. Perhaps Italy would prove to be more entertaining. He imagined himself sitting there, an apartment looking on the Fontana di Trevi; coffee by the Roman Forum. Perhaps he could take trips to Florence and Bologna. See the Ponte Vecchio. The Medici Chapel. Bologna's University. He would meet new people in the student restaurants on the Via Margutta. Laugh at passerby at the Café Greco.

A crestfallen sigh escaped him as he held himself back from visualising it. It was of no use.

Richard gave up his search for the cufflink and instead combed down the blond locks upon his head. It was superfluous, as they never seemed to fall any differently than exactly how they should. But he saw an imaginary fault in it. So he would correct it. Then he sat himself down on the bed, as it was the furthest position from the barbola mirror and the only way he might look upon his outfit. If only he had gotten a bigger cabin. Mr Crawford Sr. would have paid for it anyway.

It was a good-sized triple-deck ship with thirty-eight passengers. These passengers Richard deemed adequate in character. Entertaining and amusing enough for a talk in the lounge, but not of a particularly interesting nature.

Now lying in a deckchair, languishing in the afternoon sun that alighted the deck while he mourned the abundance of ill-prepared food on the ship, he tried to sleep. Sleeping had been quite difficult since the last evening in Paris and he reasoned that he did hold some regret towards Mathi. He had cut someone out of his life he had been all too lucky to have. But he had been scared. More than he dared to admit.

My main mistake seems to be that I never bring myself to commit to anything, he thought. Perhaps papa, — No he isn't. Let him think he was right. For all his interference and wisdom: he doesn't own nor know me.

Richard writhed in his chair as he thought of it, flattening a crease in his shirt. Not too far off a woman in a pale blue ensemble and a dark narrow brim hat, wiped her nose and looked about the water. Her short brown curls resembled those of Mathi. A gloved hand lay lingering upon the balustrade and while she emitted a sense of pride and consciousness in her stance, her fine features displayed utter boredom.

He particularly liked the soft lipstick she wore.

She was joined by an elderly man who paused, regarded the horizon, and walked on. Then the woman's daughter seemed to arrive, accompanied by a dapper gentleman who briefly offered an arm to his wife. She smiled, and the trio walked off.

He closed his eyes and allowed the heaving of the ship to lull him to rest.

"Mr Crawford?' One of the staff was bending over him. "Would you like an afternoon refreshment? They are serving in about ten minutes in the lounge."

Richard didn't bother to sit up in his chair. "Thank you very much, but I think I prefer to stay."

"As you wish."

"Another time."

He sank deeper and folded his hands over his lap. His distant manner, he knew, was causing a little comment among the people on the ship. Richard's mood was reposeful and benevolent, but not at all sociable. He wanted to spend the remainder of the journey in all calmness, and he did not care to meet any of the people aboard, though when he encountered fellow passengers, he greeted them full of consideration and with a smile enriching his features.

A day and a half from Naples, he thought. Would they be waiting? And the thought brought him such alarm, such ghastly anticipation, that he could not hide a shudder. Anyone observing would have written it off to the cold, as, although the weather was fair, a faint breeze was incessantly present on deck.

His nerves did not allow him to rest. He went for tea. Then for dinner.

Upon returning, he went for a walk. It was a quarter to eleven on his watch, and the nightly sky was utterly dark. The wind blew freely the hair out of his face and he found himself alone on deck. One could no longer distinguish the water from the heavens. There was some kind of mass on his extreme left, probably Cagliari, and otherwise nothing but black sea and black sky, so black that there was no trace of a horizon and they might have been sailing in a black void.

One day from Naples. One day.

Silence reigned. His hand remained on the taffrail, rising and falling with the ship's prow, a thump stroking absentmindedly over the chipped flaws in the white paint. The waves crashed gently below, a melody that filled one with drowsiness.

He had always enjoyed Mathilda's laugh when she became drowsy. In the early morning hours, after a night of festivities in some rich man's manor; her laugh became a mixture of extreme joviality and high-pitched chokes. Laughing as she breathed in. Who did that? Who on earth laughed like that? It was outrageous. And yet the sound had never failed to spark a flutter in his heart. He imagined her now once more, a dress enriching her figure. Her brown eyes: first appearing so dull, yet when the light had touched them in a certain way: they became golden, bronze in the afternoon. And dark. Incredibly dark at night.

One day from Naples, he thought once more.

She had had an odd sense of humour...

He sniffed and stood up a little straighter. A defiant resolve rose in him momentarily and disappeared just as quickly as dreadful nausea came over him so that he could not breathe.

"I'm sorry, my dear." Richard Crawford whispered. He couldn't cry. He couldn't scream. He couldn't do anything but feel the big, gaping, aching hole right in the middle of his heart. Richard's chest clenched around the sudden nothingness and it felt like his sternum would cave in. An anaemic smile graced his features, "good heavens, how stupid I am. How utterly pathetic."

It was no use regretting. Remorse wouldn't help him.

There came a man out to join him. Richard deemed him to be one of the staff as the man began cleaning; collecting the empty ashtrays and placing them in a cardboard box he held under his arm. Steadily and efficiently, the way a person behaves when doing a job they have done hundreds of times before, he made his way across the deck.

How long have I been standing here? Richard found himself wondering. His hands felt incredibly cold. He had not moved them since long, and the uncomfortable twist of pain the clenching of his hands gave him had him grimace for a moment. He turned his wrist and peered in the dim swinging light of a nearby lamp at the delicate hands of his watch. Gone midnight...

He exhaled slowly.

Less than a day.

It was almost irrelevant in a way. A complete waste of time to count the hours. Almost, but not quite. It meant that no matter what happened from here on out, he had at least survived to this day. To this night; this beautiful moonless Mediterranean night. There was a strange liberation in that. Defiance, of sorts. It failed to make him feel euphoric, but at least it brought comfort. And that uneasy comfort almost balanced out the anxiety wrecking his beleaguered mind; it almost chased away the exhaustion from the sleepless nights and grim nightly scares.

It felt like a hundred years since he had fled Paris. And yet it had been barely a week. Nothing had really gone as he'd expected, had it? His brilliant plans. A colossal mistake from start and soon, — to finish. Supposing they would, if they got him, could he say that-

"Mr Crawford, are you alright?"

Richard blinked. "Why, yes."

"It's becoming quite chilly on deck, Sir." The man said in broken English, "it's ought to rain soon."

Without making the conscious decision to do so, Richard regarded the ink sky.

Really? It was ought to rain?

Then he shrugged. "I'll be inside in about a minute."