by Jonathan Coe
And then there was her new job: a permanent lectureship at one of the principal London universities. It would start in October, and Sophie was hugely excited about it. Ian, of course, was ambivalent. Yes, it meant they would have more money: this would certainly be useful – especially if they were going to start a family, as he was anxious to do – but he had also applied for a new job himself (a promotion, in fact, to regional manager) and he was pretty confident of success, and the rise that would go with it. Wouldn’t that be enough, for the time being? Behind this question lay his great, voiceless anxiety: his wife would from now on be spending three days a week in London – sleeping on Sohan’s couch, probably, until a more satisfactory arrangement could be worked out – and there was something about this idea that disturbed him profoundly. Something more than the prospect of their intermittent separation, and of having to spend two or three nights a week in the flat by himself. Something about her drifting back towards a city, a way of life and a set of friends that had nothing to do with him, that pre-dated him, and for this reason posed a threat to their marital status quo. Ever since the decision had been made, an unspoken but palpable uneasiness had arisen between them.
‘Good,’ was all that Sophie said, in response to Sohan’s comment. And she added: ‘Because it’s true.’ Which immediately made it sound as though it wasn’t.
‘He’s going with you, I suppose? Aboard the good ship Decrepitude.’
‘Don’t be so rude all the time.’
‘Come on, they’re all going to be ancient. Don’t you have to be at least seventy to go on a Legend cruise?’
‘Fifty.’
‘Well, most of them are going to be way older than that. HMS Senility.’ He laughed, as he had a habit of doing, at his own jokes. Ever since Sophie had told him the news, the very idea of her being stranded for ten days on board a cruise ship with four hundred elderly British passengers for company had been causing him endless amusement. She suspected an element of professional jealousy.
‘Yes, he’s coming,’ she said. ‘They’ve been very good about it. He’s missing the first three days, but they’re flying him out and he’s joining the ship in Stockholm.’
‘That’s so romantic,’ said Sohan. ‘I’m just picturing the two of you together in your cabin, steaming across the Baltic. Like Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio. In fact I can see the resemblance, in both cases.’ He drained the last of the champagne from his glass. ‘Let’s hope there are no icebergs.’
‘There won’t be,’ said Sophie, and shielded her eyes against the low-lying sun, trying in vain to find the Greenwich Observatory amidst the concrete chaos of the city she would soon be calling home again.
17.
20–22 August 2014: Dover–Stockholm
The Legend Topaz IV set sail from Dover shortly after 14:00 hours on Wednesday afternoon. It was a fine day and the water was calm. Sophie watched from her tiny private balcony as the white cliffs receded and the ship crested onwards into open seas, sunlight sparkling upon the gentle, unthreatening waves of the English Channel. When the land had disappeared from view completely and she was tired of looking at the water, she went back into her cabin and sank contentedly into its little armchair.
She looked around, with a great feeling of comfort and satisfaction. The cabin was inexpressibly cosy. There were two compact single beds, and a desk upon which she had already arranged her books and the papers for her lecture. Within a small teak cabinet was a minibar stocked with every kind of alcoholic drink, and on top of it a television and a DVD player: having been forewarned about this, Sophie had brought half a dozen of her favourite films with her, although there were many more to be borrowed from the ship’s library. On the table between the two beds had been placed a Gideon Bible and, rather more surprisingly, a paperback copy of the Booker-prizewinning The Twilight of Otters by Lionel Hampshire.
Sophie could not at first conceive of the explanation for this, although she was to chance upon it a few minutes later. Among the papers waiting for her in her bulging welcome folder was a four-page newsletter entitled On Board. This was issue one of what was clearly going to be a daily publication, and it was full of useful information: times of sunrise and sunset, a brief weather forecast, a cruise itinerary and a specification of today’s dress code, which Sophie was relieved to see was ‘Casual’. (‘Ladies may wish to wear a casual dress or trousers, while gentlemen can enjoy the freedom of an open-neck shirt and smart casual trousers.’) It also gave details of the guest artistes and lecturers who would be entertaining and instructing the passengers during the course of the trip. They seemed to be a motley crew – jugglers, magicians, a ventriloquist, an Elvis impersonator and more than a dozen others – and near the bottom of the list was her own name, which she was weirdly proud to see in this context. Next to it, most unexpectedly, was the name of the great writer himself: ‘We are pleased to inform you,’ ran the notice, ‘that the eminent, prizewinning novelist Mr LIONEL HAMPSHIRE will be on board for the duration of the voyage, to read extracts of his works and to offer writing workshops and discussion groups.’
These last five words, in fact, were the very first thing she heard when she arrived at the door of the cruise director’s cabin at five o’clock that afternoon to receive instructions about her lecture. An altercation seemed to be taking place inside. She paused in the open doorway and saw the distinguished writer with his back towards her, complaining to some unseen figure in tones of high indignation.
‘ “Writing workshops and discussion groups”! It says nothing about that in my contract. Nothing at all.’
‘I know it doesn’t,’ the unseen figure replied. ‘But I had to put something. We’ve never had a writer on here before. What else am I supposed to do with you?’
‘I shall give one reading,’ Hampshire insisted, ‘lasting for thirty-five minutes. Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘Fine. You can do it on Tuesday evening, in the cabaret theatre. I’ll put you on before Molly Parton.’
‘Dolly Parton’s on this ship?’
‘Molly Parton. She’s a tribute act. You’ll be her support. Will that be all?’
Hampshire turned on his heel and said, before departing: ‘This is outrageous. I shall be writing to my publishers about this.’
‘Ask them why they put a copy of your book inside every cabin. I’ve already had complaints.’
‘Complaints?’
Red in the face by now, Hampshire pushed past Sophie without acknowledging her and disappeared down the corridor. A tall, fine-featured, dark-haired man appeared in the doorway and stared after him for a moment, then retreated into his office, muttering – either to himself or to Sophie – ‘A writer! They’re asking me to have writers on the bloody ship now!’ He seemed more amused than annoyed by the situation, though, and when Sophie coughed to remind him of her presence, she saw that he was smiling. It was an intelligent, mischievous smile. She warmed to it.
‘Hello, I’m Sophie,’ she said, advancing into the room and holding out her hand. ‘Sophie Coleman-Potter.’
‘Robin Walker,’ he said. ‘Cruise director.’ Her name didn’t seem to mean anything to him at first, but after a moment his face lit up with realization: ‘Wait – are you the bird impressions?’
She shook her head. ‘Sadly not.’
‘No, you don’t look like a bird impressionist. You look like a dancer.’ Before she could decide whether she was flattered or insulted by this, he clapped his hands: ‘You’re the tap dancer! The one who finishes her act by doing the splits over the live lobster.’
‘I’m afraid I –’
‘OK, I give up.’
‘I’m an art historian. I’m here to give the lecture on “Treasures of the Hermitage”.’
‘Ah! Very good. Art history. Excellent. We need a bit of that. Brainy bunch, some of our passengers. They like a bit of culture. I’ve got you down for Sunday afternoon, three till four. How does that sound?’
‘Sounds fine. What do I d
o the rest of the time?’
‘The rest of the time, my dear, is your own.’
‘Really? But I’m on board for ten days.’
‘Relax and enjoy it. Did they give you a good cabin? What number?’
‘101.’
‘Excellent. One of the nicest. And best of all, you get Henry.’
‘Henry?’
‘Your butler.’
‘I have a butler?’
‘Of course. Didn’t you read the bumf?’
‘Well, I –’
‘I’m sorry, my love – duty calls.’ Four middle-aged men had turned up in his doorway. Sotto voce, he muttered to Sophie: ‘Strippers. New departure for us, but pretty tame stuff from what I’ve heard.’ Then, out loud: ‘Come in, gentlemen.’ He ushered Sophie into the corridor, and before she left she heard him saying to the new arrivals: ‘Now, lads, tell me what it is you do. But I hope it doesn’t involve full-frontal nudity.’
‘Not at all,’ one of the men answered pleasantly. ‘We’re the string quartet.’
Sophie spent a relaxed hour in her cabin after that. A plate of canapés had been laid out for her, presumably by her butler, and she nibbled on them while finishing off two gin and tonics and trying on all three of the dresses she had brought, in front of the bathroom’s full-length mirror. When she felt that she had achieved the casual look that today’s protocol demanded, she made her way to the dining hall for her first evening meal of the voyage.
Here she learned something slightly alarming: the seating plan was fixed, not just for tonight’s dinner but for every breakfast, lunch and dinner during the next ten days. She and Ian (when he joined the ship on Saturday) would be sitting with the same eight passengers every day: a Mr and Mrs Wilcox, from Ramsbottom, Lancashire; a Mr and Mrs Joyce, from Teignmouth, Devon; a Mr and Mrs Murphy, from Woking, Surrey; plus two other ladies, Miss Thomsett and Mrs O’Sullivan, from Bristol, who appeared to be travelling together. Mr and Mrs Murphy seemed to be well into their eighties, on top of which one of them (the husband) looked decidedly unwell. He sat throughout this first meal staring wistfully into space, his face white, his lips blueish, barely touching his food, while his wife concentrated on eating as much as possible while giving the occasional antagonistic glance in his direction. Mr and Mrs Joyce were perhaps a few years younger, and seemed rather more devoted. The two single ladies were probably a few years younger still, and sounded full of enthusiasm for the destinations and attractions ahead. One of them, it emerged, was recently widowed, and the other had never married. They were both vegetarian. Mr and Mrs Wilcox, finally, were at the youngest end of the Legend spectrum, and were much the most voluble of Sophie’s dining companions. He made his living – a very comfortable living, they were all given to understand – by selling and hiring out forklift trucks. Coming on this cruise had not been his idea: his wife was the ‘culture vulture’, and it had always been her ambition to visit St Petersburg. Frankly, he would rather be cruising around the Med, but what was a marriage, after all, without a little bit of give-and-take? Mrs Wilcox smiled briefly, inscrutably, when he said this. She also caught Sophie’s eye, and looked quickly away.
Dinner consisted of five courses. Sophie excused herself after the fourth, forgoing the cheese board and the digestifs, and staggered back to her cabin, feeling bloated. She watched about half of Claire Denis’s Beau Travail on DVD before realizing that she was nodding off, then stepped out on to the balcony to get some fresh air before going to bed. The cold night air, the flecks of sea spray, the sway of the ship, the churning of the waves, the sense of a broad expanse of water surrounding her were all deliciously unfamiliar and invigorating. When she got into bed, she left the door to her balcony slightly ajar, so that she could continue to enjoy them.
She quickly fell into a shallow, uneasy sleep. At one point she dreamed that she could hear noises coming from outside: strange, high-pitched, inhuman cries. She walked out through the door, leaned over the rail and saw that a dolphin was swimming alongside the boat. She reached out, took hold of its flippers and pulled it aboard. She kissed it passionately on the mouth. It was Adam, but it was also a dolphin. She beckoned him inside and they lay down on the bed where she stroked his skin which was as smooth and wet as a dolphin’s. He was part-Adam, part-dolphin, but there came a point in the dream where the confusion stopped and he became all-Adam. They made love and she came in her sleep, crying out in the darkness. Afterwards she lay awake for a few minutes, feeling guilty but also inexplicably happy. Then she slept for another nine hours, waking so late that she missed her first breakfast.
*
Hungry now, Sophie decided that this was the moment to experiment with the butler service. She dialled a three-digit number on her bedside telephone. A weightless, musical voice answered, speaking perfect English with a strong but unplaceable foreign accent. Sophie ordered coffee, scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, fresh fruit and orange juice, then took a bath. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, the breakfast had been laid out on her table and a man she assumed to be Henry was carefully putting her dress (which she had left in a crumpled ball on the unused bed) on to a coat hanger and replacing it in the wardrobe.
‘Ah – good morning, madam,’ Henry said, smiling at her and bowing slightly. ‘I hope you slept well.’ He was a slender, unobtrusive figure, not much taller than Sophie herself, his brown eyes forever darting around the cabin, looking for items to tidy and adjust with his delicate fingers.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Please – you don’t have to do that. And do call me Sophie.’
Henry smiled and bowed again but didn’t answer. She had the impression that he was disturbed by the suggestion. She also realized that she had no idea how to behave towards this person. He was a servant. She had never had a servant before. She felt utterly bewildered and tongue-tied.
‘Your newspaper is here as well, madam,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
She had no recollection of having ordered a newspaper, and hoped that she wasn’t going to be presented with a copy of the Telegraph or Mail every day. But the four-page tabloid that Henry now handed to her on a silver platter turned out to be the ship’s own, entitled The World Today. Not for the first time. Sophie was impressed by how many extras seemed to be on offer aboard the Topaz IV, and how well organized everything seemed to be. The phrase ‘We run a tight ship here’ occurred to her, in its most literal sense.
‘Thank you,’ she said, for the third time, and turned around to look for her handbag, having some vague idea that she should give Henry a tip. But by the time she located it, he had silently removed himself from the room, leaving her more frustrated with herself than ever.
She read the newspaper while eating breakfast in front of the balcony door which she had once again left open. Its production values were basic, but otherwise she found that it provided a very useful service, reducing yesterday’s world news to four digestible pages, and she wondered why no one published anything similar back home. In a few minutes she had learned that ‘Yes Scotland’ had now secured one million signatories to its campaign for an independent Scotland ahead of the referendum in September; that the number of British people needing emergency supplies from food banks had already risen by one-fifth this year; and that the BBC was being accused of a cover-up over its role in the recent police raid on Sir Cliff Richard’s home following sexual assault allegations.
At dinner that night, it was the latter story that supplied most of the fuel for conversation. Mrs Joyce thought that Sir Cliff had been treated disgracefully; for decades he had brought nothing but pleasure to the nation, and now he was owed a public apology. Mr Joyce thought the BBC should get its own house in order before targeting other people: ever since the Jimmy Savile scandal it was clear that it was nothing more than a nest of paedophiles, and the director general should be arrested immediately. Miss Thomsett offered a gentle rebuke to this, arguing that there were always a few rotten apples in any organization, and that people shoul
d bear in mind all those wonderful period dramas the BBC made, as well as those superb wildlife documentaries with David Attenborough. Mr Wilcox, who (Sophie could not help noticing) rather liked the sound of his own voice, delivered himself as follows: the BBC was not without its good points, but it was obsessed with political correctness, and had still not recovered from the episode, more than five years earlier, when a popular comedian and a popular radio presenter, live on air, had left a lewd message on the answering machine of the much-loved, elderly actor Andrew Sachs. Ever since then, after coming under heavy fire from the newspapers over the incident, the corporation had been on the defensive, knowing that it was perceived (quite rightly, in Mr Wilcox’s view) as elitist, arrogant, metropolitan and out of touch.
‘How’s it out of touch?’ Sophie asked, in a friendly but combative tone, pouring herself another glass of wine before passing the bottle his way.
‘It doesn’t speak for ordinary people,’ he answered. ‘Not any more.’
‘I feel that it speaks for me, most of the time. And I’m ordinary.’
‘No you’re not.’
She bristled. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m talking about people who live in the real world.’
‘I live in the real world. At least I think I do. Are you telling me I’m hallucinating it all?’
‘Of course not. I’m just saying there’s a difference between what you do and what people like me do.’
‘What, and that makes your life more “real” than mine, somehow?’
‘People need forklift trucks.’
‘I’m not sure I do.’
‘Of course you do. You just don’t think about it.’
