Cold Play

by Winona Kent

“Fuck.”

  My dream vanishes in a flutter of scented white netting.

  “What time is it?”

  “Eight-fifteen,” Quentin says, helpfully, through the door. “Rise and shine.”

  “Fuck. Thanks.”

  “You’re entirely welcome,” Quentin says, and I can hear the humour in his voice.

  Bastard.

  The Purser’s Desk is on Deck 6, Aloha, Forward, and the Entrance Hall is full of passengers anxious to get off. This, in spite of the fact they’ve been told to wait in their cabins. Or the public rooms. Or anywhere except the Entrance Hall on Deck 6, Aloha, Forward.

  But they’ve got tours to join and flights to catch. And after last night’s events, they’re hyped up and tense. They’re standing around in restless little groups, wearing the same clothes they came aboard in last Saturday, talking, texting, tweeting.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Laughing Boy, from the Atrium Room, in baggy shorts and a backwards baseball cap, conducting a sly reconnaissance. Looking for trouble, something to pilfer. Last Saturday, after Sailaway, in what now seems an ironic turn, he pulled a fire alarm, thinking he’d have some fun. But no bells sounded, no sirens. Because the alarm was silent, he assumed his attempt had failed, and so he did a tour of the decks to satisfy his craving for anarchy. And on his fifth try he was caught—by me—nabbed in the act. His principal reaction, the same as last night, was to laugh. I don’t suppose he expected me to collar him and march him off. Not generally within my remit, really, to act as Law Enforcement.

  But collared he was, and hand-delivered to Kevin, Chief of Security, who subsequently informed Laughing Boy’s parents that if they weren’t prepared to exercise control over their maleficent progeny, the entire family would be escorted off at our next port of call, and left to find their own way home. No wonder, really, that he wasn’t best pleased to see me again last night.

  And here comes Laughing Boy’s mum, to harass Quentin.

  “Listen, I don’t understand why it was so necessary for us to have our bags packed and outside our cabin so early last night.”

  “Yes, we’re terribly sorry about the inconvenience.” Quentin has it down to a fine art. He’s Scottish. A practiced touch of empathy, at the same time maintaining a distant tone of absolute authority. I could never be a Purser. “But we do ask for your patience and understanding. We have 800 passengers on board, which does mean around 1,500 pieces of luggage we needed to move, sort, store, and offload first thing this morning. I’m sure you can appreciate the situation.”

  Laughing Boy’s mum is wearing a white baseball cap and too-tight yoga togs. I’ve watched her on deck all week, complaining about everything from the meal times to the absence of her favourite soap opera on her cabin TV. Not our typical Sapphire passenger. Down market, downscale. She should stick to theme parks and hotels that are just like home.

  “You know what? We had no hot water in our cabin for two days. Then the air conditioning didn’t work. My husband threw up after lunch yesterday. And to top it all off, that fire. This boat is a piece of junk. I’ll be blogging about this.”

  Quentin is unmoved. He blogs too. Under a pseudonym.

  “If you’d care to put your comments in writing for us…” He checks her name. “…Mrs. Brinkman—as opposed to online—we’d be quite happy to pass them along to our Head Office for you.” He hands her a Passenger Questionnaire. “Your husband has my sympathies.”

  Laughing Boy’s mum balls it up and leaves it on the counter as she marches off.

  “It’ll be a cold day in hell before we cruise with you again,” she adds, over her shoulder, as her evil progeny joins her, with a dozen ship’s maps stuffed under his shirt.

  “Promise?” Quentin remarks, pleasantly, under his breath.

  “May I have your attention please.” One of the other Pursers is doing the disembarkation calls from the back office. “This is the first announcement for all passengers holding Number 14 Blue baggage tags. Would you please now proceed to the gangway located forward on Aloha Deck, Deck 6, starboard side. Thank you and we wish you all a safe onward journey and thank you for choosing StarSea Cruises.”

  My turn at the Desk. “How do I disembark, Quent?”

  Quentin’s looking at me. “As in…getting off and not getting back on again?”

  “Yes. That.”

  “Three years aboard—you should be telling me.”

  “It’s never come up before.”

  “I imagine you’d have to take it up with your next-in-charge…but if it’s anything like us, there’s forms to fill out and notice to be given. I don’t think it’s at all instant. Plus you’d need your passport, and Crew Purser’s not likely to surrender that without a struggle.”

  He can see I’m not happy.

  “Is it to do with last night?”

  “A lot, yes.”

  “Well, I wish you luck. Though I’m fairly certain you’ll have all this week to change your mind.”

  Lido Deck’s deserted, all the wooden replica steamer chairs stacked on top of one another along the side, a few reluctant passengers lingering for a few moments more, taking pictures, unwilling to abandon Sapphire’s quiet, pampered world for the downtown busy-ness of Vancouver on a Saturday morning.

  I help myself to two mugs of coffee from the always-on machine, add cream and sugar, and carry on up the exterior stairs to Sun Deck. I walk past a crewman touching up rust spots with navy blue paint at the base of our massive funnel, and along the narrow open companionway, where another crewman’s working on the davits holding one of the tarp-covered lifeboats aloft. Through the door marked Crew Only.

  The Captain’s Secretary’s office is tucked in behind the Bridge, at the forward end of Sun Deck. I suspect it began life as a large storage cupboard. It now houses a desk, a chair, a PC and printer, and, jammed into the corner, a tall metal cabinet which holds a good deal of the ship’s files and spare stationery. The walls are papered with notices and bulletins. I’m not generally meant to be here, but I have an honest face, and the Captain likes my musical arrangements.

  Sally’s kneeling on the floor, sorting Passenger Questionnaires, her shoes off and kicked out of the way against the wall. Otherwise, she’s all business in her black uniform skirt and white regulation shirt with its Officer shoulder tabs.

  “Hello, you. I’m dying for that coffee. Fabulous timing.”

  I place one of the mugs, and three Green & Black’s from my fridge, on her desk.

  She gets up to inspect my offering of chocolate.

  “Ginger. Lovely. You know me so well, Jase. What do you want?”

  “Honestly? To go home.”

  “What, seriously?” She’s looking at me. She can tell I’m not joking. “Twenty-four hours advance notice required for crew disembarkations, Jase. Plus you’d be breaking your contract, and I think Jemima would have something to say about that.”

  “What about in Juneau?”

  “You’d be a British subject on American soil. US Immigration’s involved…and flights connecting back to London. It’s complicated. But not impossible. Do you want me to start the paperwork?”

  I’m perched on the edge of her desk, absently paging through another stack of Passenger Questionnaires. Last night was beyond terrifying. Last night was my worst nightmare come true.

  “They think it was faulty wiring in the sound booth that caused the fire,” Sal tells me. Trying to make me feel better. Inside knowledge.

  “Old,” I say, distractedly.

  “Nothing at all to do with old. Everything was installed new during her last refit, two years ago. Faulty.”

  “Even worse.”

  “Are you going to speak to Jemima?”

  I look at Sally. “I love this ship. I love this life.”

  “Go ashore and have some breakfast,” Sal suggests. “I’ll have your file on my desk if you still want to pursue it when you get back.”

  Breakfast done. And provisions bought for the upcoming w
eek. I’m walking back to Vancouver’s Cruise Ship Terminal, earbuds in, iPod on. You can see Sapphire on the east side of the pier, a perfect jewel, her livery gleaming white and smart navy blue. Dwarfed by Amethyst, on the west side, rising up like a multi-storey condominium.

  I can’t leave Sapphire. I won’t.

  The minute we docked this morning, a team of fire investigators came aboard, along with decorators, electricians and refitters. They’re spending the day ripping out fixtures, replacing ceilings and carpets, eliminating every trace of the fire, including the smell. If all goes well, we’ll sail out on time, at five this afternoon.

  I trudge down to the underground part of the Terminal, where the taxis drop off their fares and the buses unload their tourists. The gentleman I’ve just walked past is angry and loud and incredibly annoying. He’s arrived in a cab, and he’s issuing edicts to the driver, a patient little Indian of advanced years who’s struggling to unload his numerous bags. I can see the man’s colour-coded luggage tags and the StarSea logo. He’s coming aboard my ship. I’ll have the pleasure of his company for the next seven days.

  He’s English. On the grey side of seventy, and he’s still got most of his hair. He’s also got a lady, half his age. She’s taller than him, too much makeup, hair an exorbitant cut and colour that couldn’t possibly have come from anywhere except one of those top-end London salons where they have black capes and serve you expensive coffee in very small cups.

  “Come on, mate—we ain’t got all day!”

  The little taxi driver’s smile never wavers as he accidentally lets a Duty Free bag from Heathrow slip through his fingers. It crashes to the curb, and after the smash, there’s a satisfyingly predictable puddle.

  Angry Man is incandescent. Expensive Lady wisely removes herself. “I’ll just go and find a porter, darling.”

  Inside the Terminal, hundreds of passengers have already begun to queue in a snaky line defined by velvet ropes, though they won’t be allowed to board for another two hours. Meanwhile, over at the far end, the lineup at Crew Embarkation consists of three Indonesian cabin stewards (their earthly possessions jammed into bursting cardboard boxes tied together with tape and string), two female dancers (neither of them will speak to me, therefore not on radar), and the ship’s Chaplain (smells strongly of gin). It’s usually a short wait. In the meantime, Angry Man and Expensive Lady have made their way inside, and heads are beginning to turn.

  “Oi! You, mate—where’s the VIP entrance?”

  He’s buttonholed Doris, one of the nicest red-jacketed volunteers I know, seventy-two years old, bursting with the energy of someone half her age.

  “If you’d just like to join the end of this line…”

  “Bollocks! Who else can I talk to?”

  “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to—”

  “Listen, I know the bloody CEO! He was at my wedding!”

  I can see one of the Cruise Reps, coming back from her break.

  “You might want to have a quiet word with that one,” I suggest, helpfully. “He and Mr. StarSea are like that.” I waggle two of my fingers together, side by side.

  Earbuds back in, iPod back on. Kiss Me, Sailor, by Susan Maughan. Love it.

  I wasn’t wrong. Ten minutes, and we’re through. Shopping bags on the conveyor at Security, body through the scanner. We pre-clear U.S. Customs and Immigration here in Vancouver. My picture ID matches my Crew Card. The authorities have no further use for me. Up the crew gangway…and I’m back aboard.

  This is the part of the cruise our passengers never see—empty cabins with their doors wide open, stewards cleaning, hoovering, new soaps, new towels and sheets, lifejackets laid out on beds. Up an aft crew stairway…and out into the public areas again, past secret nooks and empty bars, through the Atrium Room, where someone’s tuning the grand piano, and someone else is replacing all the flower arrangements with fresh extravaganzas from tropical greenhouses. Through the Shopping Arcade, all the glittery fripples and expensive pong locked up till we’re at sea. Outside again, and up, and once around the Outside Prom, stopping here, and there, to touch the familiar places on the railing, to reassure my lady that I haven’t abandoned her. I won’t abandon her. I’ll stay with her till the end, when she proudly sails out of Vancouver for the last time, to reposition for her refit, and her new life.

  They’re doing regular port maintenance while we’re docked. Scrubbing her down. Painting over the age spots. Beside us, in the water, a barge is pumping fuel into our storage tanks. Below, on the pier, drinking water’s being piped on and sewage is coming off.

  I can see boxes of provisions being loaded onto the conveyor—pineapples and heads of lettuce, garlic and apples and oranges, milk and eggs, enough to feed 1200 people three times a day for a week. It would be positively biblical, if it weren’t for the scene over on the other side of the pier, where they’re loading enough groceries to feed three times our number.

  The Deck Attendants on Lido are setting up the wooden steamer chairs in neat rows. They’re not actually all that comfortable unless you’ve got a nice padded cushion underneath. But our passengers love them. It’s part of the ambience, the packaged experience. Capturing the leisurely, exclusive essence of a time long past.

  Up the stairs…and along to Sally’s office.

  The Passenger Questionnaires are now sorted into neat piles on her desk. Overwhelmingly positive. Overwhelmingly negative. Neutral. The positive stack’s always the biggest.

  “I take it you’ve decided not to disembark?” she says.

  She already knows the answer. I hand over six pairs of black stockings and three jars of large brown pickled onions. Sal prefers stockings over tights, and English pickled onions are a delicacy sorely missed in the Officers’ Mess.

  “Something must be done about the noise,” I reply, reading off one of the negative Questionnaires. “There is too much vibration in the walls. I could not cope and my wife found it necessary to take sleeping tablets, fearing the ship would capsize in the night.”

  Sally slaps my hand and whisks the form away. “Good thing they filled it out before the fire. And passenger comments are confidential, Mr. Davey.”

  “Can I have a look at this week’s pax manifest?”

  “Over there.”

  It’s still on the printer, under end-of-cruise reports from the ship’s doctors and engineers, hotel correspondence and confidential memos from the Bridge. And rather a lot of extra paperwork having to do with the fire.

  “Any VIPs?” I ask, as I flip through the pages.

  Last week we entertained a forgettable D-list TV actress and her overly-blinged BFF. They drank themselves silly in the TopDeck Lounge before walking out in the middle of my set, arguing with each other in loud voices about colonic cleanses. The week before that, it was an American singer who’d topped the charts in the 1970s. A beautiful soul, dying of cancer. The cruise was her final wish. My last memory of her is the two of us, sitting together on deck at dawn, my guitar and her still exquisite voice. She was able to walk off the ship when we docked in Vancouver the next morning, but three days later the internet buzzed with news of her passing.

  Three days after that, in Skagway, I received a package. Inside were five G&B Maya Gold’s, a thank-you card, and beautiful book of poetry, inscribed to me in her hand.

  “Diana Wyndham,” Sal says.

  Diana Wyndham. The name stops me cold.

  “You must be joking.”

  Sally’s looking at me. “No. Why? Do you know her?”

  “I may ask you to start that paperwork after all.”

  Sal opens a folder on her desk. There’s a flattering headshot of Diana and a brief biography. “‘Diana prides herself on her amazing collection of stuffed toy monkeys, and keeps 200 plaster gnomes in her garden, all of them birthday gifts from adoring fans.’ She’s a bit eccentric, then.”

  “Just a bit.”

  “Do you know her?” Sal asks again.

  “Yes. Unfortunately.”
>
  “Well, try and be nice to her. Or stay out of her way.”

  “Easier said than done, Sal. In both cases.”

  “There’s a second VIP. Can’t remember his name but he’s already been on to Passenger Services demanding a private audience with the Captain and a guided tour of the Engine Room.”

  “Rick Redding,” I say, as my eyes confirm his name, and his cabin number, on the manifest.

  “That’s him. Is he a real VIP or someone who only thinks he is?”

  “He’s a musician.”

  “Ah,” Sally says. “Nothing further to explain, then.”

  She gives my forehead a kiss.

  “I’m so glad you’ve decided to stay.”

  3

  Saturday, Vancouver

  Home. Which is behind a starboardside aft door, identified as CA109. My neighbours are pursers, shoppies and other entertainers.

  There are papers awaiting my perusal in the Perspex wallbox. The daily program sheet—What’s on Board. The same every Saturday—Tour the Spa (first opportunity to part with your life savings), Jewellery Shop (second op), Casino (third op). Tour the Ship (free). Mandatory Passenger Muster.

  Sailaway. Usually on time, but not last week, as the Chaplain was an hour late and could not be found, loudspeaker pages notwithstanding, if only they’d looked in the hotel bar across the road.

  Bon Voyage Party (Lido Deck, fourth op, choose your poison), Art Gallery (fifth op), Dinner (free, if you avoid the Wine List), and then, in the middle of assorted Meets, Welcomes, Dancings, Coffees, Cognacs and Shows, I shall endeavour to entertain you.

  I cost you nothing, by the way.

  My cabin’s the same as the others on A Deck, except it’s single occupancy, as I’m a contract entertainer and one of the perks is, I don’t have to share. My room contains the detritus of living on board for six months at a time. Small personal touches. A collection of DVDs, stacked anywhere they won’t tumble over in a gale. A pile of CDs, just as vast. Though my fondness for iTunes may soon persuade me to give up completely on outdated technology that takes up room in a suitcase.