Cold Play

by Winona Kent

  Laptop. One of the crew concessions I enjoy is a cheap rate on the ship’s WiFi, good for as long as the Engine Room’s generating electricity to power the signal. The satellite connection’s temperamental and at times tortuously slow. But passengers are charged something in excess of $1 a minute up in the Library. My rate is far more amenable to tweeting. And I’m never far from my followers, especially in the middle of the night after I’ve finished gigging and the rest of the ship’s gone to sleep.

  Chocolate.

  My cabin steward is well-trained regarding the items he places on my bed each night at turn-down. Manuel is a dab hand at creating rabbits and elephants out of cleverly-folded towels, and I’ve let him know that four chocolate coin eyes are infinitely preferable to two. One of the reasons I went ashore this morning was to replenish my chocolate hoard. Best kept in the fridge for maximum chill.

  Passenger fridges are filled with drinkables, which they’re billed for at the end of the cruise. My fridge contains eleven G&B’s (in assorted flavours)…now increased to twenty. Two jugs of fresh melon juice (kindly extracted by Samuel, TopDeck Bartender). Four bottles of Starbucks Mocha Frappuccino. A tray of take-out sushi from Ketchikan (might throw that out—Ketchikan was Thursday). A package of Brie (fabulous), a package of Kerrygold Dubliner (yet to be sampled), and a box of artisan whole leaf teabags (assorted varieties, many from obscure places in Africa).

  Other cabin furnishings. One chair. A dresser with shelves. A double upright cupboard. A bed, not quite up to the five-star ones in the passenger cabins, but it’s comfy, if a bit on the narrow side. Alarm clock on the night table. Small collection of paperbacks, all well-read. On a magnetic clip beside my bed, blue safety card, laminated ID, copy of the Captain’s Standing Orders, Code of Conduct booklet.

  Four guitars, two electric, two acoustic. Gretsch, Gibson, Strat and Martin. I’ve got another two upstairs, locked in a cupboard behind the bar. I rotate them through the week. Down here, private gigs for one (and occasionally two) are generally confined to turnaround hours in Vancouver or shore days in Alaska, when the ship is empty and my neighbours are off shopping.

  Sheet music and more paperbacks packed into the bottom of one of the cupboards, underneath my shoes. Must keep things tidy, as cabins are inspected once a week by the Safety Officer.

  Lifejacket hanging on its designated hook, reflector patches and large CREW stencilled in black across the front and back. Crew baseball cap, same stencil. You’ve seen both before.

  On the wall over my bed, a poster, a reproduction of an award-winning P&O ad from the 1950s, an officer dressed in white strolling along a teak promenade, under the lifeboats, with a young boy.

  Caption: RUN AWAY TO SEA. Close to my heart, that.

  Bathroom: prefab prebuild, all in one plastic affair, raised floor to accommodate the pipes. Installed sometime after Sapphire’s days as a North Atlantic passenger liner ended, and she went for her first major refit. Vacuum flush guaranteed to frighten the life out of anyone not familiar with plumbing-at-sea. A too-small shower, no tub. Cabinet and counter accommodate the usual male implements, bottles and tubes of land life. A plus being that Manuel cleans like a demon, so I never have to bother with the mundane task of toilet bowl scrubbing, and my towels are replaced weekly and hung up fresh.

  I have an electric kettle (absolutely necessary for dealing with my tea addiction), but since it’s illegal to keep it in my cabin (fire regulations)—and since my cabin was on this morning’s Safety Rotation—said kettle is currently lurking in the service cove across the way, protected from prying eyes by Manuel after payment of a suitable monetary sum and three Chocolate Mint G&B’s.

  Right, then. Time for a look-in on the rest of the world. TV on…and our fire is all over the news. Vancouver reporters and cameramen jostling to get interviews and footage. StarSea’s Vancouver office presenting its friendliest sympathetic face. Passengers getting off. Complaining. Praising. Laughing Boy’s mum, only too eager to share her opinion.

  Enough of that. Laptop on.

  YouTube’s teeming with videos of our passengers in lifejackets, assembled in their three muster stations. And someone’s managed to get a smoky view of Baja, obviously shot with a mobile, showing crewmembers fighting the fire.

  Elsewhere…there are blogs and Facebookings. And tweets. My third addiction. Twitter.

  My followers—and those I’m following—are largely in the UK, since that’s where I’m from. They’re eight or nine hours ahead of me, depending where we are on the cruise. It’s only noon here, but it’s eight o’clock at night over there. Prime tweeting time. I’m there under a pseudonym—Cold_Fingers—just in case Head Office is looking in.

  Good evening…

  They know who I am, even if Head Office doesn’t. Five of my followers pop up immediately.

  One’s a girl in Wales who’s desperately in love with me…Hello Mr. Cold Fingers. I’ve got something very hot waiting for you, ha ha!

  Two musician friends, one composes for TV…Hello CF..spent all day trying to sort out routing in a mate’s Logic. I am Nuendo for life.

  The other’s gigging around England in a sixties tribute band…Oi! Check us out on YouTube…some mad wanker’s recorded us doing “Telstar”, clavioline and all!

  Two more female followers intent on seducing me with virtual sweets and promises of meeting up in London next time I’m home…

  Twissup in WC2 October 31, Fingers! Fine Belgian confections and many cakey things lavished with sinful cocoa icing…

  Promise me you’ll be there, C_F. I’m dying to sample your chocolatey bits.

  And then there’s Jilly. My self-appointed Guardian Angel. I have no idea how old she is or what she looks like. Her avatar’s a shooting star with a rainbow tail. In my imagination she’s got long blonde hair and intense blue eyes and wears long skirts and suede boots like Stevie Nicks. She sends me private messages telling me all about myself. Half the time she’s wrong, but I haven’t the heart to tell her. When she’s right, she’s absolutely right. I’m intrigued. And hooked.

  And there she is. Good afternoon, my love. How’s life at sea?

  She’ll know about the fire. She knows what ship I’m on. Nobody else does. Deliberately. I like to keep that fact quiet.

  We might actually manage to sail away on time today, I tell her.

  I know you will. And I predict you’ll find wild adventure on board this week!

  Me? You’re sure you’re not confusing me with DJ Pedro?

  Ah, Mr. Fingers…I would never confuse you with naughty Pedro!

  I can see she’s DM’d me. A private message, not for public Twitter eyes.

  Are you all right? Was it very bad?

  Scared me to death, I message back. And it was me who turned in the alarm.

  But I know you didn’t panic, Jason. I know you kept your wits about you. That’s what’s important.

  I didn’t panic, I tell her. I wanted to. But I held on.

  You’re very brave, my love. Lesser souls would have run away.

  I almost did. You didn’t warn me anything like this was going to happen.

  I had no idea. I’m so sorry.

  I know Jilly’s a constructed personality. We all are, to some extent. Am I myself on Twitter? Half the time I don’t even know. Is Jilly really a Guardian Angel with psychic powers that are wrong 50.4% of the time? I’m not sure I want to find out.

  Have you looked at the passenger list? she asks.

  One of my other followers, a travel agent whose Twittername is Fam_Tripper, is boarding today. Jilly’s had A Bad Feeling about her. She’s sent me A Warning.

  I have. And I’ve seen the names of all the travel agents. But I still don’t know which one’s Fam_Tripper.

  There’s a gap of silence while Jilly thinks. Then: Be very careful, Jason.

  I will, I tell her. Promise.

  It’s a late lunch today in the Officers Mess. Created out of what used to be part of the First Class dining room on De
ck 4, Caribe, in Sapphire’s class-conscious glory days, it’s separated from the passengers’ dining room by the Galley.

  I’m sharing my table with Kevin, and young Marco, an Assistant Purser from Italy on his first contract.

  “That fire. Last night. Was…” Marco searches the air for a word.

  Kev’s stabbing a crusty roll with his knife. “An accident waiting to happen?”

  “Molto spaventoso,” Marco supplies.

  “I know, mate. Every bloody time an alarm goes off, it’s molto spaventoso. This vessel barely meets SOLAS regulations. We’re lucky we haven’t been cited.”

  Marco leans forward, gesturing to me to do the same. Our heads meet over the salt and pepper shakers.

  “Jason. I want sex meeting with Sally tonight. You fix?”

  He’s got lofty ambitions, this one. “No. I will not fix. You fix.”

  “I cannot fix. Sally does not love me.”

  “Nobody loves you, son,” Kev says.

  “Here’s Sally,” I tell Marco. “Ask her yourself.”

  Sal sits down beside me with her lunch tray. “Ask her what?”

  “Please, Sally, may I ravish you?”

  “No, you may not, you disgusting article. Go and ravish someone your own age. Try the shoppies. They’re gasping for it.”

  It’s spaghetti for lunch. Or cold roast beef. Sally’s applying liberal amounts of horseradish and mustard. And she’s brought one of her jars of pickled onions, which she’s sharing around.

  “Sailaway’s delayed,” she continues, to Kev, me and Marco. “Fuel line’s packed up. It’ll give the decorators some extra time to finish in Showcase, anyway. And Diana Wyndham has yet to arrive.”

  “Who Diana Wyndham?” Marco asks.

  “Actress,” Kev answers. “Very sexy and very desirable about twenty-five years ago when she had long hair and long legs and was married to that kinky director who put her in all his arty films. Does mostly television these days.”

  “You sound like a fan,” Sal remarks.

  “I saw everything she did. Six times. They were considered very highbrow in their day.”

  “Nothing to do with the arty nude scenes, then,” I offer.

  “Say what you like, mate. She was a looker.”

  “Is it true she has a large collection of stuffed toy monkeys in her bedroom?” Sal asks.

  “Baseless rumour,” I supply. “In fact, it’s a large collection of stuffed young men.”

  Kev glares at me. I’ve destroyed the dreams of his spotty youth.

  “Would you like to meet her, Kev?” Sal asks. “It’s easily arranged.”

  “Please,” Kev answers. “Oh yes. Please.”

  4

  Saturday, Vancouver

  It’s now quarter past four, and I’ve changed out of my old jeans and into something more presentable. Since passengers are afoot, I must adhere to a dress code in public areas. My face is recognizable. I can be identified.

  Rick Redding’s booked into one of the expensive suites at the forward end of Promenade. Two along from Diana Wyndham. When she boards.

  I’ve got my lifejacket under my arm and I’m wearing my cap. I’m taking a rather roundabout route to the Atrium Room, where we’ll be holding Passenger Muster in fifteen minutes’ time.

  Oh, hello. Imagine running into you here.

  “You crew?” It’s Mr. Redding, he of the smashed Duty Free in the taxi bay. On his way out of his suite, with his own lifejacket slung over his shoulder like a kit bag.

  “I am, yes.”

  “Which way to the bloody lifeboats?” He thinks it’s funny. And I can smell his tipple from here.

  “You really only need go to the Atrium Room, which is just along that corridor on this deck,” I tell him. “Midship.”

  He’s eyeballing me. “You’re one of the entertainers. Your picture’s on the display board. Never forget a face.” He’s holding out his hand. “Rick Redding.”

  He says his name as if I should know it. As it happens…I do.

  “Jason Davey.”

  Handshake.

  Rick Redding leans his head into his open cabin door. “Come on, girl! What’s keepin’ yer?”

  Voice from within cabin: “I’m just making myself gorgeous, darling. Half a second.”

  “You don’t need to be gorgeous for Lifeboat Drill, Carly. You just need to be on time.”

  I imagine she spells it “Carlee”. She looks like a “Carlee”.

  “TopDeck tonight at eight, if you’re interested,” I tell Rick.

  “I’ll be there. I’m a musician myself. More into managing these days, though.” He pokes his head inside his cabin again. “Carly, love, we’ll be halfway to the bottom of the sea by the time you make yourself presentable.”

  At last, she appears.

  “Carly,” he says to me. As if he’s introducing Britney. Or Miley.

  “Jason Davey.” We shake hands. She’d rather be kissing.

  “Where we off to again? Lifeboat Number Six?”

  “Atrium Room.” I’m telling Carly, as she’s more likely to successfully retain the information than Rick. “Down that corridor, midship. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you,” she says. “Come along with me, darling.”

  “I dunno about this women and children first business,” Rick mutters, as he allows himself to be led away by the arm. “I reckon it should be age before beauty.”

  StarSea, in fact, doesn’t do Women and Children First. You’re assigned a lifeboat based on your cabin number. If you’re there, you’ll have a seat. But it’s not worth trying to explain. I watch Rick and Carly totter down the corridor, she in heels, he merely drunk. I’m sad. For him. And her. But there’s not much I can do. Really.

  Passenger Muster.

  Since I’m already here, I’ve been seconded to the stage in order to help demonstrate the correct procedures for Putting on Your Lifejacket and Abandoning Ship.

  A lot of cruise lines have exempted their passengers from bringing their lifejackets to Muster. Apparently it cuts down on their enjoyment of Sailaway. And the ordering of drinks. We’re not among those cruise lines. The Atrium Room is now a sea of orange.

  I’m standing at ease while I wait for the last of the stragglers to find their way in and sit down. Still no sign of Diana Wyndham. There’s Rick, and there’s Carly. And twenty-three travel agents, led by Ted, StarSea’s rep, in a bright red jacket. They take over the first two rows of seats in front of the stage, impatient and grumblesome and muttering about having done this too many times before. One of them is Fam_Tripper.

  Speaking over the ship’s P.A., Jemima manages to make the Muster Chat surprisingly informal, but there are still enough sobering details thrown in to drive the main points home.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, what you’ll now hear is the General Emergency Signal, which is seven short blasts on the ship’s whistle, followed by one long one. Inside, you’ll hear the same signal using the ship’s alarm bells.”

  She pauses as the bells ring and the whistle blasts. That gets everyone’s attention. I’m feeling shivers snaking down my spine. Once genuinely experienced, it’s not something you forget quickly.

  I glance down at the front row of seats and smile at one of the female travel agents. Fam_Tripper. I’m sure of it.

  “If you hear this signal,” Jemima continues, “and if you are in a location remote from your cabin, please come directly to this Muster Station. If you are in your cabin or close to your cabin when the signal is heard, dress warmly, collect your lifejacket and any essential medication and follow the direction signs to this muster station.”

  She looks like Fam_Tripper’s avatar: my age, perhaps a bit younger. Long brown hair, tied back with a ribbon, a thoughtful face and a slightly cheeky smile.

  “If you do not have your lifejacket with you, a crew member will give you one at this Muster Station. We have adequate spare supplies for all passengers.”

  Fam_Tripper smiles back. I wonder i
f she knows I’m me.

  “Do not use the elevators,” Jemima continues, “as, in the event of a power failure, you may be trapped. Do not put on your lifejacket until you reach the Muster Station. Do not allow the belts to trail upon the floor. When you reach your Muster Station, remain calm and quiet so that you are able to hear any instructions which will be broadcast over the loudspeakers or given by the Officers.”

  Fam_Tripper is now studying the belt clasp on her lifejacket with great deliberation. And pulling the fabric loops belonging to one of the belts through their plastic fastening brackets. Big mistake. She’s disconnected the ties completely from the jacket and it’s hanging in four distinct parts, joined only at the shoulders. Useless for anything except floating away on a rogue wave. She glances up at me, looking apologetic.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, in the rare event it becomes necessary to abandon ship, you will be directed to your assigned boats by the Muster Station personnel. If, for any reason, the lifeboats become inoperational and it is necessary for you to enter the water from the side of the ship, there is a correct procedure for you to follow. The Muster Station personnel will now demonstrate this procedure for you.”

  My turn to shine.

  “Place your finger and thumb over your nose.”

  I like doing this bit. Producing my right arm, and with an exaggerated gesture, I sweep my hand across to my face, and pinch my nose. I’m really just a frustrated actor at heart. It’s high pantomime and there’s always scattered, appreciative laughter from the audience.

  “Place the palm of your hand over your mouth. And with your free arm, grasp your opposite shoulder.”

  With a flourish, I sweep my left arm across my right, so that I’m hugging myself.

  “This,” says Jemima, “will keep your lifejacket on when you enter the water.”

  I’ve now got the whole of my audience’s undivided attention. Including Fam_Tripper’s.

  “Do not look up. Do not look down. Look straight ahead, and step off the side of the ship. Do not jump.”

  Eyes riveted on the back of the room, I take one giant leap off a make-believe railing and plummet straight down into an imaginary sea.