Cold Play

by Winona Kent

  And Rick and Carly are having a Domestic in the middle of my dinner.

  “You said it would be a lovely surprise for our first wedding anniversary.”

  “It is a lovely surprise. You’ve never been on a cruise.”

  “I thought we were going to the Caribbean.”

  “Well, we’re not.”

  “But I packed for the Caribbean.”

  “You can buy fleece on board. I saw it in the shops. All prices reduced 10% tomorrow morning.”

  “I packed for the lovely hot Caribbean, white sand beaches and disco dancing under the stars, and this boat is full of fucking geriatrics.”

  Oh dear. Carly has uttered The Word.

  Passengers seated at surrounding tables are now staring, possibly alarmed by the idea of geriatric fucking. Waiters with trays look worried. Our waiter, in particular, is hovering uncertainly with Rick’s third double Scotch from the bar.

  “Oi! Here!” Rick waves his cruise card, and the whiskey lands. He signs the chit.

  “How did you meet?” I ask Carly, conversationally, since we’ve now said Fuck and we’re all good friends.

  “I was the manageress of a club—”

  “Barmaid in a pub in Hoxton. And don’t let her tell you no different.”

  “It was a gastro pub, darling. Quality food.”

  “Me and Wools stopped in for a drink and some nosh. And her and me just hit it off.”

  The Scotch is in him. He drinks automatically, doesn’t stop to think, the way some people reach for and light their cigarettes, next and necessary next.

  “What do you think about it, Jason? He booked this cruise without telling me.”

  I have no wish to be drawn into their argument. Even now I’m sitting here, trying to think of a polite way to excuse myself.

  It’s an hour till I’m due upstairs in TopDeck. I could easily go back to my cabin, retrieve my kettle and drink a perfect cup of Organic Rooibos with Madagascar Vanilla Bean while I see whether any of my North American followers are online. I could listen to SaylerGurl’s Blips.

  “You’ve got to have a few surprises, Jason. Keep the relationship fresh. Know what I mean?”

  Rick’s trying to get me on-side. Man to man. I’m not saying anything.

  “This is a wonderful seaweed salad,” I offer, instead.

  “So I rang up my travel bloke and two hours later, we was booked. And now she’s giving me grief ’cos Ketchikan ain’t Cozumel.”

  “And we can’t get a table in the fucking Dining Room.”

  I don’t really blame her. She’s dressed for Filet Mignon and Whipped Potatoes with Garlic Rosemary Beurre Blanc, and she’s been relegated to Pastrami on Rye.

  “I’m sure if you speak to Guest Relations they’ll be able to find you a table tomorrow,” I tell him, relenting at last. “People do change their reservations.”

  “There you are, Carly. Listen to the man, he knows what he’s talking about.”

  Carly’s been drinking double gins with exotic juices. It’s making her reckless.

  “You’d be fucking pissed off too, wouldn’t you, Jason?”

  I’m rapidly wishing I was somewhere fucking else.

  Rick’s drained his glass. Carly’s on her feet.

  “Where you going, girl? Here—sit down—you ain’t finished your drink! You ain’t finished your sandwich!”

  But she’s gone. And so am I. Seaweed salad, salmon and tuna sushi, and prawn tempura are coming back with me to my cabin. Where it’s quiet. And I can see what SaylerGurl’s been up to.

  6

  Saturday, at Sea

  And so…to work. I’ve changed into my gigging togs. Which, on this contract, means an assortment of bright, bold silk shirts—scarlet, gold, azure, lilac—a nice loose fit that adapts happily to many hours of sitting and playing with my guitars. Sleeves rolled carelessly but fashionably up between wrist and elbow. Black trousers, always.

  I’ve got backing tracks and other trickery. The tracks are all mostly me. I’m quite versatile, really. I can also sing harmony with myself. Or pretend I’m accompanied by a full orchestra.

  I’m plugged in, and all the little switches are On.

  This venue, the TopDeck Lounge, was once called the St. Lawrence Club. I’ve not seen pictures, but I know it was the place to congregate, socialize and meet for drinks if you were travelling First Class back in the 1960s.

  We’re on Sports Deck, 9, underneath the Bridge, and there are panoramic windows right the way around the front, from port to starboard, giving a fabulous view over our long bow, to the forests and water beyond.

  You can still see glimpses of what the St. Lawrence Club once looked like, though the refits have been many, and the decorators haven’t always been kind. When StarSea Corporate decided to market Sapphire as an exclusive throwback to a more glamorous age, they did their best to restore at least some of the fixtures to their former glory. So there’s exquisite etched glass in places you’d least expect it, and there’s a deep, dark wood veneer behind the bar. And brass fittings on the bar chairs that I’ve never seen anywhere else.

  Here comes the First Sitting crowd. Those who required feeding at half past five, napkins off by half six. They’ve spent the past two hours dithering between Dali in the Art Gallery and Texas Hold ’Em Poker in the Casino, and now they’ve found their way up here for a Drink Before Bed.

  I don’t have a setlist. I play—and sing—whatever I feel like each evening. I keep track of it all on my clever iPhone, so there’s no repetition. After the week’s out, and it’s Saturday once more, we’ll have a new load of passengers on board. And I’ll do it all over again.

  So…what’ll we start with? Beyond the Sea? All right, as it’s you.

  The trick is to keep it sounding fresh. That’s why I occasionally throw in some special lyrics. My audience is laughing. They weren’t expecting that. I’ve got an X-rated version, too, but I save that for late nights when there’s no one about but Samuel and me and a few lost souls looking for the Library.

  Thank you. Thank you very much. I’ve a full house tonight. I always do, on Saturdays. I’m introducing myself, telling them a little about me—some of it not strictly true, but where’s the harm? And I’m studying them—quick glances, a couple of seconds there and there and there, not longer. I’ve got a good memory for faces—and names—so if I run into anyone from tonight on deck tomorrow, I’ll be able to say hello. We’re encouraged to do nice things like that, all part of the personal service. But it’s also genuine. I like people. And I like it when they like me. And my music.

  I’m going to do that Enya song next. Then North to Alaska…And Sea Cruise. It’s not a proper Saturday night on Star Sapphire until I play that. And I’ve got a bell.

  That’s better. First Sitting’s thinned out, and I’ve reverted to a jazzy interlude. Second Sitting will be along in a minute. Those whose digestive systems can tolerate a late dinner, then up to TopDeck for the Drink of the Day. Second Sitting’s younger. More energy. Less medicated. Largely Australian. And they’ll be over in the Disco at eleven, dancing in sozzled, snaky lines to vintage Village People.

  No Diana, but it’s still early, knowing the hours she usually keeps.

  Rick and Carly. A table close by. They’re facing me, not interested in the view, which admittedly is somewhat limited, since we’re well past sunset.

  The panoramic windows are currently featuring Seymour Narrows. We’re zigging, and we’re zagging, and if you could see the shoreline, you’d be aware it’s closing in. It’s a piece of navigation Captain George Vancouver called one of the vilest stretches of water in the world. Admittedly, that was when Ripple Rock still existed, an immense and inconvenient navigational hazard which was eventually blown up in a planned explosion in 1958. But the tide in this narrow stretch of water can still reach sixteen knots, which is why we try to leave Vancouver in time to beat it.

  Last week, late in the night, four festively-lit 80,000 ton southbound vessels had
to stand aside in order to let us pass. It was a brilliant sight in the darkness, entirely missed by First and Second Sitting alike. Witnessed by me and my backing tracks, and Samuel, who would rather be in Fiji.

  Rick’s liking what I’m doing with this piece. Carly, not so much. Take her to the Disco, Rick. Introduce her to Pedro. Pedro’s from Tasmania. His ancestor was Transported. Very likely by my ancestor, who was a High Court Judge at the Old Bailey. Pedro doesn’t hold that against me. We’re like the French Foreign Legion round here. All on the run from something. All with secrets we’d rather not tweet.

  There’s Fam_Tripper, with two of her travel agent friends. They’re younger than her and they look unsure. This isn’t their kind of music. However Fam_Tripper seems determined to stay. Table by the starboard windows, comfy chairs. She’s sitting with her back to the view, facing me. Her two friends are more interested in dissecting a sightseeing brochure.

  I’d harboured a ridiculously impossible hope earlier, when I was up in Sal’s office looking over the manifest, that there would only be one or two female travel agents and the rest would be male. Thereby making identification a doddle. No such luck. More women than men this time round.

  I suppose I could just go and ask her. But I don’t want to. Especially after that card in the lilac envelope.

  Right then, Fam_Tripper. Or SaylerGurl. Whoever you are. This one’s for you. Rod Stewart’s Sailing. Keeping to the nautical theme.

  She’s smiling.

  Meanwhile Rick’s on his fifth double something and Coke. StarSea Financial’s going to be very happy with his contribution to my salary. But I know what kind of effect those doubles will be having in half an hour’s time. Rick’s not a happy drinker. I predict anger before he settles into a bewildered gaze of stupefaction. I hope Carly has the sense to guide him into bed before Kevin’s summoned. Disembarkation becomes mandatory, not an option, when you’re unruly and disruptive.

  It’s now nearly half eleven, and my audience has dwindled to five, plus Samuel. Diana’s failed to show. I’m not sure whether I should be insulted, or relieved. Fam_Tripper and her travel agent friends left an hour ago—Fam_Tripper reluctantly, dragged away by the other two, anxious to visit the Disco to see if there’s anyone else on the ship who’s male, unattached, and under the age of seventy. (Check out the First and Second Officers, ladies…)

  Rick and Carly walked out twenty minutes ago, swearing a blue streak at one another.

  There’s an interesting lady named Catherine, married to Charlie, the two of them at the bar with Samuel, talking about worms. (Worms are the heroes of the world.)

  And a lovely retired Norwegian fellow named Harald, who’s listening in. And Bill and Julie. Bill is a gourmet cook, on a bit of a busman’s vacation. Julie’s checking puppy websites on a computer next door. Tall glass panels separate TopDeck from the Library. I can see everything she’s looking at on her screen. Patterdale Terriers, Bill. Should you be worried?

  I’m done. Craving chocolate and tea. I’m going outside.

  I love the exclusivity of being up and about when the rest of the ship’s asleep. Decks deserted, the black velvet sky sprinkled with glittering twinkles, a nearly full moon hanging like a silver lantern, my lovely lady cutting a frothy luminescent trail in the deep, calm water. I might be alone aboard the last ship in the world, but for that brilliantly-lit 120,000 ton vessel half an hour behind us. We’re part of a daily procession, north and south. This is the Saturday night roster. Tomorrow we’ll be at sea, and on Monday, we’ll be docked at Juneau with six others, all following similar itineraries, like the brass and string parts written into a maritime symphony.

  I climb the forward steps and stand on Observation Deck, the roof of our little world, with angled glass panels shielding me from the wind. It’s very quiet, and surprisingly warm. It’s floodlit, so there’s no sense of intimacy. But this ship knows me as well as I know her, and she doesn’t begrudge me the time alone.

  A few minutes to breathe in the fresh, brisk air from pine-studded shores. A few more minutes to say goodnight to my lady—though she really never sleeps. She only ticks over into a kind of manned twilight, the middle watch taking over on the Bridge and down in the Engine Room.

  I’ve been sitting all evening. It’s nice to stand, get the circulation back into my legs and feet.

  Phone on. My English Twitter friends are all dragging themselves out of bed, moaning about the earliness of the hour, making breakfast, planning outings.

  It’s pissing rain and dog’s in need of walkies.

  Grr. I’ve misplaced daughter’s slippers and son is refusing to eat his eggs.

  I appear to have lost my willies.

  Wellies! Sorry! Wellies!

  I’ll let them get on with their Sunday morning.

  Over to Blip. I’m still curious about SaylerGurl…

  My heart stops. She’s left a video. Rod Stewart in a white satin suit and mullet. Concert footage. Sailing.

  And a message. A play on the lyrics. I am sailing stormy waters…to be near you…always…my love. xxx

  Do I need further proof?

  Where’s Jilly when you need her? I’m composing a DM. She can pick it up later.

  “Hello, mate.”

  I’m startled. It’s Rick. I disconnect.

  “Evening.”

  He’s not staggering. All of his buttons are done up properly. Everything’s tucked in. He offers me a ciggie.

  I shake my head. “Gave it up.”

  SaylerGurl’s rattled me. Just a little.

  “Chocolate?” I offer, in return.

  He hesitates.

  Maya Gold, Rick. Food of the gods.

  He accepts the offering. “Ta.”

  “Thought you’d gone to bed.”

  “Nah. Carly’s taken herself off in a strop. You have a wife…?”

  “Used to.”

  It’s always interesting how that’s interpreted. Assumed ends. And I’m economical with details.

  “I’ve had three used to’s. Don’t know why I bother anymore. I’m a decent bloke, that’s why. Old-fashioned. All legal and above board. Kids?”

  I could take out my iPhone and introduce him to Dominic. But it’s an old photo, and he doesn’t like to be called Dominic anymore. “I have a son,” I tell him. “Thirteen.”

  “Lives with his mum? Mine all live with their mums. Including the eldest. Thirty-two last birthday. Useless layabout.”

  In fact, Dom lives with my mum. He’s online a lot. Our Twitter avatars don’t talk to one another. But our real selves do exchange emails. And the occasional phonecall. And last month I had him on board with me for two weeks. It was wonderful.

  Rick looks lost without a drink in his hand.

  “I know your music,” I tell him.

  Rick’s face is a sudden smile. He’d still have his looks if they hadn’t been drowned in Scotch. He’s pleased. And surprised.

  “Name a studio track put out in the UK in the past fifty years, and I’ve probably played on it,” he agrees. “Videos. I’m the bloke in the back the camera don’t like. Where you seen me?”

  “Figgis Green. You played rhythm.”

  Tricky. Dangerous. The face darkens. “Ancient history, mate. The less said about that the better.”

  Figgis Green was one of those folky pop crossover groups that were big in the 1960s and 70s. Female lead singer who looked like Joan Baez and sounded like Ronnie Spector. Partnered with the lead guitarist, who didn’t sing, but ran the band, and lent it his name.

  I wasn’t even born when Figgis Green was climbing the charts. But I’ve seen the footage. And I know their recordings. All of them. I love their stuff.

  “Figgis, that bastard. Topped my career. Made bloody certain I never set foot onstage again. Nobody trusted me. Nobody wanted to take the chance.”

  I’m proceeding with caution. I’ve always wanted to know his side of the story. “Some sort of…altercation…wasn’t it?”

  “Bleedin’ r
ight. I sorted him out good and proper. And he deserved it. But he involved the Old Bill and I was arrested for ABH. Spent the night in jail. Bloody copper never showed up for court. But that was the end of my touring days.”

  I’m in the presence of someone who has hurt someone. Physically. Violently. With his fists. And possibly a broken bottle. I’ve never been clear on the details.

  “What about you?” he says, changing the subject, dragging on his ciggie. “You’re good.”

  The implication being, I suppose, that I shouldn’t be wasting my time here, that I could be earning a decent living ashore.

  I’ll lie. “Not good enough.”

  He’s laughing. Does he believe me? Or am I about to have my head smashed in?

  “You want to look me up in London. I’ll see you right. I know people. You’ve got talent.”

  “Thanks, mate. I will.”

  I watch him slouch off, a stagger in his step—is it the drink, or the slight swell in the deep, dark water?

  It feels late, but it isn’t. Not really. Only about one a.m. I wander down to the Disco. Pedro’s wearing his famous leather duster, low slung holster and rakish black cowboy hat, and he’s eyeing up this week’s offering of female passengers. I wasn’t wrong. Sozzled—and very loud—Australians, the women leading a conga line that’s snaking around the room in time to The Hustle.

  Pedro catches my eye, tosses me a grin, and nods in the direction of an effervescent redhead, co-piloting the danceline. That’ll be this week’s social life sorted, then. Wait till she sees what he pulls out of his holster on Monday.

  Meanwhile, on Sundays, Pedro runs a pop quiz. I might poke my head in tomorrow afternoon and lie some more, pretend I don’t remember many Beatles’ songs with “love” in the title, make the punters who get five or six or seven right feel worthy of the StarSea mugs and keychains they’ll win for first or second place.

  And tomorrow night it’s Cheesy Songs Countdown—not necessarily the worst tunes from the past five decades, just the most cringeworthy, usually with video. Current favourites include Honey Honey by Abba and Terry Jacks’ Seasons in the Sun.