Pieces of Justice

by Margaret Yorke

  She was between posts, Millicent had crisply replied, and would be taking up a new position after Christmas. This was an unusual time for a change, Patrick reflected; the end of the academic year was the appropriate moment for a move, though of course there were exceptions. He wondered, briefly, why Millicent’s year had been interrupted. Perhaps she had been ill; a cruise had always been regarded as perfect convalescence.

  Now, five nights into the cruise and at peace on this Greek island, he had determined to banish all thoughts of his table companions from his mind. The appearance of the conjuror and his assistant, and the other entertainers, had reminded him of the reasons for his presence here, and his nostalgic mood had been broken. Perhaps it was as well: looking back was not always wise.

  He finished his meal and strolled away down the steep hill towards the rows of tourist-trap shops. Some sold excellent leather work and jewellery: he had bought Liz a bracelet here. Now he had no one for whom to buy trinkets, he thought dolefully, and then remembered his sister and his niece, Miranda, now twenty and about to start her third year at Exeter university. Her usual garb was black: black leggings, black baggy sweaters, a small black velvet hat with an upturned brim – rather enchanting, he had thought, when he last saw her, but sombre. Gold earrings and bracelets did not fit her current image. He sighed. She would probably grow out of this phase but, set as she was on becoming a criminal lawyer, dark attire would always be her uniform.

  He decided to buy her a bracelet anyway. That could be worn with any amount of sub fuse.

  He enjoyed making his purchase, using the small amount of Greek he could command. Afterwards, with the package in his pocket, he walked on, hoping to buy an English paper if the stock had not already been cleared out by Andromeda’s passengers; he should have thought about it earlier. At the end of the narrow street, he saw Millicent Fortescue, who turned right. The paper shop, if Patrick remembered correctly, lay that way, too, but he turned in the other direction and met Mr and Mrs Jones head on. They were arm-in-arm, Mrs Jones leaning on her husband; Patrick saw that she was slightly lame. Why hadn’t he noticed this before? He used to be so observant.

  The Joneses were wondering what to buy as presents for their grandchildren.

  ‘Or should we wait till Yalta?’ they asked him. ‘What shall we be able to get there?’

  Patrick applied his powerful intellect to the problem.

  ‘Those wooden dolls?’ he suggested. ‘The ones that fit into one another. You must have seen them around.’

  They had, but the grandchildren were boys.

  ‘Wait and see, when we get there,’ he advised. ‘If there’s nothing that seems right, there will still be Heraklion and Venice.’

  ‘That’s true,’ they admitted. ‘We’re so lucky, Doctor Grant,’ Mrs Jones continued. ‘Our daughter and son-in-law have given us this trip as a ruby wedding present. Forty years, just imagine,’ and as she spoke, the couple smiled at one another, a stout, bald man with a red face and a wrinkled woman with soft white hair in a cloud of curls. They still saw one another as at their first meeting, Patrick realised: a tall young man with blue eyes, and, no doubt, a slim and pretty girl.

  He felt humbled, and in a weird, rather sour way, envious.

  ‘Would you like some coffee? A drink, perhaps?’ he heard himself suggesting, against his determined intention to remain aloof from the passengers and, indeed, everyone on board.

  The Joneses accepted, plumping for tea with lemon, and were impressed by what seemed to them his confident knowledge of the language as he ordered, Only to be answered in perfect English by the waitress who turned out to be an American student on an extended vacation.

  ‘You’ve been here before, Doctor Grant,’ said Mrs Jones, smiling at him.

  ‘Several times,’ he agreed.

  ‘We’ve never been to Greece. It was our ambition,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘David is a parson. Our income doesn’t stretch to these extravagances.’

  ‘We’ve made a point of going to France,’ said Mr Jones. ‘We’ve learned to know several areas well, particularly the Languedoc.’

  ‘David’s French is fluent,’ said Mrs Jones.

  Patrick should have discovered Mr Jones’s calling before this; he might wish to say grace before meals. There could be a social dilemma. I’ll ask the Captain, Patrick decided; or perhaps this question came within the Entertainment Officer’s orbit or that of the Purser. He was sailing in uncharted hierarchic waters here.

  While they sat there, Patrick managing, without a struggle, to appropriate the bill, Millicent walked past them, marching on without even a nod in their direction.

  ‘Perhaps she did not notice us,’ said Eleanor Jones. ‘She’s a strange woman. Very withdrawn.’

  ‘Now, Eleanor,’ admonished her husband.

  ‘David thinks I’m a terrible gossip, but I like to know about people,’ said Eleanor Jones. ‘Don’t you, Doctor Grant?’

  ‘But you’re not gossiping about Millicent Fortescue,’ said Patrick. ‘You’ve simply stated that you think she may be shy, and I would agree with that opinion.’

  ‘She was dismissed from the school where she was head of the history department,’ said Eleanor. ‘She’d had an affair with the deputy head – he was married, of course.’

  ‘Now you are gossiping, dear,’ said David Jones.

  ‘Was the deputy head dismissed too?’ asked Patrick, intrigued.

  ‘No, and you’ve put your finger on the nub of the matter,’ said Eleanor. ‘She was the scapegoat.’

  ‘Now, dear, we mustn’t judge,’ reproved her husband.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Eleanor robustly. ‘He was the adulterer.’ She uttered the word clearly. ‘And you’re a minister. Who’s to say what’s right and wrong if you don’t?’

  ‘In principle, I agree,’ Patrick encouraged her.

  ‘It’s again a case of the woman sinned,’ said Eleanor.

  ‘I didn’t think people could be dismissed for that sort of thing these days,’ said Patrick. ‘After all, they were consenting adults, weren’t they? Neither had seduced an under-age pupil.’

  ‘They were unlucky enough to get caught out, er—together, as you might say, on school premises,’ said Eleanor. ‘In the head’s study, to be precise. Miss Fortescue sued for wrongful dismissal and was awarded damages.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ asked Patrick. ‘Did she tell you?’

  ‘No. But it was in all the papers – the tabloids, anyway. The Vanessa Fortescue case. I imagine she’s using her second name on this trip, to protect her identity.’

  ‘And the damages to pay for it,’ said Patrick. ‘But how did you recognise her?’

  ‘I didn’t. Our daughter did, on the quayside when we embarked. She knows someone who teaches at that school. Mind you, we’re not going to let her secret out. She deserves some protection.’

  But you’ve revealed it to me, thought Patrick, and if your daughter recognised her, others may have done the same.

  ‘She was a very good teacher, I believe,’ said Eleanor. ‘I hope she won’t find it too difficult to get another job.’

  Patrick resolved, while remaining distant, to take more interest in Millicent, and to protect the Joneses from incurring drink bills beyond their budget. The custom at the table was for passengers to take turns buying wine; in spite of the low price obtaining on board, it could be embarrassing, and neither he, nor the other men at the table, had felt comfortable about letting the two widows pay their share, but the women had prevailed. Millicent had remained impassive through the resulting conversation; she would brook no opposition when her turn came, he felt sure, and would be capable of quoting the Equal Opportunities Act to support her: much good that had been in her own recent experience.

  They returned to the ship by tender from the jetty. During the day the wind had grown stronger, and it was an adventurous journey as the launch bounded about over the waves; it was difficult for the seamen to hold it steady as the passengers disembark
ed.

  ‘Have you noticed how small they are?’ said a soft voice close to Patrick as he waited his turn to leap on to the small landing platform.

  It was Betty, the blonde widow.

  ‘How small who are?’ he asked.

  The sailors. They’re not big enough to make me feel secure,’ said Betty, as a large lady ahead of them was manoeuvred from the boat and began ascending the steps to the opening in the side of the ship.

  Patrick was already standing aside to let Betty precede him.

  ‘I think you’ll find they’re quite wiry,’ he said. ‘But do go first, Mrs Hunter, and then I’ll be behind you to catch you if you should slip. I’m not small.’

  This was true. Betty Hunter thought him a fine-looking man in his way, tall and broadly built, with dark hair now greying at the temples. He was pleasant enough at dinner, but lacked the knack of uniting the table, making everyone happy. Too academic, she decided.

  She was not being flirtatious, he thought, aware that she was perhaps less than ten years older than himself; this was one cruising hazard he had been warned about which he had not, so far, encountered.

  The sailors, accustomed to helping much heavier, less nimble ladies than Betty Hunter, wafted her aloft without trouble and Patrick stood back to let a number of other passengers disembark from the launch before him. By the time he reached the deck of the ship, she had gone.

  He enjoyed his sessions on the bridge, delivering, by means of the loudspeaker system to any who cared to listen, instructive descriptions of the ports at which they called and the landmarks they passed. He worked from the notes of the lecturer he was replacing, regretting that he had lacked time to prepare his own, but in these talks and those given as lectures in the ship’s theatre, he embellished the text with his additions, and, having snatched up a pile of books before the ship sailed, read up on each area. He looked forward to Venice, where he could refer to Portia’s pleading. It was a pity they were not going to Cyprus, he reflected, his mind turning again to jealousy and the fury of Othello. What was it that made people so obsessed? Gripped by such passion, they lost all rationality.

  On the bridge, ordered calm prevailed but vigilance was never relaxed. Patrick learned to interpret the video screen which showed their progress, the marks depicting other ships. He was present when the various pilots arrived, each small launch in turn fussing up to the side of the ship like a piglet in search of a teat, watching from the normal passenger deck in Istanbul as the agile man clambered up a rocking rope ladder and was helped aboard.

  Istanbul: the mystery of Asia: the mosques. He visited several, awed by their magnificence but irritated by the pressing crowds of touts and tourists. Their arrival had coincided with that of a number of other cruise ships and their promised berth had been given to an Italian liner, enraging the Captain, although he maintained outward calm. It upset the timing of the excursions since the passengers had to be ferried ashore. There was a jam of buses on the quay and again at every tourist sight. Patrick joined weary coveys of passengers from Andromeda trooping towards the underground cistern, an impressive spectacle built by the Romans more than 1400 years ago. Though a triumph of construction, it was a haunting, melancholy place, Patrick decided, avoiding drips from the ceiling and hurrying past pools on the stone slabs of the floor.

  I don’t understand the East, he thought, glad to return to the ship, which was remaining in port until midnight to allow passengers to sample the delights of night life ashore. During his years in Canada he had visited Hong Kong and Japan, and much of the United States, and had often returned to Europe, but wistfully. I am a European, he thought; that’s where I’m comfortable.

  Now he was about to settle in the Master’s Lodgings at St Mark’s for the last decade of his working life; that, he suspected and hoped, would be, for him, his most appropriate ambience. He had not yet turned his mind to the politicking and guile which he would need in his new position.

  The final decade. He sighed, gazing back across the water at the spires and minarets of the city he was leaving. Shakespeare had set none of his plays here.

  That evening Mr and Mrs Jones pressed him to join their table for the syndicate quiz held nightly in one of the lounges, and Patrick could not remember what flower had been represented on the reverse of the old threepenny bit, nor did he know in which year various football teams had won or lost notable encounters; in fact, he was astounded by his ignorance about what he considered trivia and at the mastery shown by some of his companions. All the same, he supplied the identity of the first Plantagenet king, and knew in which of Dickens’ novels Mr Pecksniff appeared. A formidable team at another table established an easy lead; there were two retired headmasters among them, Patrick was told. It was small comfort; Patrick intensely disliked the exposure of gaps in his knowledge.

  ‘Never mind, Doctor Grant,’ said Mrs Jones cheerfully. ‘Perhaps the questions will be more in our line another night.’

  ‘Where is Millicent?’ asked Mr Jones. ‘I haven’t seen her since dinner.’

  Millicent had provided that night’s wine; she had ordered it earlier in the day, thus foiling any protests by confronting the rest of the table with a fait accompli.

  ‘She’s gone to the film,’ said Betty Hunter. ‘What about a last drink? Doctor Grant?’

  Patrick declined, saying he wanted to read up about Yalta. He was looking forward to the visit there; it should be very interesting to see what had happened to this town which was once a resort for high officials in the Politburo, as well as the home of Chekhov, but in fact he wanted to retreat to his cabin to read another of that writer’s spare, compelling short stories.

  He made his escape, and took a quick turn round the deck before going down to his cabin. There, at the stern of the ship, gazing at the receding churned pattern of its wake, stood Millicent Fortescue. She was at the rail, a thin, solitary figure, upright, tense, staring at the water which was fluorescent in the moonlight. Patrick hesitated, then approached.

  ‘How was the film?’ he asked, and she turned sharply, looking startled.

  He saw that for an instant she did not know who he was, so rapt was she in her thoughts and her isolation. Then she answered.

  ‘I didn’t go,’ she said. ‘It was an excuse. I’m not too good at communal jollity.’ She had regained her composure and added, ‘Nor, I suspect, are you.’

  ‘Not really,’ he agreed. ‘But I’m not a professional cruiser, like the man I’m replacing, and I suppose we can all learn. Aren’t you cold?’ She wore no wrap and her thin, pale arms were bare. ‘It’s chilly now. Shall we walk a little?’ he suggested.

  She found herself gently pacing beside him while he asked her whether she had been to any of their ports of call before. They circled the deck together, and then he escorted her to her cabin, which was on the same deck as his own.

  Well, she hadn’t leapt overboard tonight, at least, he reflected, unlocking his door. Next time, there might be no one to prevent her. Her stance at the rail when he approached had been so rigid, her mental separation from the present so profound, that he was sure it had been in her mind.

  Yalta lay at the base of a ridge of mountains, looking rather like an Italian lakeside town. The air was fresh, almost icy, thought Patrick, going ashore with a group bound for the Livadia Palace. The Joneses and the Boyds were in the same bus, but none of their other table companions. Patrick had not seen Millicent Fortescue that morning; he successfully dismissed her and her problems from his mind, determined to enjoy his Ukrainian experience.

  In the port area there were some young boys, about ten or twelve years old, he estimated, trying to sell crudely printed children’s books, and army and navy uniform caps. They were nearly as persistent as the touts in Istanbul. He felt deep sadness; was this what freedom meant?

  Their guide was a man of about thirty-five whose English was impeccable; he spoke frankly about inflation and the anxiety felt by everyone. At the Vorontsov Palace, his conscientious ex
position won Patrick’s admiration as the man described how the palace had been built with the most expensive granite, not local stone, to demonstrate the Count’s great wealth. Pushkin, staying here, had fallen in love with the Countess: hence, Eugene Onedin. It was easy to imagine the family living in this building where Winston Churchill had stayed for the Yalta Conference, an old man who had endured a six-hour car trip from where his plane had landed.

  Walking in the gardens of the Livadia Palace, scene of that historic meeting at which fateful decisions about the division of Europe were made, Patrick wryly surveyed the sleeping lion on the steps, drowsing while his brothers stayed alert; Churchill, feeling tired, had seen it as a warning. What a setting: no wonder the last Tsar and his family had loved it. Poor Anastasia, the survivor who had been denied recognition by her own grandmother; what suffering she had endured, ending her days in America as Anna Anderson, acknowledged by so few. Patrick was convinced that she had been the real Anastasia and now it was possible that genetic fingerprinting would, posthumously, prove the truth of her identity.

  He was in a thoughtful mood, that afternoon, when he walked alone through the pestering small and larger pedlars pursuing the tourists through the streets. He had been disappointed at not entering Chekhov’s house: too small, their guide had said as they drove past it, high on the hill among the trees. He emerged on to the promenade. In this town, privileged Russians spent vacations. He hoped that while he presided over St Mark’s it would be possible to encourage visits both ways; he would do it, if he could keep his head above academic red tapes.

  The Joneses were sitting on a bench gazing out to sea. They looked tired, and told him they had found the sight of children trying to make money from the tourists most depressing. They had bought a Russian sailor’s cap for their youngest grandson, simply because the vendor reminded them of him.

  Patrick, gloomy too, changed the subject by asking them if they had seen Millicent that day. They had not.

  ‘She seemed rather low last night,’ he offered. ‘I met her up on deck.’