by Rose Donovan
A few scattered tables and lounge chairs dotted the deck around the bar. Dolores Dominguez lay in one of the lounge chairs, fanning herself with the passenger manifest. She held a cigarette loosely in the other hand. When the ash threatened to fall on the deck, she made a liquid movement to ensure it found its resting place in the ashtray by her side. She looked divine in a simple navy gown which would have looked plain on someone else. Even if Fina hadn’t known Dolores was a film star, she would have still thought her devastatingly glamourous.
Dolores appeared perfectly at home by herself – neither bored nor overly excited, surveying the room as if it were her own party.
Two lounge chairs over from Dolores reclined the woman in the flowered frock Fina had seen earlier, the mother of the five-year-old. After studying the passenger list closely, Fina determined this must be Violet Gibbs. Unlike Dolores, Violet was shrinking and wilting, thought Fina. She mentally took herself to task for her inward joke in poor taste. Really, why was the woman at the bar at all? She looked just as vaguely ill as she had a few hours ago upon their embarkation on the SS Sanguine. Certainly she wasn’t happy to relax in her recliner. She looked like a patient in a dentist’s chair: uncomfortable and vulnerable.
Violet’s husband, Phillip, and her son, Gilbert, sat next to her. The family was a study in contrasts, thought Fina. Phillip, still in his shabby brown suit but surprisingly sharp toe-cap Oxfords, was enjoying his blue cocktail. His leg jiggled up and down as he took tiny sips from the glass. Gilbert blew bubbles with a little wand. He seemed to be trying to irritate his mother by blowing them in her direction. And succeeding, as Fina could see by the expression on her face.
A hand gently grazed Fina’s arm. Twirling around, she faced the comfortable dumpling figure of Gustave Marchand.
“Darling – I may call you Fina?” he said. There again was that odd mismatch of a beautiful, enthusiastic voice with a rather inelastic, stony face.
Setting her cocktail glass down on a nearby table after she had sloshed a bit on her gown – why are you so clumsy, she thought to herself – she shook his hand.
“Of course, Mr Marchand. May I call you Gustave?”
“Please do, my dear lady, of course, of course. I see you are a keen observer of other human beings. It is a little hobby of my own, you see. I always recognise a – how do you say? Kindred spirit.”
Though the alcohol had smoothed over some of the edges of Fina’s anxiety – both that normal social anxiety as well as the additional pressure to gather information – this question prompted her heart to palpitate. Had he been watching her?
The arrival of Emeline Caulk and Patricia Burbage rescued Fina from answering Gustave’s awkward comment. Patricia was certainly elegant. She shone in a long, flowing, royal purple crepe gown. A powder blue chiffon scarf, artfully arranged at her neck, was pinned into place by a positively enormous starfish brooch. The little spines and bumps on the silver starfish sparkled. They couldn’t be real – not that many diamonds, surely? She scanned her passenger manifest as if it would hold the answer.
Gustave leaned over. He whispered, “Yes, darling, I wouldn’t be surprised if those were diamonds. She isn’t one to hide her millions. Do you see the size of that pearl ring?”
Fina had never seen a pearl that large in her life. Though the overall effect of the ring and brooch could have been overwhelming or vulgar – though Fina strongly suspected she didn’t like the implications of that word – Patricia’s bearing somehow counteracted the heaviness of her jewels. She looked oddly defiant, as though she had had to nerve herself to enter the arena. Yet no one here was remotely threatening.
Emeline, still clad in stiff tweeds, sat down on the edge of a lounge chair. As Patricia swept over to the bar, she turned her head and stared at Sadie. And Sadie stared back. Definitely intriguing.
Though it could just be the champagne, Fina thought Gustave could be a confidant of sorts. She whispered back, “Who is she, really? Was she born into wealth?”
“She married into her wealth,” he sighed wistfully. “Henry Burbage. The Canadian. Surely you must have heard of Burbage Oil?”
“That’s it!” said Fina, adding, “I mean, I knew something was familiar about her name.” In her excitement, Fina had sprayed a little more of her drink, though fortunately not on Gustave. He still brushed his jacket, absently.
“But where is her husband? Are they estranged? And what do you know about Emeline?” enquired Fina.
“Her husband died – I believe it was a little over a year ago. A tragic accident involving a donkey. That left her the majority shareholder in his company. So Mrs Burbage is, as the Americans say, rolling in it.”
“Oh dear,” said Fina, hoping he would expand on the theme of the donkey.
Instead, he expanded on her second question. “Emeline Caulk is Patricia’s sister,” he said, puckering his mouth when he said “sister”. It was the first time Fina had seen his facial muscles engage in any physical activity.
“Do you mean she’s not really her sister?”
“No, no. I mean, dear lady, that I cannot believe the two are actually related to one another. Miss Caulk is, well, I do not wish to be unkind, but as a designer, I must say…”
“Could use better clothes?” Fina said, rescuing him.
“Well, yes, though I suspect they would not fit her well. She is rather, well, stiff. She has energy and vitality, but that rigidity! I feel sorry for her.”
Fina was at a loss for words in response to Gustave’s comment, so she took another sip of her rapidly vanishing cocktail. She excused herself and traipsed to the bar. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man she knew to be Balraj. Even from her vantage point, she could see he was going to make, as they say in the theatre, “an entrance”.
“Darling, darling, darling Sadie… or is it Lady Whatsit?” he called out to Sadie, as if the other passengers were merely furniture. Sadie plopped down in a nearby chair with sudden force. If the chair hadn’t been there, Fina was sure she would have fallen onto the deck.
She peered again at her passenger list. Balraj Chadha was listed, quite clearly. How could Sadie have failed to notice his name? Fina’s anxious mind could not comprehend how anyone could forgo reading the passenger list most carefully.
Balraj was clad in azure from head to toe. He glided across the deck like a great wave seeking a shoreline.
“It’s Lady Winchcombe-Twisleton, as you well know, Mr Chadha,” said Sadie, her back rigid. She rose from her chair and gripped the railing.
As Balraj leaned over to peck Sadie’s cheek, she ducked, nearly sending him toppling over. He regained his footing immediately and brushed his hair out of his eyes.
“Why so formal, Lady Twislecombe-Winchton?” Fina felt sure he had mangled her name on purpose.
None of the other passengers had moved during this display – they were all focused intently on the unfolding drama.
Sadie marched past Balraj toward the corner where Victor and his new friend, Gilbert, were making crashing noises with their toys. She almost yanked Victor’s arm out of his socket in her hurry to make an exit. Half dragging him across the floor to the nearest staircase, she descended below without a word – except for Victor’s faint protests.
Fina was still at the bar, staring. Lev shook his head while pouring another drink.
“Rich people,” he muttered under his breath. Surely he knew Fina could hear him. Did he not care?
“I wonder what that was about,” said Fina, eyeing Lev speculatively. Her eyes slid over to the moist red fruit he was splitting into sections with a cleaver. As she watched him, she noticed a small tattoo on his forearm. She swore it was a hedgehog.
“Just some rich people’s show. Always same,” he snorted.
Seeing this line of conversation had hit an impasse, she changed tack. “What is that fruit you’re preparing? It looks divine!”
He scooped up a few pieces, plopped them into a bowl. He slid it to Fina across the b
ar. Then he presented a fork to her as if it were a royal sceptre. “You will love it. Red papaya.”
Fina chuckled at herself as the juice dribbled down her chin. “Mmm. You’re right!” She saw Lev crack a hint of a smile. She was determined to make friends with him before they arrived in Port of Spain.
“How many times have you been on this voyage, Lev? Were you born in the Bahamas?” she enquired, though she knew he must be from elsewhere.
He answered without looking up from grating lemons. “Oh, more times than I remember. I came to the Bahamas many years ago, from Ukraine.”
Ukraine. Fina’s auditory nerves suddenly became more acute.
“I see. The Bahamas must be an unusual destination for Ukrainians,” she stated, hoping it would prompt an answer.
Silence. He moved on to slicing limes.
Despite the frostiness emanating from her now-taciturn conversation partner, Fina wiped her brow and began to fan herself with the passenger manifest. This action seemed to attract Balraj, and he strode over to Fina like a moth to a flame. While she was relieved to not have to continue the awkward silence, Balraj’s sudden attention was equally disconcerting.
Ice clinked in Balraj’s glass as he set it on the bar. He turned his full attention to Fina. Lev scowled as if Balraj had left dirty dishes on his personal dining table. Balraj, however, seemed wholly unaware of his surroundings as he came up very close to Fina.
“You must be the famous Miss Dove,” he said. His breath tickled her cheek. She stepped back. Fina knew she had an exaggerated need for her own personal space. She flinched as she remembered how the police constables had breathed on her as they interrogated her about her father’s death.
Lost in her memories, Fina stepped back too far and hit her shoulder against the railing. Returning to reality, her words began to tumble out. “You must be Mr Chadha. I’m Fina, Fina Aubrey-Havelock. You can just call me Fina. I’m afraid Miss Dove – Ruby, that is – isn’t feeling well. She’s in her cabin, resting,” she said, slowly regaining her composure.
“Pity. I had heard so much about her from my good friend, Gustave. And Dolores told me she was interested in Miss Dove’s designs. Please do give her my regards when you see her,” he said, now staring at the sea.
“I’m Ruby’s assistant, though I am acting as governess on this voyage to little Victor,” said Fina.
Suddenly, his head snapped back to Fina with renewed interest.
“Really?” he said, now with even more interest. “Well, I could tell you a few things about your employer, Miss Aubrey-Havelock. Yes, I could indeed.” He rubbed his hands together as if he were a small child ready to open birthday gifts. “May I call you Fina? You may certainly call me Balraj.”
“Yes, please do call me Fina, ah, Balraj. I must say that you were quite good in Sapphire Moon.”
“Thank you, dear lady. Though I fear that film was rather, well, shall we say, unsatisfying?”
“Oh, I enjoyed it thoroughly.”
“But surely you must have noticed my role was a hopeless caricature.”
There it was again, thought Fina. Blast it. Those stinging, warm pinpricks, climbing and lacing their way up her neck. Nothing she could do to stop it. Especially because she felt ashamed.
“Oh, you’re right, of course. I didn’t even think of it, but you’re right. It was quite awful. I suppose I’m so used to those bit parts in films that I just ignore them – but I shouldn’t, of course.”
Balraj bestowed a broad smile on Fina. “My dear Fina, what a refreshing attitude. Mostly I tell white Britishers that just to make them uncomfortable,” he said pausing to take a sip of his drink. “Most of the time they respond with extreme denial and defensiveness. But you were honest.”
Fina felt the heat even more intensely in her face now. She took in a big gulp of the salty warm air. “Ah, well, I…” she mumbled.
“I’m actually on a campaign to make the British film industry improve their portrayals of my people. That’s why I’ve been out of work for a while,” he said, running his fingers through his long hair.
“Is this an enforced holiday of sorts for you then?” asked Fina.
His relaxed posture vanished, along with his easy charm.
“I suppose you could say that.”
The gliding approach of a dapper gentleman saved her from responding to Balraj. The man’s carriage was so straight that Fina wondered if he had been in the military. The blue stripes of a sailor’s shirt peeked out from underneath the cool white of his suit.
“Let me introduce myself,” he said with a little bow to Fina and Balraj. “My name is Maxwell Mills. I am your captain on this voyage. I make a point of personally inviting all of our guests to dinner on the first night aboard. Please follow me to the dining room.”
9
“How are you feeling?” Fina queried, lowering herself gently on the bed next to Ruby’s huddled figure.
“Mmph. Awful,” she whispered in reply.
“So sorry,” said Fina, patting her arm under the covers. “Do you want to listen to my report or shall I save it for tomorrow?”
Ruby groaned, but nodded what seemed to be her head in assent. It was difficult to tell since she lay in a foetal position beneath heaps of blankets.
Fina shared her encounters, with special attention to the Sadie-Balraj drama. As she talked, she scribbled notes in her tiny green notebook. Ruby had given it to her as a special gift after the close of their “case” at Pauncefort Hall.
Tap, tap.
“Must be our dinner,” said Fina. “I asked for it to be brought down, since I didn’t want to desert you for the dining room. Frankly, I’m glad I did. The atmosphere at drinks was rather uncomfortable – positively strained.”
Fina opened the door to a petite, spritely woman. Her hair was tied back into a serviceable bun and, like Sadie, she had a number of bangles on her wrist. An onyx apron that had seen better days dampened the warmth of her orange shirt-dress.
She held a tray piled with mounds of food. The sea air fused with the heady smells of celery, onions, tomatoes and rice, automatically bringing a smile to Fina’s face. And her stomach grumbled appreciatively as if in answer to this food offering.
“I’m Sarah, Miss Sarah Breeze,” said the woman as she handed the tray over to Fina. “I’m the cook on this ship. I heard Miss Dove had a turn, so I made some special food for her. I made sure not to bring any food that has a strong smell. Like fish.”
“Most kind of you, Miss Breeze. I’m sure you must be quite busy with the dinner service.”
“Wasn’t nothing at all,” she said with a friendly voice, though she did not smile. She nearly pushed pass Fina to go over to the huddled figure on the bed. She sat down next to Ruby and, reaching into her apron pocket, pulled out a small green bottle and a spoon. She craned her neck around to look at Fina.
“Give her three spoons of this every two hours until she feels better,” she said, plopping down the bottle on the nightstand with such force that the orders were clear.
Moans of protestation, incomprehensible, came from the figure on the bed.
“Now don’t be fussy, Miss Dove. I know all about seasickness. And that’s what you have,” she said, chiding Ruby, while eyeing Fina expectantly.
Fina nodded at Sarah as she gently began to remove items from the tray. She moved slowly, afraid that the mounds of food might topple over onto the floor.
Though Sarah’s sentences were direct and short, Fina had the sense that she wanted to talk. Well, she could certainly indulge her. After all, she was a consummate listener herself.
“I met Agnes Gidge earlier,” said Fina, taking a quick bite of a soft round disc on one of the plates. Mmm. Heaven, she thought.
Sarah rolled her eyes and slid her bracelets up and down her arm. “Ah yes, Agnes. She’s a good maid, and she can draw a picture like no one I’ve ever seen, but what a tongue. Talks all day and night. I’d never be able to cook anything if I didn’t tell her to be q
uiet.”
“She did seem rather loquacious,” said Fina with a smile. “This is so delicious, Miss Breeze. What is it?” she said, holding up one of the discs with a fork.
“That’s just plantain. You Brits love your plantains.”
In between enthusiastic bites, Fina asked, “Miss Gidge told me you’re quite the poet. Do you write for yourself or ever share it?”
Even though her hands were covered by her apron, Fina could see them tighten into little balls. “That Agnes. The girl’s mouth is the size of the whole blue sea.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Breeze, I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m always interested in what people do – besides their jobs,” said Fina, softly.
The little fists relaxed, but Sarah stood up to go. “Please do remember to give Miss Dove the tonic I left you on the nightstand. And you can leave the tray outside your door. Someone will come by to pick it up.”
And with that, she slipped out of the room.
Ruby turned over to gaze at Fina with eyelids at half-mast. With great effort, she said, “Feens, I need you to do something for me.”
Ruby reached out to the nightstand and grasped at a piece of folded paper. “Can you slip this under Ian’s door?” she said, panting from the effort of lifting her arm. “There must be envelopes in the writing desk.”
Doing as she was bidden, Fina fetched an envelope, slipped the piece of paper inside and sealed it. “There,” she said with finality. “I need to look in on Victor and Sadie to see if I should read him a bedtime story. The night air will be refreshing.”
She fought her fierce curiosity to ask about the note. When it came to Ian, Ruby was as defensive as a cat backed into a corner.
Ruby’s only reply was to give her a half-hearted “thank-you” smile. Then she rolled over. Little soft snoring sounds soon came from the pile of blankets. Fina grinned to herself.
She slid the envelope into her favourite clutch. On her way out of the cabin, she snatched one more of those delicious plantains.
