by Terry Waite
They had just reached a collection of pre-fabricated buildings when there suddenly appeared two gendarmes on huge motorcycles. The impressive-looking policemen pulled up in front of Radley and brought the whole procession to a halt. Speaking rapidly in French, they fired several questions at him and he, not having attended the morning class so ably conducted by Enzo, was mystified. A message was passed down the crocodile and Enzo was summoned. He arrived, somewhat bad-tempered, saying that he ought to have led the procession all along as one never knew what might happen on foreign soil.
The senior officer addressed him in rapid French. Enzo did not reply but produced a small notebook from his pocket which he consulted. The other policeman now addressed him, in what seemed to be a more angry manner. Enzo frantically turned the pages of his little book but continued to remain silent. Finally, the senior policeman produced a radio and within moments several other police motor cyclists appeared, together with three police vans.
A man in plainclothes jumped out of one of the vans and questioned Radley. ‘What is the meaning of this demonstration?’ He had very passable English, even if he was angry. ‘Today there is a strike, and demonstrations are forbidden. Yes. You understand? Forbidden.’ He wagged his finger at both Enzo and Radley, who recoiled in shock, then turned to Enzo and hissed, ‘You are in France, old man. Why do you not speak French? Why do you come with English rabble to strike?’
Enzo remained speechless. Although he would never admit it, his command of French only extended to a few pages of the ‘Vin Bon Marché’ guide to buying wine. After that, he was as much at sea as any of the others. Also, to be called an ‘old man’ greatly insulted his dignity. He turned on his heel and prepared to walk away, but the policeman was having none of it.
‘So,’ he said, ‘we will see what you English are made of,’ and with that he snapped a pair of cuffs on the unfortunate Cruise Director and led him towards the van, where he pushed him inside and slammed the door.
Returning to the crocodile once more, he challenged Radley, who explained the situation to him as best he could. The English-speaking policeman defended his actions by saying that the English were acting in a most suspicious manner and there was to be no more of it. He concluded by saying that if they wanted their vin they had better make haste as ‘Vin Bon Marché’ closed in twenty minutes’ time. And so the crocodile resumed its journey, albeit in a different and less suspicious formation and at a much faster pace, leaving Enzo to work his own way out of trouble.
The group of intrepid travellers arrived at ‘Vin Bon Marché’ just as the staff were preparing to leave for home. The staff were not in the best of moods, given that the majority of their fellow workers in the vicinity were on strike and able to enjoy an extra holiday. Throughout the day they had had to endure the taunts of some strikers who castigated them for not coming out in sympathy, but had they done so, ‘Vin Bon Marché’ would have sacked them all on the spot. So, they remained at their posts disgruntled and unhappy. When they observed a large group of strange-looking individuals approaching the store, they imagined that they were about to be attacked by angry strikers and so immediately closed and bolted the doors. This incensed the passengers, who pointed at their watches and made threatening gestures. One or two of the more aggressive banged on the door demanding to be let in.
By now it was two minutes to closing time and there was no hope whatsoever of being able to buy supplies. More passengers showed their wrath by marching to the rear of the store and peering through the windows where they tried to catch the attention of the frightened assistants. Radley did his single-handed best to try and restore order, but he met with little success. Although it was now past closing time, those inside the building were too terrified to leave, and one of the passengers looking through a window noted a Vin Bon Marché employee speaking on the telephone. As the passenger turned around, to his alarm he further noted the two police motorcyclists approaching at a rapid pace, their sirens blazing. Enzo, who had obviously been released from custody, was seen sprinting furiously back towards the safety of the ship.
At the sight of the gendarmes the group scattered. Gone was the orderly crocodile. In fact, gone was any semblance of order. It was every passenger for himself.
The gendarmes sounded their sirens and blew their whistles. On board, Captain Sparda, thinking he was being acknowledged by the authorities, gave three merry toots on the ship’s whistle. This further terrified the passengers, who imagined that this was the sign that the ship was about to depart and so ran even faster towards the gangplank. The old tradition of ‘women and children first’ never crossed the mind of any of the party. The elderly stumbled along; the infirm wheezed and groaned, and the minority who had reasonable health were the first to enjoy the sanctuary of the Golden Handshake. The last person to stagger up the gangway was Albert. On stepping aboard he turned around to see the quay swarming with French cops and military types toting automatic weapons.
‘Funny country, France,’ he said to himself as he plodded to his cabin without a bottle of Brown Ale to his name. ‘Very bloomin’ funny.’
Back in the safety of his cabin, Enzo reflected on the events of the afternoon. By any stretch of the imagination, it could not have been described as a success. How was he to know that there was a strike in port here? The French police had behaved dreadfully, and because of their rough tactics with the handcuffs, his wrists hurt terribly. He poured himself a very small tot of Pussers Naval Rum and rested for a few moments. Now he had to face Lifeboat Drill - a regular happening which he hated, as he believed that most of the passengers would never remember what to do if there was a real emergency, as they hardly ever listened to the instructions given by the crew. He remembered reading somewhere about a crew-member of the Titanic who was believed to have said to an embarking passenger, ‘God himself could not sink this ship.’ He smiled as he pulled his lifejacket out of the locker. Anything can happen at sea, he thought - anything.
By comparison with the events of the afternoon, the drill was a model of precision - well almost. The exclusive Balcony Passengers met by the Information Post and, as they had trodden that way numerous times to listen to messages, they assembled without difficulty. One or two misunderstood the directions given on the cabin card and, instead of bringing with them a warm wrap and essential medicines, came loaded with heavy suitcases, into which they had thrown all their possessions. The ever-patient crew politely told them that such action was not required in future, but they complained that if the ship were to go down they would lose everything they possessed - a statement which the crew took with a pinch of salt, but extreme politeness. When all was completed, Enzo breathed a sigh of relief and returned to his cabin, to prepare himself for the first formal evening on board the SS Golden Handshake.
12
Albert and Alice returned to their Suite, and after much banging and shoving, managed to get the faulty door to admit them. It had proved rather expensive for the ship to equip each Suite with the modern-style lifejacket, and so life-belts had been supplied which the wearer had to step into and secure around their waist. They had carried these bulky objects to the drill, where they had been instructed to put them on. The return to the Suite was difficult, as both Albert and Alice when wearing the belt occupied the whole width of the corridor. It proved impossible for them to enter the narrow doorway to the Suite with the belts in place, but they managed to squeeze out of them - causing a major hold-up to others wanting also to get back to their Suites. Several passengers remarked that in the event of a disaster, it might prove difficult enough to pass through the corridor, let alone join a lifeboat.
‘You know,’ said Albert as he unlaced his boots in preparation for the evening’s attractions, ‘there’s not a lot of spare time on this ship. No sooner are we back here than it’s off again to some other damn thing.’
Alice picked up the daily programme which had been delivered to their Suite.
‘Better get changed quick,’ she said ab
ruptly. ‘It’s Captain’s Reception in twenty minutes, and then we have a dinner. It says formal here, so you’d better spruce up, lad.’
Albert groaned inwardly as he recollected the shopping expedition he had been forced to make before the cruise. Never having owned a dinner jacket in his life, he was more than reluctant to splash out now, but Alice had insisted. They were going on a world cruise and he would need a decent outfit; she too would need dresses for the gala occasions that were forecast in the brochure. In the Boss Brothers branch in Grimsby, he had examined the evening suits. No matter what Alice said, he was not bending. They were far too costly to be used for one cruise only.
‘Well,’ said Alice, ‘we might take another cruise. What then?’
‘We’re not made of brass,’ he replied. ‘Come on, let’s see what they have in the second-hand depot.’
They left Boss Brothers and walked to one of the many charity shops that enlivened the dying high street. Alice pushed Albert, past the bric-à-brac and straw hats, past the neatly ordered books and the ladies’ cast-offs until they came to a rail at the rear of the establishment. It was full of very dull shirts and even duller ties. An elderly assistant was sorting through a box of the most unsaleable-looking objects and Alice addressed her.
‘We are looking for an elegant dinner suit for my husband. As he has recently put on a little weight, the ones he has do not exactly fit, but he will return to his normal weight - I shall see to that. But now, as we have some very important functions to attend, we would like to see what you have. It’s not worth buying new, is it?’ She gave a coy little laugh and stretched out her hand to feel the quality of a miserable-looking shirt on the rail.
‘Well,’ said the assistant, ‘you’re in luck. Only half an hour ago, a very nice outfit came in. It’s not priced yet but it might be just the thing. Hold on.’
She disappeared into a back room as Alice surveyed a shelf of figurines for sale at twenty pence each.
‘Ooh, aren’t these lovely?’ she said.
Albert grunted and said nothing. Within a few moments the assistant returned bearing a jacket and trousers on a wire coat-hanger. Albert was ushered into a small cubical and struggled into the clothing. To his great alarm it seemed to fit, after a fashion. He emerged and Alice immediately seized him, turned him round, pulled at the jacket and announced that it would do splendidly if the trousers were turned up an inch and providing he put on no more weight. A price of ten pounds was agreed and the items were carefully folded and placed in an old supermarket plastic bag.
‘Oh,’ said Alice. ‘As we are here we might as well get you a new dickie bow.’ She had noted several amongst the ties and selected a large velvet bow.
‘I think we can let you have that,’ said the kindly lady as she popped it into the bag.
Alice was duly appreciative and, with her husband in tow, she walked out of the shop and into a world of dinner parties and elegant occasions.
Albert felt awkward in his new second-hand acquisition. Although the fit was passable, the jacket did make him appear somewhat like an elderly ‘Teddy-boy’ and as for the bow-tie - well, it was unusual to say the least. Alice wore her peach-coloured outfit which she had bought from British Home Stores. Frankly, it was not the most suitable colour for her as it made her look even heavier than she was, but she liked it and that was that. The time allowed to get to the reception was far too short, and there was a great deal of bad temper displayed as Alice tried to smarten Albert up and struggle into the peach costume at the same time.
Ten minutes after the appointed time they appeared at the entrance to the reception area where there was a long queue of expectant cruisers waiting to be greeted by the Captain and, most importantly, be photographed with him. This experience was new to the Captain. True, he had welcomed people aboard the Messina ferry, but the welcome then was highly informal and certainly no photographer was ever present. Alice eyed the other ladies and was panic-struck when she noticed that the majority were wearing long evening dresses and she was in a peach costume. She took Albert’s arm and quickly propelled him out of the line.
‘Albert, dear,’ she said, ‘would you be so kind as to escort me back to our Suite?’
She emphasised ‘Suite’ so that lesser mortals in lower cabins would recognise that she and Albert were amongst the elite. Albert looked startled.
‘But - - - ‘he began, but before he could utter another syllable he was being propelled back along the corridor to the Balcony Suite.
‘This is terrible,’ Alice wailed, ‘just terrible. Did you notice, Albert?’
Her husband was nonplussed. He had noticed that his braces were not secure enough and he had to keep hitching up his trousers, but that was about all he had noticed.
‘I can’t go to dinner, Albert. I just can’t.’
Albert, who was now feeling distinctly peckish after the exertions of the afternoon, looked startled.
‘Eh up,’ he said. ‘Come on, luv. We’ve got to eat, we’ve paid for it.’
‘It’s the costume, Albert. Did you see what the others were wearing?’
Albert had certainly noticed some rather startling outfits but he paid little attention and certainly did not understand at all that there might be some dresses that were appropriate and others that were not.
Alice rummaged through her wardrobe. ‘I’ve brought all the wrong clothes,’ she wailed.
By now she was virtually in tears.
‘The fox-fur cape won’t do, neither will the summer fruits outfit.’ When waiting for the photograph, Alice had noticed one or two ladies wearing trousers with some form of coloured top. She found a pair of black trousers which Albert unhelpfully remarked ‘looked like a pair of pyjamas’ and together with a decorative top, prepared to set off yet again. Albert hitched up his trousers and resumed the trek.
Alas, by the time they had reappeared at the entrance to the dining room, the photographer had disappeared and the Captain had gone to host his table. The Maitre D’ greeted them then checked their names from a list in front of him.
‘Mr and Mrs Hardcastle,’ he intoned.
‘Balcony Suite,’ added Alice.
‘Indeed,’ he replied smoothly. ‘Tonight I have placed you with two other Balcony Suite guests, - Sir Archibald and Lady Willoughby. They are both long-term cruisers, but of course are sailing with us for the first time.’
Albert glanced nervously around the dining area where Filipino waiters were busy serving the first course. On their way to the table Alice noted a passenger sitting alone and with whom she had exchanged some words at the lifeboat drill. The lady stopped Alice for a moment to pass, or ask for, some item of information and Albert, oblivious that he was walking alone to the table, continued on his way.
He stopped at their assigned table number four, where an elegant gentleman and a slightly less elegant lady were seated. They had started their meal. Albert hovered, now conscious of the fact that he was alone and uncertain as to whether he should sit or wait for Alice. The gentleman at the table looked up, saw Albert and without a moment’s hesitation said that the first course was delicious and he could now bring the pasta as soon as he wished.
The lady added in an accent, totally strange to Albert, ‘And make soup really hot next time.’
Albert shuffled uneasily, totally at a loss as to what to say when, fortunately, Alice appeared and addressed the table.
‘I do apologise for our lateness,’ she said in her best Northern accent. ‘We were unavoidably detained in our suite. A Balcony Suite, you know.’
She sat down and Albert followed her lead.
‘Oh I say,’ said the gentleman, ‘I do apologise, my dear chap. My eyesight is not what it was, you know. By George, I can see now you’re nothing like these foreign johnnies running around. My name’s Archibald Willoughby, Sir Archie if you like, and this is my lady wife Veronika. It is spelt with a ‘k’ in Russia, you know. She was well-named as it means ‘bringer of victory’ - and she’s always bee
n a fighter!’
Lady Willoughby gave a frosty look at her dinner companions and uttered an incomprehensible monosyllable.
‘I’m afraid Veronika does not speak much English, old boy. She spent much of her life in deepest Siberia and we met quite recently when I was hunting for the great Mongolian Elephant. Only three known of this species left in the world, you know. If I had been lucky, that would have made four. As it was, the blighter proved to be totally elusive. Never saw a thing, old fellow. Veronika grew up in that part of the world and told me they used to slaughter them to make soup to last the villagers through the icy winter. That’s where they have all gone - Siberian soup. A great shame. Ever been to Siberia, old boy? Oh I say, I don’t have your name. Call me Sir Archie but don’t call me before breakfast.’
He laughed uproariously at his feeble humour and looked through his fading eyes at Albert. As one eye was slightly off-centre, Albert could not tell if Sir Archie was looking at him or surveying the room. He found it distinctly off-putting.
‘My name is Alice Hardcastle,’ Alice said before Albert could say anything to embarrass her. ‘I am the first daughter of the late Bernard Alsop, formerly of Bradford. This is my husband Albert. We are taking the whole world cruise in a Balcony Suite, you know. My father called me Alice as the name means ‘noble’.’ Albert stared at his wife in amazement, but remained quiet.
‘Jolly good show, what?’ replied their jovial companion. ‘Good show, eh, Veronika’?
Lady Willoughby nodded and continued with her meal.
‘Well, don’t let me hold you up, old boy. Order what you want. What about some vino, hmm? Nothing like it for gladdening the heart, what? I always bring my own drink with me on world cruises. Here, try this. It’s a Rothschild ‘72. Damn good year, I say.’
