Times and Places

by Keith Anthony

  And so it went on for another thirty minutes until, mercifully, a whole group of young men and women were introduced all in one go, as the ‘Magdalena Show Troupe’. A few moments later, the music struck up, everyone else melted off stage and they took over the rest of the evening, performing a series of songs and dances around the theme of the sea.

  Fergus felt the show was a little lame, but he couldn’t help admiring the dancers with their extended arms and their high kicks, twisting their way across the stage, whirling and twirling, performing dramatic lifts and ‘quick-changing’ between a range of sometimes skimpy, sometimes extravagant costumes. Towards the end, as they raced around with long blue and green ribbons streaming behind them – apparent metaphors for the ocean – Fergus was drawn to one dancer in particular: a slight, rather boyish brunette, with deep brown eyes, who reminded him of his daughter, who herself could very easily have been performing cabaret on a ship, had things worked out differently. At one stage, the dancers came running down the aisles and, as she passed him, he caught her eye and she smiled. Somehow, this left him feeling slightly sad, but perhaps he was just tired after his lengthy day.

  It had been after midnight by the time he and Sylvie finally slipped, exhausted, into bed. Now, waking up the next morning, having slept deeply through the night, they both felt relaxed and at peace. They lay resting a few moments longer, enjoying the Magdalena gently pitching and rolling them on the swell, before finally getting up on this, the first full day of their holiday, quietly relishing the prospect of spending it at sea.

  Passengers were allocated set tables in the evenings but – thank goodness, thought Fergus – breakfasts were free seating, meaning he and Sylvie could sit where they chose and were thus spared another encounter with the woman they had endured two tables away from them at dinner, just twelve hours earlier. Her raucous outbursts had actually made them jump and she had seemed more interested in talking at high volume to the couple on the neighbouring table than to her own husband, who had sat patiently opposite her, perhaps with years of practice behind him. Instead, Fergus and Sylvie were able to eat their breakfast in peace, sharing a table for two and looking out on the Atlantic through the large restaurant windows, as they enjoyed a very full meal, beginning with some fruit, as a sop to healthy living.

  “That was lovely,” commented Sylvie, as finally she put her cutlery down “… but maybe not every day.” Fergus agreed on both counts.

  The Magdalena was small by cruise ship standards, but this and the plentiful ‘sea days’ had been the precise reason they had chosen this particular trip. They had no desire to hop between crowded tourist traps in a floating tower block of cabin apartments. There were just nine hundred passengers on board, compared to the several thousand on the largest modern vessels, and a little over three hundred crew. Of the ten decks, the upper eight housed passengers, the long corridors becoming more ornate with every level until, on deck ten – which they dubbed ‘Millionaire’s Row’ – each cabin had a large pot plant guarding its door. Fergus and Sylvie, however, were very happy with their own more simple accommodation, down on deck four, with their picture window and the ocean its other side, just a few feet below.

  Despite their good night’s rest, they spent the morning sleepily digesting their breakfasts on a sheltered part of deck, enjoying the sea air. At noon, they were stirred by a brief fanfare over the public address system, heralding the first of the Captain’s daily progress updates:

  “Good afterrrnoon, ladies and gentlemen. An update from the brrridge. We are currrently steaming west south west and apprrroaching the entrrrance to the Bay of Beazcay.”

  Sylvie tried to place his accent, but struggled.

  “The weather is parrrtly cloudy with wind force 6, an air tem-Per-ature of 7 degrrrees and a sea tem-Per-ature of 13 degrrrees. We are scheduled to arrrive at Praia da Vitoria, Azores, on Wednesday at seven thirrrty in the morrrning. Our speed is 14.5 knots.”

  Fergus sought to take in the technical detail, listening attentively and oblivious to the wild guesses as to the Captain’s nationality – “Bulgarian? Italian? Croatian maybe?” – emanating from his wife.

  “As therrre is some swell, please hold on to the hand rrrails as you move about the ship, in orrrder to avoid acc-Sea-dents.”

  “Russian do you think?” Sylvie said, vainly demanding an opinion in response.

  “A few hygiene advices, please wash yourrr hands frrre-Quent-ly for twenty seconds in hot soapy water, as well as using the hand sanitisers you see about the ship and at the entrrrance to the restaurrrants. That’s it forrr now, I wish you a very pleasant afterrrnoon.”

  “Well, whatever his nationality, he was a little dull!” Sylvie concluded.

  “He’s probably fed up,” answered Fergus, now mentally back with her. “It’s his official party tonight, he has to have his photo taken shaking hands with every passenger!”

  “Not with us he won’t!” Sylvie responded, appalled at the prospect.

  “So that just leaves 898 others… I’m sure he’ll be relieved!”

  Both had brought e-readers and, skipping lunch on account of their earlier feast, they spent the afternoon further exploring the ship and moving between sheltered spots on deck, where they could read and relax, out of the wind. They did have to wrap up a little – a day out of Southampton in November is no guarantee of sunshine – but both felt exhilarated looking across the sparkling sea, with no land in sight. Sylvie even thought she glimpsed a pair of dolphins leaping out of the water, though they vanished again beneath the surface the very moment she saw them and Fergus, who had briefly strayed off on his own, missed them entirely. Still, this boded well.

  Most people had remained indoors but, besides them, amongst the few exceptions were three young men who managed to spend the whole afternoon in the hot tub on the rear deck, steam and bubbles rising around them, as they lounged and sipped at a regular supply of cocktails brought to them from the bar. They seemed out of place on a ship where the average age must have been considerably over twice their own, and well over three times in many instances. Every now and then an elderly couple in dressing gowns trundled out to see if the bath was free, each time retreating back uncomplainingly when, even after a couple of hours, it still wasn’t.

  By around four o’clock and beginning to feel the chill, Fergus and Sylvie returned inside. They immediately found themselves in a very different world, one of quizzes, bingo, karaoke and various presentations on the islands where the ship would dock. For some obscure reason, there were also lectures on criminality, given by a jovial man with a ruddy complexion, a whisky glass permanently in hand and an infectious enthusiasm for his subject, advertised today throughout the ship as ‘Rigor Mortis and the science of body decomposition’. Of course there were also the numerous bars. Neither Fergus nor Sylvie really understood why anyone would want to do any of these things when there was a spectacular ocean outside, and they both had the feeling that there were going to be some elements of cruising they loved and others that felt very alien to them. At the same time, they had to admit that all this activity gave the interior of the ship a real buzz – the electricity of people having a good time – and for a moment they wondered whether they were missing out:

  “We’re a grumpy old couple of codgers!” laughed Sylvie, as they ambled to the Midships Lounge for a warming cup of tea.

  “That’s probably true,” he replied, “but each to their own.”

  Fergus had spent much of his youth unenthusiastically doing things other people felt he should enjoy, but he had long since learned that sometimes you need to be faithful to what you want to do, even if it did make you feel different, and Sylvie agreed. They were to rely on this approach later that evening.

  It was indeed the Captain’s Party and the first of three ‘formal nights’ that would be held during the cruise. On these occasions, passengers and crew dressed up in their best attire: th
e men in black tie, the women in long evening gowns and accompanying finery, the staff themselves in their smartest white uniforms. This appealed to neither Fergus nor Sylvie and they were very willing to forsake their restaurant to avoid it. Instead, they ate early in the buffet, where a few other like-minded passengers did the same: perhaps the Captain would be spared quite so many photos after all. However, wandering the ship afterwards, they came across a long line of fancily dressed passengers, all patiently waiting to meet him. The queue snaked from the lounge where the party was being held, across a lobby, past the shops and the ship’s gallery and, from there, over half the way back down a corridor towards the stern.

  “Poor man!” Fergus muttered, sympathetically.

  “I’m going to take a closer look,” Sylvie whispered, as if setting out on a mission.

  “No, no you can’t, don’t…”

  But it was too late, she had gone, feigning a visit to the ‘Ladies’ near the entrance to the lounge, where the Captain was being berated by an elderly woman in a lurid blue dress and dripping gold jewellery. She appeared extremely upset that he didn’t remember her from a previous cruise and his ever more profuse apologies seemed to cut little ice. He was beginning to look increasingly desperate, until the photographer finally intervened:

  “Smile please!”

  They both turned to look at the camera and there was an enormous flash, after which, before she could recover, the elderly lady was ushered away into the lounge. The Captain took a deep breath and turned courageously to the next in his line of guests, subtly trying to peek down the ship as he did so in order to see how much of the queue remained, his face briefly dropping as he realised it still stretched out of sight.

  “Was it as bad as we feared?” Fergus asked, as his wife returned.

  “Worse… far worse! Drink?”

  Feeling like rebellious teenagers, they fought their way through the well dressed crowds and took the lift to deck ten, where earlier they had discovered what would prove to be their favourite evening haunt. ‘The Conservatory’ bar had windows looking out over the port and starboard sides of the ship, as well as forwards over the bow, and in the day time these provided beautiful ocean views. Now, at night, the reflections in the windows, combined with the slightly subdued lighting and the mellow music, created the most soothing of atmospheres. With so many at the party, the bar was almost deserted and the pianist played to just a handful of people. Fergus and Sylvie clapped encouragingly every time he completed a number, to the extent that he looked across at them and gave them an appreciative but slightly bemused nod, as if his musical skills had never before received quite such an enthusiastic response.

  “Cheers!” Fergus lifted up his Pimm’s to his wife as an elaborate upwards scale rang out from the pianist, presaging the start of a new tune. They clinked glasses and sat in a comfortable silence, eventually broken by Sylvie:

  “Happy?”

  “Yes,” he nodded and they both let out a short laugh of relief at being back somewhere quiet, a contentment radiating within them as they savoured the prospect of this long holiday in each other’s company.

  “I bought you this… in the boutique… this afternoon,” Fergus said, pulling a jewellery box out of his jacket pocket, “a souvenir from the ship, to say thank you, and that I love you.”

  Sylvie’s eyes widened with surprise. “But you already say you love me in so many ways.”

  “I want to say I love you in every way.”

  Sylvie looked across at her husband and he appeared tired. Tired, and for the first time a little old. They had both been through so much, but what broke some couples had from the start brought them closer together. Their love was no longer passionate, but it was deeply rooted and, despite everything, there were many times when Sylvie felt blessed.

  “Thank you,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. She opened the box to find a lapis lazuli stone on a silver chain. She stared at it for a few moments in silence.

  “It’s beautiful,” she wondered.

  “I know,” he answered cheekily, “and it’s deep blue like the sea.”

  “Deep blue like the sea,” she echoed. “You couldn’t have chosen better!”

  They sat again in silence, she contentedly, simply enjoying the moment with her husband, he seeking to do the same, but deep in the background disturbed by an insidious fear, that of living a life without her. She was precious to him beyond anyone’s comprehension: he had no other close family, no friends whom he came close to loving, there was now only Sylvie. He had already learned once the hard lesson of how quickly something fragile and priceless could be lost. The prospect of a repeat terrified him.

  4

  London – Late June 2006

  The scene of the accident was not promising, not promising at all. Police tape cordoned off the pavement twenty-five metres either side of the street corner, but there was nothing within that cordon other than a street sign, wet paving stones and a few manhole covers. There were no skid marks, no drops of blood, no torn bits of clothing, just the unforgiving, miserable surface against which some poor girl had contrived to fall and hit her head hard enough to send her directly to the morgue at St Mary’s.

  Katie – that’s to say Detective Sergeant Katie Brady of Paddington Green Police Station – didn’t think this was going to be a quick case to solve, unless a witness or CCTV gave them some sort of amazing break, but, unlike the victim, she wasn’t holding her breath. The Scenes of Crime Officer shrugged his shoulders at her, it didn’t look as though he were going to be providing any answers either.

  “Not nothing!” he said, and in this instance Katie knew that the two negatives didn’t make a plus. By this stage, the accident had taken place two hours earlier. An ambulance had been called promptly, but there had been nothing the paramedics could do except rush the already deceased victim to hospital, where she had quickly been formally pronounced as such. The scene had briefly been a hive of activity, as a number of officers secured it and identified those few witnesses who had lingered. They agreed on the following: a swerving cyclist, riding on the pavement, had hit the girl as she walked round the corner; the cyclist had been a woman and she had been riding too fast, if indeed any speed wasn’t too fast when on the pavement. Beyond this, there was no consistent response as to her likely age, what she had been wearing, the type of bike she had been riding or where she had gone. The only constant was that “it all happened so quickly.”

  A police photographer took some photos, and an officer erected a yellow sign giving the time of the accident and appealing for witnesses before, after conferring with Katie, he took down the tape. She tried not to feel too despondent, there were still things they could do. She called the office for an update their end: the victim, a twenty-four year old, had been identified as Justine Fredricks and Thames Valley Police were on their way to her address to notify the next of kin. They had also volunteered to drive them up to the hospital, where PC Wendy Jackson – a family liaison officer from the Met – would take over. Eventually, they would be driven home again to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives. Katie sighed at the thought of the family receiving such news – perhaps at that very moment – and she didn’t envy the officers who had to give it.

  The plan proceeded as smoothly as it could under the circumstances: the girl’s father and mother were brought to Casualty and a doctor escorted them on to see their daughter; meanwhile, Katie and Wendy met up at Reception where a nurse directed them on to an airless side room, explaining that the parents would be with them shortly. They sat down and waited, Katie feeling uncomfortably hot and nervously running her fingers around the inside of her collar, as if to help her breathe. A few minutes later, the door was suddenly thrown open and a doctor ushered a middle aged man and woman through, the hubbub from outside briefly intruding until it closed again behind them. He gestured that they should take a seat and gave them time to settle. T
he extra bodies quickly added further heat to the already oppressive atmosphere of the room and Katie felt her heart pounding in her chest as the doctor introduced them.

  “These ladies are from the Metropolitan Police. They will look after you from here and talk you through the next steps. I am so sorry.” With that he disappeared, leaving the parents sitting there, grey with shock and grief: an unmistakable, unfeignable look. Wendy waited a moment and then spoke softly, commiserating with their tragedy and explaining that, while she would do her best to support them, her colleague DS Brady would lead the actual investigation. Katie knew this was her cue and she felt a determination that she should sound sympathetic but also businesslike, it was important the parents had confidence the investigation was in good hands.

  “Mr and Mrs Fredricks, I too am very sorry for your loss. As PC Jackson said, it is my job to ensure we investigate what happened, to do so as thoroughly as we possibly can, so that you have answers and that anyone who caused or contributed to your daughter’s death can be called to account.” She paused for a moment, then continued:

  “What we believe so far, from witness statements, is that your daughter walked around the corner of Great Central Street and was hit by a cyclist who was riding along the pavement of the Marylebone Road.”

  Mrs Fredricks gasped. Katie paused again.

  “We believe she fell and hit her head. She may have passed away instantly, the post mortem might tell us that, but we do know that she was immediately knocked out by the fall. I am sure she didn’t suffer at all.” Katie was aware this was a lot to take in, but she could also see that the father, at least, was listening intently, the mother appeared to be more obviously struggling to hold herself together.

  “I’m sorry, I know this is hard for you…” she paused a third time. “The cyclist did not stop. We know she was a woman and we will do everything we can to find her.” Katie momentarily pondered whether to say what they would do, but she decided that she had already given enough detail.