Times and Places

by Keith Anthony

  “Would you like to ask me any questions at this stage?” The parents shook their heads in unison, both looking downwards and holding each other tightly. “Wendy will take care of you now, you can stay here as long as you like and, when you are ready, she will ensure you get home safely. After that, she will stay in close touch with you, keeping you posted with the investigation, and I will do the same. And you can reach me too, either through Wendy, or by contacting me direct.” Katie handed Mr Fredricks her card. “I cannot promise what the result will be, or that we will find the person involved, but I commit personally to running a professional investigation, to the very best of my abilities, to give us the best chance possible.”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs Fredricks, quietly but genuinely, despite the words being better suited to receiving a cup of tea or a gift than to their actual situation. “It won’t bring her back though, will it?”

  “No, I’m afraid it won’t. I’m so sorry.”

  Katie felt relieved to escape the hot, intensity of the room and, leaving her colleague behind, she sucked in deep lungfuls of fresh air as she returned to the police station, where she quickly received approval for her plan. First she would seek to trace the cyclist as far back and forward along her route as possible, using CCTV, and then, the next day, she would deploy officers to look for witnesses, or even a potential suspect. They would do this both at the spot where the calamity had happened and at strategic locations half a mile back and half a mile forward, as the perpetrator might seek to avoid the accident site itself. If they had no luck, they would interview female cyclists again a week or so later in the same places, in case the offender had by then regained her nerve.

  In this manner, they were quickly able to trace the cyclist’s route back towards the Tufnell Park area and on as far as Sussex Gardens, but any hopes they would follow her all the way back to her front door, or all the way on to wherever she was headed, were forlorn. The street enquiries the next day, and again just over a week later, led nowhere and Katie had to watch as police officers took vitriolic abuse from a number of women cyclists who found themselves being stopped for a second time in ten days.

  Katie wasn’t immune to such comments, they both stung and grated, but she had heard the like a thousand times before and knew they were made in both the heat of the moment and in ignorance of the tragedy. She was also experienced enough to realise that these women were venting frustration and that the last thing they really wanted was a good explanation. She hoped, therefore, that the officers on the receiving end of their fury would neither take the bait by arguing back, nor seek to justify themselves by providing anything beyond a brief but sufficient background to the case… they deserved better, of course, but sometimes you just had to roll with the punches and Katie briefly felt a sense of pride, even affection, as she watched her team at work.

  A few women, including several who had been stopped the previous week, looked genuinely shocked to hear about the accident. They restored Katie’s faith but, ultimately, it was all for nothing. She could see the investigation was going nowhere and indeed had nowhere left to go.

  Wendy had been keeping Mr and Mrs Fredricks up to speed over this period, supporting them as best she could. She learned that Justine had been their only child and, furthermore, they seemed to have few friends and family to whom they could turn, though their daughter had had a boyfriend, who clearly shared their grief, and with whom they were obviously close. Katie had spoken to them on the phone twice, providing updates as to what she was doing, but there were never any real developments to tell them. Anyway, there was no hope of good news that mattered since (as Mrs Fredricks had observed at the hospital) the only thing they wanted – their daughter back – was not going to happen. A fortnight after the accident, a funeral took place as if to prove that point.

  After asking first, Wendy and Katie both attended. It was a beautiful setting of a small church in a pretty village, surrounded by fields and rolling hills. The sun shone high in a blue sky traced with the occasional vapour trail of a jet heading from A to B without any knowledge of the personal disasters and dramas over which it flew. Pearl white cumulus clouds passed lazily across the valley, defying gravity as they cast their equally slow-moving shadows over the countryside below. Despite the occasion, Katie felt momentarily euphoric to be out of the city and, as ever more mourners passed through the lych-gate and along the path across the graveyard, she watched in fascination as no fewer than five red kites rode the thermals above the hillside.

  They sat down in the last two remaining seats at the back of the church, which by now was also hot and sticky, on account of the hundred or more young people cramming its pews, interspersed with a handful of elderly relatives. All had come to celebrate a beautiful life and to mourn its early passing. Wendy had to ask a lone young woman if she wouldn’t mind moving up. “No problem,” she had replied with a soft German accent, and Katie couldn’t help but wonder what her connection might be. Mr and Mrs Fredricks entered and made their way down the aisle – an echo of a happier day – smiling encouragingly as they passed Justine’s boyfriend sitting amongst his friends, but actually stopping just the once, for her to embrace an old man. His fragile arms held Mrs Fredricks tightly, as if it were too painful to let her go. Whoever he was, they seemed to be extraordinarily close. Eventually, he released her and she and her husband took their places, the sole occupants of the front pew and, despite the love around them, somehow alone in the crowd as their daughter’s life was commemorated.

  Every now and then, the mourners would be bathed in brightness, as shafts of light broke through the stained glass windows like dust filled laser beams; then, a few minutes later, these would fade as the sun slipped back behind a cloud, returning the congregation to the chapel’s gloomy natural light. The effect added to the atmosphere of alternating grief and hope while prayers were said, hymns sung and friends recounted their memories of a young woman neither Wendy nor Katie had known, at least when she had been alive. Eventually, the service drew to an end and Mr and Mrs Fredricks were driven, along with the boyfriend and the old man, behind the hearse to the crematorium for a final private farewell.

  “I think I need to update them personally, I mean there’s not much to say, but perhaps I should find a way at least to say that,” mused Katie, hesitating on the way back up the church path. “What do you think?”

  “Give it a couple of days and I’ll arrange something,” Wendy replied, but Katie’s attention was already taken again by the kites as they continued to circle effortlessly over the hillsides, as innocent of the tragedy beneath them as the distant aeroplanes higher still above.

  5

  North East Atlantic –

  Monday 21st and Tuesday 22nd November 2016

  By the second and third days of their cruise, Fergus and Sylvie were already slipping into routines which would hold them in good stead for the next three weeks. Once or twice a day, Fergus would practise his mindfulness with the help of an app that he had been using on his phone for a year or so, every day progressing to a fresh twenty minute session. The ship could be an idyllic place for this, with the sea air, the relaxing hum of the motors and the wash of the water breaking against the hull. The only time to avoid was noon when, on the Monday, Fergus was jolted out of his meditations by the loud fanfare heralding the Captain’s daily report. Throughout the cruise, this regular update was never to vary, except in some minor weather and scheduling details, always concluding with the same ‘hygiene advices’ and signing off with ‘have a very pleasant afterrrnoon’.

  These were days Fergus and Sylvie both loved: surrounded by sea, their whole holiday ahead of them and nothing much to do but relax, read and (in Fergus’ case) meditate in the strengthening sunshine. Other passengers found their own preferred ways to amuse themselves, or to be amused by the entertainments team, and the lifts were the places where all lives met. They had asked one man they encountered this way, somewher
e between the fourth and tenth decks, how he spent his time and he had replied:

  “Eating… what else is there to do?!”

  The man had an endearing manner – along with an expanding waistline – and Fergus and Sylvie laughed genuinely, along with everyone else, but, once they were alone again, she couldn’t help but comment:

  “He’ll put on a ton by the time we get home!”

  And he wasn’t alone, while Fergus and Sylvie ate well at breakfast and usually at dinner, they continued to skip lunch or just to take a salad. Others, meanwhile, seemed to spend most of their time eating, ingesting as much as possible at every opportunity, as if they feared the food would be taken away from them at any moment. You could almost see them visibly growing out of their clothes as they whiled away time in one of the lounges, waiting impatiently for the next feast.

  “All the better for us,” hailed Fergus, savouring the empty deck space.

  Not being naturally gregarious, they rarely got involved in conversations with others at this stage, except that Fergus, whenever leaving or returning to his cabin alone, seemed to bump into Mrs Huffington, an elderly lady with a zimmer frame, whose quarters were even further up the corridor towards the bow. He never seemed to meet her when he was with Sylvie, to whom she became increasingly mythical as her husband related yet another encounter:

  “She’s always there!” he bemoaned. In fact, Mrs Huffington was perfectly pleasant. She just liked to talk, there was never an easy escape and Fergus was far too polite and, to his credit, caring to make an exit that risked causing offence.

  “Ah, hello again Fergus! I’m beginning to wonder if you are stalking me!”

  “No, no, Mrs Huffington, just coincidence,” Fergus mumbled guiltily, cursing to himself as he emerged from the cabin at just the wrong moment.

  “The swell’s going to get up… you can tell from the air,” she said, looking him earnestly in the eye, daring him to disagree, though how she could predict the weather from the air deep inside the ship he was not sure.

  “Do you really think so Mrs Huffington?”

  “Yes, it was just like this in May when I cruised to Iceland and Greenland, oh it was terrible it was. Soon people were being ill everywhere and you couldn’t walk around it was so rough.” She gripped her zimmer firmly, reliving the storm in her mind.

  “Could you not?” said Fergus, desperately trying to sound interested while fighting a greater desire to get back to his book, out on deck with Sylvie.

  “Oh, no… people were falling around all over the place. There again, I blame the Captain, he could have taken a more southerly route, but he wanted to make up time.”

  “Do you know much about navigation Mrs Huffington?” He hadn’t meant his question to sound sarcastic, but evidently she wasn’t sure and she fixed him in the eyes again:

  “I have been cruising for forty years Fergus. I went on my first in 1976, a few years after my Lawrence died…”

  Fergus suddenly felt compassion for this old woman who had lost her husband relatively young and had apparently been wandering the oceans alone, ever since. It felt to him as though she were in the gilded cage of a modern day Flying Dutchman: a ship which provided its captives with lectures, line dancing, pub quizzes and never ending games of bingo, along with inexhaustible supplies of food and alcohol, but never took them home.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that…”

  “Well, it’s a long time ago now,” she replied and paused.

  Fergus didn’t want to be mean, but he didn’t want to lose the opportunity afforded by the break in conversation either.

  “I’d better get back to my wife, she’ll be wondering where I am.”

  “Oh, she should know you can’t get far away on a ship!” Mrs Huffington responded, not unreasonably.

  Fergus and Sylvie felt a quiet admiration for the numerous very elderly passengers walking around, like Mrs Huffington, with their zimmer frames and sticks, or manoeuvring unpredictably on their mobility scooters. How much easier it would have been for them to stay safely at home, yet here they were, venturing out on the high seas, destined for exotic locations. They were travelling in luxury, that’s certainly true, but they somehow still looked vulnerable and when one elderly woman slipped awkwardly to the floor, a concerned Fergus rushed across to help. Unsure quite what he would actually do, he was relieved to be beaten to it by a crew member who appeared well practised and adept at recovering such situations by standing in front of her, holding her hands and rocking her steadily to her feet.

  Sylvie had known her own heartbreak with the old: she had been thirty when she had lost her mother and her relationship with her father had grown very close in the subsequent two and a half decades, with his slow deterioration painful for her to witness. He had died around four years earlier and, in the end, had been so confused that he couldn’t even remember Sylvie’s mother, his own wife:

  “Was she pretty?” had been his last words.

  “Very,” Sylvie had replied holding his hand, “and you loved each other very much.” She watched him smile and moments later slip away. It had felt both a very sad and a very happy way to end a long life.

  If Sylvie had been good to her father, well, it was clear there were also other saints on board: Fergus had noticed them and looked on in admiration. Often it would be elderly husbands or their wives tenderly taking care of each other, especially when one was clearly much the older or frailer. One woman particularly caught his eye as daily she assisted her husband into the restaurant, helping him into his dining chair, cutting his food up for him and occasionally dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, before eventually heaving him back out of the chair and supporting him, as they threaded their way slowly back out again between the tables. Fergus was aware that he only witnessed these few kindnesses, in this one small section of their routine, and he pondered the many other things this lady would be doing for her husband throughout the day. It struck him as a deep love and he wondered whether he and Sylvie would be as patient with each other. He hoped so, but it was the sort of thing you could not be sure of until you were in the situation, though Sylvie had certainly been devoted to her father.

  That same day, Monday, Fergus felt proud that, as far as he could tell, he was the first passenger to use the pool. It was filled with warm salt water and he could float effortlessly on his back, watching the clouds go by, rising and falling on the swells created by the gentle pitching and rolling of the ship, and disturbed only by the noise from the three Caballeros (as Sylvie had christened the trio of young men) laughing and joking from the nearby hot tub to which, once again, they had retreated. A number of passengers approached, asking Fergus what it was like and he assured them it was lovely. Sure enough, a short while after he had climbed out, he noticed several of them tentatively lowering themselves in. It was, however, the getting out that was the more painful: still very much in the North Atlantic, the winds whipped across the deck, encouraging a shivering Fergus to dash for a sheltered spot, where he fumbled to get dry and dressed as quickly as possible, while preserving his dignity as best he could.

  He swam the next day too and, while half asleep on his back, he heard a voice calling to him.

  “Hello there!” He lifted his head out of the water, it was the brown haired dancer to whom he had felt drawn at the cabaret.

  “You are quite the little mermaid, I’ve been watching you!” she teased, as she crouched at the side of the pool.

  “It’s wonderful in here,” he called back, while treading water, “but not so wonderful getting out!”

  “Treat yourself to a brandy afterwards, doctor’s orders!” She replied.

  “Except you’re not a doctor…”

  “Oh, we all have to muck in when out at sea!” She stood back up, gave him a little smile and headed off.

  Though his body was in the pool, it was his mind that was swimming: he hadn’t
just noticed the girl, he had been noticed too! He knew it meant nothing of course, but it still felt good. It wasn’t a romantic attraction either, although he could see she was pretty, rather it was some deeper chord she had struck in him, and he had a good idea what that was. He decided such distinctions were probably best not shared with Sylvie, not yet at any rate, it was (he had to admit) a little complicated.

  They both felt slightly uncomfortable about the staff more generally. The passengers, officers and the show team were almost all white, but the waiters, waitresses, bar staff, cabin maids and other crew were all from Thailand, the Philippines, China, Indonesia or India. It felt a little too close to some sort of apartheid for comfort, and the staff all seemed to work (and be worked) like Trojans. If they felt any kind of resentment they hid it with consummate professionalism, always being friendly, always immaculately turned out. Often Fergus and Sylvie would chat briefly with the waiters at their table or with the bar staff who brought them creamy coffees to enjoy on deck. Through these conversations, they gleaned that the crew worked every single day, often starting early and finishing late, with just a few short hours off in the middle, and that they had a total of two months’ holiday a year, which initially sounded a lot, until Fergus calculated:

  “That only adds up to one and a bit days off a week… not even equivalent to weekends, let alone having any actual leave!” The only time the mask slipped from a staff member, however, it did so briefly and with a heartbreaking honesty:

  “I’m homesick madam,” one barmaid admitted, when Sylvie asked her how she was, and they both felt a surge of compassion for this young woman, who was working on the Atlantic but whose heart was clearly some ten thousand miles further to the east.

  “I guess,” said Fergus, trying to see the positives, “they don’t spend much while they are on board, so, even if their wages aren’t great by our standards, they must save up money that will go a long way back home.” Sylvie suspected this was true and, after all, nobody was forcing anyone to work on the ship, but somehow this logic didn’t entirely relieve her conscience.