Times and Places

by Keith Anthony

  Flustered, Jones launched into a profuse apology, but she insisted she was fine and that she was only teasing him because he had not recognised her. This initially embarrassed him further, until she reminded him that she had been wearing her baseball cap and he remembered how shaded her face had been. It was clear she was not offended and, finishing their drinks, both were able to laugh at their initial rather bruising encounter, oblivious to the fact that it was getting late and that they were now alone amongst the once crowded tables that surrounded them.

  Time for one last walk and a final look at the city they would both be leaving the next day, though in different directions. He held out his hand to help her balance as she extricated herself from between bench and table. Even as he did so, he wondered whether it was too old fashioned a gesture, but Justine didn’t appear to mind and soon they were strolling along the riverbank.

  “Jones is an unusual name… for a first name that is… I mean it’s nice, but…” Justine hesitated, realising she had unwittingly tied herself in a verbal knot and didn’t know how to complete her sentence.

  “It’s just what my friends started calling me from primary school,” he interjected, sparing her further awkwardness. “My actual name is Casey.”

  “Ahhh, Casey Jones, all is clear!” Justine laughed and mimed pulling on a steam engine’s whistle. “Were your parents into trains?”

  “No, in fact I was named after my mother’s cat, he died shortly after they married and then, when I came along, well I guess the grief was still pretty raw!”

  “You were named after a cat?!”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.” They continued in silence while she considered this rather strange news.

  “Well, I like cats,” she finally pronounced decisively. “I have one… they are very serious animals. Plus, Casey Jones, I happen to like trains, that’s why I’m inter-railing across Europe. By myself. None of my friends would come!”

  “Hmmm, it’s good to hear you have friends though! We were wondering when we saw you there on your own.”

  She gave him a dig in the ribs, but knew she had deserved this return tease and saw it as a good sign. She had thought Jones liked her, now she felt sure.

  “Still, to be named after a cat!” she mused. They headed further along the river in silence for a few minutes, he sinking into thought, she enjoying the cooler evening. Eventually they reached a bar, out of which pumped an oompah style polka of clarinets, tubas, violins and accordions.

  “Would you like another drink?” she asked. Jones was silent. “A beer? A glass of wine?” Still silence. In desperation “… a saucer of milk maybe?”

  Jones woke up: “Sorry, sorry… I was just thinking. What were the chances of us meeting here again, tonight? I mean what were the odds?”

  “You think too much. If you hadn’t met me you would have met someone else.”

  Jones was a little hurt, perhaps this didn’t feel as special to her as it was beginning to feel to him.

  “But I’m pleased it was me,” she added, sensing his disappointment.

  The music inside the bar abruptly stopped and, in the sudden silence, as she stood there in the dark with the river glistening in the background, Jones had an overwhelming urge to hold her. He stepped forward, put his arms around her waist and gently pulled until she was against him. He stared down into her eyes for a second or two and then, without fear or forethought, he kissed her, surprising even himself in the process. This was rather startling for Justine too and she caught her breath in shock as he drew her in. His subsequent brief hesitation had however provided her sufficient recovery time and, from that moment, the rest had been inevitable: if he hadn’t kissed her, she knew she would have kissed him.

  They stood there a few moments and then he said with a smile:

  “Ready Freddie?”

  “I used to be called that at school,” Justine confided, not sure how pleased she was to hear her old nickname revived. Jones looked puzzled and too late she realised his had been an ‘off the cuff’ remark, unrelated to her name at all.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My surname? I told you earlier?” She waited for the penny to drop.

  He tried to remember, but it was no good.

  “Fredricks!” she reminded him with mock impatience. “At one stage there was another Justine in my class and so, for a few years, I became known as ‘Freddie’, but only in school.”

  “Freddie, Freddie…” Jones repeated the name to himself, weighing it up as an option, but just then another rousing polka struck up from the bar, so his verdict never came, though Justine imagined she would find out soon enough.

  With a gentle tug on her arm, he led her across the river and they headed back to Prešeren Square, with its pink Franciscan church and, nearby, the Three Bridges, marking the centre of the city and over which just a few late night pedestrians now leisurely strolled. Jones and Justine stopped halfway across the first of these, barely noticing that somewhere along the way they had started holding hands. Taking in the scene around them, with the floodlit castle high above and their reflections shimmering in the water below, both privately concluded that it was as magical a place as any for a romance to take its first tentative steps.

  7

  The Azores –

  Wednesday 23rd and Thursday 24th November 2016

  Fergus peeked through the curtain and caught his first sight of land in three and a half days: at some stage early in the morning, they had already arrived in the Azores. He got up quietly, hoping not to disturb Sylvie, but then absent mindedly began singing to himself one of the songs from the previous evening’s cabaret, as he searched through the wardrobes for his shirts. His wife listened contentedly to him from beneath her duvet, until the impromptu performance was interrupted by a sudden tannoy announcement from the Cruise Director:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Praia da Vitoria. The gangway today can be found on deck three, forward, port side.”

  Fergus felt a mixture of excitement at the prospect of exploring this new exotic destination and resentment at the loud, big-brother-like intrusion into their personal space.

  “We will be running a shuttle bus service to the town centre and, in order to do so efficiently, we ask you to collect a boarding card and then to wait in the comfort of the Poseidon Theatre until your bus number is called.”

  Sylvie placed her pillow over her ears, seeking to preserve the last vestiges of pleasant sleepiness she had been feeling just a minute earlier.

  “The ship departs at five o’clock this evening, so please do be back on board by four. We hope you have a wonderful day, ladies and gentlemen, and we look forward to welcoming you back on the Magdalena later this afternoon.”

  “Let’s get going!” said Sylvie, suddenly throwing off her duvet and coming to life, keen to get on with the day, forgetting the fact that her husband was already half dressed and well ahead of her.

  During breakfast, they heard on-going announcements for those holding boarding cards for various numbered buses to make their way to the gangway, while urging others to continue waiting “in the comfort of the Poseidon Theatre” until it was their turn.

  “She makes it sound like the height of luxury!” remarked Fergus.

  By the time, an hour later, they themselves were ready to set off, there was no longer any need to wait, the rush was over and they were able to go straight to the gangway. Placing their feet on dry land again for the first time in approaching four days, they disembarked and boarded the shuttle, which drove them the three miles into town.

  They both liked Praia da Vitoria. The weather was warm, but not overly hot, and the houses and buildings were painted in the vivid colours you associate with a sub-tropical climate. It felt good to be back in summer clothes and Fergus pulled the peak of his old blue-grey baseball cap down a little, to protect his eyes from the glare of the s
un. They wandered down the long, cobbled high street, both slowly becoming aware of a delicate music floating towards them on the Atlantic air. In the distance, a group of troubadours were walking in their direction, singing and playing folk songs on their guitars and mandolins. As they drew nearer and their music grew louder, it became clear that they weren’t even asking for money, but were simply playing for the joy of it and for the love of their culture, the tourists around them being quite incidental. Fergus and Sylvie found them enchanting and the melodies echoed in their ears long after the musicians themselves had passed by, eventually disappearing up the road behind them.

  They found a church and spent thirty minutes or so inside, lighting a candle there and saying a prayer in their daughter’s memory. Other tourists joined them from time to time, ambling around taking photos, some stopping to pray too, most unintentionally clanging the heavy door behind them as they left. Between these interruptions, the silences when they had the building to themselves were sublime, though frustratingly brief. When eventually it was their turn to leave, Fergus shut the door gently – as if fearing he might bring the whole edifice down around him – and it closed with the softest of clicks, sealing Justine’s unflickering flame in the stillness, until the next visitors arrived.

  A little further down the street they reached the seafront. It was unspoiled, with just a few quiet bars in the harbour area, next to which a black sandy strand stretched out for half a mile or so. For a few seconds, Fergus wished he had brought his swimming things, but getting changed here would have been problematic, so he didn’t regret this long and, instead, enjoyed walking the length of the beach, hand in hand with his wife, looking across to the Magdalena moored another mile or so across the bay. It felt good to be somewhere new, somewhere they were unknown, somewhere with no connection to the past.

  Back in the restaurant that night, their noisy dining neighbour was perhaps a little quieter than she had been on previous evenings, but she could still easily be heard from two tables away, guffawing to the couple between them and engaging them in tedious, inescapable conversation. If the Maitre D’ was aware of their torment, he did not seek to assist them, as he weaved between the tables asking diners if everything was alright, without waiting long enough to hear their replies. Fergus and Sylvie felt grateful they themselves were not next to the woman, that they were just witnesses to her cackling rather than its focus, but she still tested their patience, even on this quieter night. In his imagination, Fergus saw her as somehow spider-like, waving her arms around, and he wondered whether, beneath the tablecloth, her legs were equally skittish and, indeed, quite how many of them there might be.

  “Come on, try to enjoy the meal,” Sylvie urged him. “Where is all your mindfulness practice?”

  Fergus was indeed finding it hard to draw on all the hours of meditation he had put in…

  “Yes,” he said, “Buddhists would say she might even be my spiritual guide, giving me a wonderful opportunity to practise tolerance… but the test is too advanced.”

  After dinner, there was a magician performing in the Poseidon Theatre, but neither Fergus nor Sylvie were interested. Instead they played Scrabble in the deserted Card Room, which to Sylvie seemed to be straight out of an Agatha Christie novel, with its dark wooden panelling and green baize covered tables.

  “It feels very ‘Cluedo’ in here,” she observed and Fergus looked around with pretend nervousness, as if expecting to find a body slumped in one of the corners or hanging silently from a light fitting, perhaps swaying gently as the Magdalena rode the waves, through the night and on to its next island.

  Ponta Del Garda, the following day, was much bigger and busier than Praia da Vitoria and it was within walking distance of the ship’s berth. Although they both liked it, they missed the quieter charm of the previous town and were horrified to hear Christmas music being piped into the streets, from speakers attached to the lamp posts. It was very late for a summer holiday, but nevertheless that is what they felt they were on, and the music, which could have been atmospheric and festive at a cold Christmas market, sounded cheap and out of place in the heat of a sunny day. The prematurely festive feel descended into further tackiness when they turned a corner to find the dystopian vision of an enormous plastic Mickey Mouse outside a shop, dressed as Father Christmas and pumping out a tinny version of Jingle Bells as, bathed in sunshine, it waved a mechanical arm in greeting to those who passed by.

  Fergus and Sylvie escaped up a side street and soon found themselves out of the heat and intensity of the town, wandering uphill, away from the sea, passing a school playground where lucky pupils, to whom the mid Atlantic was home, shouted and played no differently from children anywhere else. The lanes here were narrow and a car hooted as it sped past them, forcing them to jump back, pinning themselves against a wall as it roared by. Eventually, they reached the top of the hill and a small park, where they sat on a bench, recovering in the sunshine from what had proved a less than relaxing morning. A wincing Fergus took off a shoe and sock, revealing a nasty blister on his heel. Sylvie quickly whipped out a plaster from her handbag and, as he stuck it over the wound, he marvelled at how his wife could always be so extraordinarily well prepared.

  Batteries recharged, they braced themselves for the return trip, but the afternoon was to prove much more pleasant, and they were able to relax as they descended into the town centre, admiring its distinctive Portuguese architecture as they went. Back at sea level, they stopped for a well-earned iced drink in a café opposite the main church. As they sat there taking in the scene, Fergus noticed his dancer walking across the square.

  “Justine could easily have been a dancer on a cruise ship,” he mused, remembering how he had felt two evenings previously at the show. Sylvie followed her husband’s eyes and watched the young woman disappearing up a side street.

  “Justine could have been many things, but for us she was the only thing that matters: she was our daughter. She lived and we loved her and she us. Nothing can change that.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For having said something sad.”

  Sylvie gently took her husband’s hand:

  “Don’t ever apologise for talking about our daughter.” She held his eye and was rewarded a few seconds later with a rather melancholic smile in return. They walked slowly, hand in hand, back to the ship, enjoying the sun shining on their backs and the unfamiliar cocktail of smells mixing in the sea air as they passed the cafés and restaurants along the way.

  Back on board, while Sylvie took a bath, Fergus decided to go for a wander.

  “Hello again Fergus!” he heard, as he stepped out of the cabin. Behind him Mrs Huffington was slowly making her way up the corridor, heading to the first sitting of dinner.

  “Oh, hello there Mrs Huffington. How are you?”

  “It’s not easy, you know, when you get to my age. I was telling the ship’s doctor earlier… he’s Romanian you know?”

  “Er, no I didn’t,” Fergus answered, not quite sure of the relevance.

  “He comes from Timisoara…”

  “Does he now?”

  “I’ve never been to Romania, but I’ve been to Croatia… yes, lots of times to Croatia, their coastline is wonderful and I’ve called at all the ports there.” Fergus thought she was making it sound as if she herself were the ship.

  “Dubrovnik, Split, Rijeka, Koper…”

  “I think Koper is actually Slovenia,” interrupted Fergus, remembering his visit to that country with Sylvie just three years earlier, albeit they had not gone to the coast. Mrs Huffington looked at him disapprovingly.

  “Well, at my age it is all still Yugoslavia to me. Tito was a very great man you know. He stood up to Stalin.”

  “Yes I know… that he stood up to Stalin,” he quickly added, “not that he was necessarily a very great man.”

  “He ke
pt Yugoslavia together. Look what happened after he died.”

  “You make a good point Mrs Huffington,” Fergus said, unconvinced but in avoidance of an argument, and then, spying an opportunity, added: “I’ll go away and have a think about it.”

  “You do that Fergus. You do that.”

  Making his escape, Fergus headed up three levels and out on deck. At certain times of the day it could be like a busy ring road, with people walking round and round, itching to overtake as they came up behind slower passengers. Now in the early evening, however, everyone was already inside, either eating or preparing to do so at second sitting, so Fergus was able to watch the glimmering lights of the Azores fade into the distance all on his own, until eventually they disappeared completely.

  “Three sea days ahead,” he said to himself, relishing the prospect of the long crossing to Cape Verde. He found a quiet, sheltered corner, plugged in his headphones and started to meditate. After a year of practice, how could he still be so bad at it? He was supposed to be focussing on his breath, but he seemed to be only able to manage a few seconds before his mind wandered: had he given Mrs Huffington enough time? How could he be so affected by the girl from the cabaret? How were they going to manage two and a half more weeks in the dining room with the loud arachnid lady? Each time he realised he was distracted, he tried to note the distraction (as he had been taught) and then gently to bring his attention back to his breathing. But those distractions came thick and fast and Fergus couldn’t help but conclude he wasn’t turning out to be much of a meditator.

  Later, the Maitre D’ was as usual standing at the entrance to the restaurant, nonchalantly squirting sanitiser into passengers’ palms as they arrived for dinner. Fergus rubbed the liquid into his hands and led Sylvie through the restaurant to their table. The loud woman and her husband were already in their places and Fergus managed to force out a “good evening” as he passed. She ignored him, or perhaps – engrossed as she was in the menu – she did not hear, but Fergus suspected her silence would not last. The grey haired couple on the table between them looked on sympathetically and, as soon as Fergus and Sylvie had sat down, immediately introduced themselves as Richard and Cressida, swiftly engaging them in small talk about Ponta Delgada.