Times and Places

by Keith Anthony

  “Hey, I’m not such a bad meditator after all!” he thought to himself, before realising that that thought in itself was a distraction to set aside.

  The three mornings between the Azores and Cape Verde all began this way, with Fergus leaving Sylvie to get ready while he practised his mindfulness outside on deck. This was followed by their usual generous breakfast. The restaurant was a wonderful place to eat in the mornings: yes, it was a little frantic, with waiters rushing around carrying pots of tea and coffee and with passengers making their ways to and from the buffet, but the ocean views from the large windows were spectacular, with sea stretching out in all directions.

  The only disadvantage with the free seating arrangement was that they could not always find a table for two, sometimes having to sit at a larger one, which they knew, a few minutes later, would inevitably mean them being asked:

  “Do you mind if we join you?”

  They didn’t mind others joining them at all. What they were less keen on was the mandatory conversation which followed, often involving long tales of previous or future cruises. They both did make an effort though, Sylvie rather more successfully than Fergus, and, in fairness, most of the people who joined them were perfectly friendly and relaxed.

  “You’re not the most sociable animal, are you Fergus?” Sylvie said, after her husband had struggled through one such breakfast. It was more a statement than a question.

  “You think?” he replied, with rare sarcasm, well aware of his social short-comings. Again it wasn’t really a question. Nevertheless, more often than not they did have their own little table and, when these occasions coincided with sea days, they made for idyllic starts to the morning.

  After breakfast, they would go back down to the cabin, usually meeting Rachel, their cabin maid, hovering around the nearby airing cupboard in the corridor, as she set about her preparations for making up the same fifteen cabins she had only turned down the previous evening, while their occupants had been at dinner. Yes, making up and turning down the same thirty beds every day, this reminded Sylvie of the Greek myth of Sisyphus that she had once studied at university: the man condemned to rolling his boulder repeatedly up a hill only for it always to roll back down again. The philosophical question had been whether, despite this, Sisyphus might nevertheless have been happy. Sylvie wondered the same about Rachel and hoped her cheerful singing, as she changed the sheets, was as good an answer as any, but the young maid spoke no English, so she couldn’t be sure. She was pleased, though, to see the pride Rachel rightly took in her work and Sylvie made a point of looking as appreciative as she could as their two very different worlds briefly came together each morning.

  Having collected their e-readers, she and Fergus would head back out on deck, usually sitting at the side of the ship, or in a sheltered spot at the stern. There they would spend the rest of the morning reading and relaxing. Time would fly and, before they knew it, they would be surprised by the noon fanfare from the public address system, heralding the daily reports from the bridge. These continued to be almost identical and to conclude with the same “hygiene advices” and wishing of everyone “a very pleasant afterrrnoon.”

  The reports also invariably advised passengers to hold on to handrails, on account of the swell, even on the first day out of the Azores when the sea was perfectly flat, like a shimmering plate of glass. At one stage that afternoon, a further announcement was made to the effect that the crew needed to test the engines and that passengers should not be alarmed when they switched them off for twenty minutes. For Sylvie, those were some of the best moments of the whole cruise, as the ship drifted silently, deep in the Atlantic, on a crystal ocean surface beneath a hot, semi-tropical sky. Fergus, meanwhile, was imagining the worst and had a feeling the cruise company was not always open in its communications. He feared they had fabricated the excuse of tests to disguise the fact that the ship was somehow in terrible trouble: perhaps a desperate battle against an enormous conflagration in the engine room, even as the waiters and waitresses continued to serve coffees and drinks on deck. He pictured everyone abandoning ship, floating in lifeboats in a sea of suitcases, plastic chairs, zimmer frames and other debris, waiting for rescue, even as the Magdalena went down in front of their very eyes.

  All too soon though, to Sylvie’s disappointment, the engines cranked up again and the ship continued its journey south as if nothing had happened, and of course nothing had. Fergus’ initial relief quickly turned to despair at how frayed his nerves had become. He recalled how once before, a very long time ago, he had been out on the ocean aboard a vessel when the engines had been similarly shut down. That time, he had savoured the beauty and tranquillity of the experience, it had been perfect, yet today he had found the same thing frightening. He didn’t need to ask himself what had changed. He mused how, with some notable exceptions, things are rarely good or bad in and of themselves, but more often only so on the basis of the labels we choose to place upon them. In this case Sylvie had, as so often, chosen more wisely and with her natural composure: a calmness to which he knew he sometimes clung as if it were indeed a lifebelt and he lost at sea.

  Afternoons were spent much as mornings, though Fergus would usually also swim, more rarely getting the pool to himself in this warmer weather, and the three Caballeros invariably lounging in the nearby spa bath. On the hottest days, the stern and top decks of the Magdalena would be strewn with passengers sprawled out on sun beds, exposing their, by now, visibly inflating bodies to the warm temperatures and the hot sun, involuntarily conjuring up in Sylvie images of beached whales, although she sought to set them aside. Neither she nor Fergus, however, enjoyed this sort of heat and both burned easily, so they were happier in shady corners, away from the crowds.

  On the second day out of the Azores they received the first of two notes in their cabin. It read:

  “We are pleased to enhance your cruise by not calling at Fogo Island, the second of our three scheduled stops in Cape Verde, and instead by calling at a fourth port in the Canaries, Santa Cruz de La Palma. We will therefore arrive at the other three Canary Islands one day earlier than scheduled. As we now need to travel further between our remaining two Cape Verde ports of Mindelo and Praia, we will need to leave the former at 4pm rather than the scheduled 7pm. We hope these enhancements will enhance your holiday”.

  “They don’t at all!” bemoaned Fergus, “we travel all the way to Cape Verde only to spend a day and a half ashore, rather than the three full days promised! And they call these enhancements!”

  “They say these are enhancements that will enhance!” joked Sylvie, recalling the mindless repetition and trying to defuse the tense state into which her husband was working himself. Despite her apparent humour, she felt let down too, both for herself and for Fergus, and irritated by the way the company tried to sell this change as something good. She was also suspicious that the ship had its own agenda to get to the Canaries a day early. But with typically wise perspective she added:

  “Spending a day in the Canaries rather than Cape Verde… there are people in the world with worse problems,” and, of course, Fergus knew she was right.

  The organised outings were expensive and so, on the whole cruise, they had only booked two: a coach tour around Madeira and a trip out from Gran Canaria on a small sailing ship, the ‘Madre de la Esperanza’. The latter had particularly appealed to Fergus: spending a day sailing around the nooks and crannies of the island and then the advertised prospect of snorkelling off the boat’s side. However, the next day, the second note extinguished this dream. This one was signed by Gavin, the exuberant manager of the Tours Office, who had been introduced to them at the Welcome Show a week earlier. He wrote:

  “Unfortunately we are advised that the trip on the Madre de la Esperanza from Gran Canaria will be unable to operate, for operational reasons, and has therefore been cancelled. Please understand this is a decision by the operator over which we have no control
. Your on board accounts will be refunded.”

  “‘Unable to operate for operational reasons’, but what does that even mean?” implored Fergus, genuinely confused.

  Seeing through the flannel, Sylvie did the maths:

  “With a day less in Cape Verde, we reach Gran Canaria twenty-four hours early, the sailing boat must be already booked out.” And then, with a smile and noticing the childlike disappointment on her husband’s face, she added:

  “Come on, worse things happen at sea!” Like that child, he fought to retain his outrage, he couldn’t be chirped along like this by his wife, he refused to be. Unfortunately, though, his facial muscles had other ideas and, to his irritation, he broke into a smile.

  Dinner times continued to be a mixture of delight – the food and the wine – and horror – the incessant asinine conversations of the arachnid lady sitting two tables away. Throughout the meals she continued to lean one way or the other, either cupping her ear to join in her neighbours’ discussions or flirting with the waiter, who by now seemed to be backing off a little himself.

  “Awwww, Frederico, don’t you love me anymore?”

  “Of course I do madam,” the waiter forced out through gritted teeth.

  “Don’t worry about my Charlie here, he won’t hurt you. Charlie by name, Charlie by nature, that’s you isn’t it dear?” She cackled again, sending a shockwave through half the dining room, while her husband sat impassively, sipping at his wine.

  “I don’t think I can stand this much longer,” said Fergus.

  The next night he almost didn’t have to as he was stopped at the entrance to the restaurant by the Maitre D’.

  “It’s semi-formal night tonight sir, you need a jacket or a tie.”

  “What about me?” said Sylvie, wearing a blouse and smart jeans, as she had on many previous occasions.

  “You are fine madam,” the Maitre D’ oiled.

  “I haven’t got a jacket,” Fergus replied.

  “I can lend you a tie if you wish sir.” But Fergus wasn’t going to wear a tie that had been wound around a thousand sweaty male necks before his, so he trooped back down to the cabin to dig out one of his own. Finally admitted to the restaurant, he felt like the inexperienced cruising new boy as all the other men sat in open collars and shirt sleeves, with their jackets removed, once past the restaurant guard, and placed over the backs of their chairs. He thought he noticed one or two ‘there’s always one’ type glances cast in his direction as they tucked into their second courses, before Fergus and Sylvie had even had a chance to order their first.

  “I’ve a good mind to take my tie off and to put it on the back of my chair too!” he said with a certain logic.

  Sylvie reached out and took his hands in hers: “Deep breaths!”

  “Very smart!” shouted the arachnid lady in his direction, before descending into another shrieking laugh.

  “You do look very smart,” Tabitha on the next table said, more genuinely.

  “Thank you, thank you… I’m struggling a bit with the etiquette,” Fergus replied.

  “I suppothse you are more uthsed to the dog collar?” Henry reflected.

  “No darling, don’t you remember? He said he wasn’t a man of the cloth.”

  “Did he? How exssthrawdinawy, I could have thworn.”

  “I’m afraid, your wife is right,” Fergus confirmed, his mood again lightening at the innocence of the elderly couple. “Cheers!” he said, smiling at them and lifting his glass.

  “Cheers,” joined in Sylvie.

  “Cheers.”

  “Cheerths!”

  And so cruising felt to Fergus like a mixture of heaven and hell… but the heaven easily made it worthwhile: the sea, the ship’s movement, the good weather, the days of relaxation, the long, lazy hours with Sylvie. Occasionally, between the Azores and Cape Verde, he spotted his dancer, but he felt self-conscious and sought to evade her where he could. When avoidance wasn’t possible or would be too obvious, he allowed himself to enjoy the easy charm she used on him and (he suspected) on half the other old male fools on board, savouring the company of someone he liked in her own right, someone who had energy, vivaciousness and her whole life ahead of her, but someone also who reminded him so strongly of the daughter he had lost. As for her taller colleague, the singer with the auburn hair, he didn’t see her at all outside of the shows, until the day before they reached Cape Verde, when he spotted her on deck, staring out to sea. Uncharacteristically and spontaneously, he walked up to her:

  “It’s beautiful isn’t it?” She turned around and he could see her staff name badge: ‘Nicole Webster’.

  “Yes it is,” she smiled back. Without the glamour of costume and make-up he thought she was actually much prettier, even if, he concluded, she couldn’t quite compete with the dancer in the pathetic beauty contest he became aware he was playing out between them in his mind. He felt ashamed: they were both around the age Justine had been when they had lost her, for heaven’s sake! But Nicole was oblivious to the internal beating up Fergus was again giving himself. He allowed a moment to pass, before continuing:

  “I’m sure you have people say this to you all the time, but I wanted to tell you that you sang beautifully the other night.”

  “Thank you… that’s kind.”

  He wanted to hold her, not for any sexual reason at all, but because she looked sad. He longed to ask her why she looked and sang that way, but he knew that would be presumptuous.

  “Well, I look forward to your next show.”

  “It’s tonight, I’ll try to spot you.”

  Fergus smiled.

  “Anyway, I won’t keep disturbing you after every show to tell you that I enjoyed your singing, so perhaps you can take that as read for the rest of the cruise?”

  “Thank you, I will… but you are not disturbing me.”

  He was just about to leave when, without thinking, he added:

  “My daughter was in shows, a dancer, you know; she worked in a holiday camp.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, but she died.”

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” Nicole looked shocked. There was a pause and then he said:

  “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you that, I don’t know why I did, I guess it’s just on my mind a lot.”

  “Of course.” Another pause. “Hey, if your daughter was in show business, then a compliment from you means something extra!”

  “Well, it’s deserved… anyway, I’ll leave you to it.”

  “It was nice meeting you… enjoy the rest of your cruise.”

  Fergus turned and left, her last words had sounded clichéd, a phrase she had probably reeled out without thinking a thousand times or more, as an American might say ‘have a nice day now!’ But he felt sure there had been a moment or two before that when she had been quite moved. He also felt concern that she had something on her mind, though he supposed he’d never know whether or not he was right. Anyway, he felt pleased to have spoken to her.

  That night he and Sylvie were back in the Poseidon Theatre watching the dancers, just as – a long time ago – he remembered they had watched Justine performing at a holiday camp in North Devon. How proud and amazed they had been that evening, that there on stage, dazzling the audience, had been their very own daughter! Tonight though, perhaps for the first time, Fergus was more focussed on the singing than the dancing, and more specifically on Nicole, for whom he suddenly realised he felt an unexpected paternal compassion. She looked his way mid ballad, but with the lights in her eyes, he knew she hadn’t seen him.

  Did they purposefully give her all the sad songs? He wondered.

  10

  The Chilterns – September 2004

  Justine and Jones only had that one evening together in Ljubljana. The next morning he and his friends were on the plane back to the UK, whereas she
still had a month’s Euro railing ahead of her.

  By the time she arrived in Ljubljana, Justine had already seen the Grande Place in Brussels, the twin spired cathedral in Cologne, she had taken a meandering train ride down the castle-dotted Rhine valley to Mainz and Frankfurt, wandered the ornate streets of Vienna and the old town in Bratislava. From there, she had followed the river Danube down to Budapest, Novisad and on to Belgrade where, beneath the Kalamegdan park and fortress, it joined up with its sister river, the Sava. Next stop had been Zagreb and only then, via a two hour train ride, twisting through gorges and along pretty rivers, across the border into Slovenia and on to Ljubljana. After meeting Jones there, her route was still to take her through Northern Italy, along the French Mediterranean coast, all the way to Barcelona, before returning home via Paris. Justine was not going to miss the second half of this adventure simply because she had met a young man outside a Slovenian bar, but she hoped, nevertheless, he might still be interested in her by the time she saw him again.

  She knew this tour of Europe had been whistle stop, that some would be impressed by her extraordinary route, while others would seek to pour cold water over her enthusiasm by suggesting she had been everywhere but seen nothing. She wasn’t moved by either perspective, for her the travelling, rather than the arriving, was most of the fun: watching her continent slip by and seeing its men, women and children going about their lives in its furthest flung corners, speaking different languages and eating their local foods. A continent of people who lived in different nations, regions and cultures, and who celebrated national traditions which had evolved over the centuries through their own unique histories, which presumably were taught in their schools, much as the Battle of Hastings and Henry VIII were taught in British ones. She was fascinated by these differences, but more so by the fact that, regarding the things that mattered most – family, friends, aspiration – people were the same everywhere.