Times and Places

by Keith Anthony

  Slowly the ship pulled away from the quay and headed out of the harbour and into Mounts Bay, then following the rocky coast to Land’s End and out into the ocean beyond. There was sufficient movement to know they were out at sea but not enough to disturb any but the most sensitive of stomachs. After they had passed Land’s End, they swapped to the port side and were quickly rewarded with the sight of a school of basking sharks, enormous and clearly visible in the water, swimming mouths wide open, only it seemed a dozen or so metres off the ship.

  “Not many people have seen basking sharks!” Justine thought to herself as she cherished the moment, feeling both inspired and privileged to witness their dorsal fins breaking the surface, just a few feet from where she was standing. This was a first for Fergus too and he stared at the enormous creatures with every bit as much excitement as his eleven year old daughter. Eventually, the sharks disappeared and the two of them were left staring out to sea at distant ships and lonely lighthouses, contemplating the wonder of nature and their small place in it. Almost as soon as Cornwall disappeared in the distance behind them, so the Isles of Scilly began to emerge in front.

  “We want to make the most of today,” Fergus re-iterated, “so let’s get a bite to eat now.” They made their way to the café and ate brunch to fuel them for the day ahead, standing up every now and then to look out of the window and note their steady progress towards land. After she had eaten, Justine slipped away, returning ten minutes later with two baseball caps, one pale pink and the other a shade somewhere between blue and grey, both with “Isles of Scilly” written on the front, alongside an image of a seal poking her head out from the waves.

  “I saw these earlier in the on board shop, we might need them, and anyway they are souvenirs.”

  “Good thinking Just, how much do I owe you?” her father asked, reaching for his wallet.

  “Nothing,” she replied firmly, “it’s a present, to say thanks for a great trip.” She put the pink one on her head and handed him the other.

  “Wow, thank you.” It seemed inadequate, but Fergus, taking the cap from her hand, somehow couldn’t find better words and, before they came to him, Justine smiled and answered:

  “You’re welcome!” and then refocused on a last remaining piece of toast.

  By the time they had eaten and returned to deck, the island of St Martin’s lay immediately in front of them, with its tall cliffs and glimpses of white sandy beaches. The ship slowed right down to manoeuvre carefully around the various rocky outcrops, before steaming up the channel between the islands of Tresco and St Mary’s and finally coming to its berth at Hugh Town on the latter. The trip across had taken four hours.

  13

  Praia – Tuesday 29th November 2016

  Fergus awoke early and, wanting some fresh air, headed out on deck, where he was ambushed by the most impressive of sights. Although he and Sylvie had missed it, there had been an announcement the previous evening advising passengers that the Magdalena would be sailing past Fogo Island at around six thirty the following morning and that, for those willing to get up early, there would be magnificent views of its volcano, which had last erupted just two years earlier.

  Only a tiny percentage of the ship’s passengers had both heard the advice and mustered the will power to act upon it, but, for those who did, the reward was a classic cone shaped mountain rising nearly ten thousand feet up through the pink tinged morning cloud. Fergus felt a mixture of awe at its natural beauty and immense good fortune that, through sheer luck, he was there to see it. After a while, he rushed back to the cabin and persuaded an initially sleepy Sylvie to come out too and, for an hour, they stood together at the stern rail, without talking, marvelling at the dramatic volcanic island, as it sank ever further towards the horizon.

  “I wish we could have had our scheduled day there,” Sylvie mused regretfully. It was indeed a disappointment and Fergus didn’t at first know how to reply, finally observing:

  “Yes, but, if I hadn’t woken by chance, we could easily have missed it entirely.”

  Sylvie smiled, this time it had taken her husband to give the perspective.

  The volcano steadily receded and, eventually, they tore themselves away and headed to breakfast. By mid morning the Magdalena had docked:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Praia, Cape Verde. The gangway can be found today on deck three, aft, port side. Once again, ladies and gentlemen, we will be running a free shuttle bus service into town…”

  The Cruise Director’s smiley voice repeated the process of waiting for buses “in the comfort of the Poseidon Theatre” and reminded guests that the ship would sail at six o’clock that evening. Again, Fergus and Sylvie decided to avoid the rush, delaying an hour or so before going ashore. He sought to use the time to practise his mindfulness but this proved impossible as, every few minutes, a loud tannoy call invited the next set of boarding pass holders to make their way to the gangway. The announcements were loud enough to make him jump and completely unpredictable, so he found himself constantly wondering when the next might occur, rather than focussing calmly on his breathing. After a while, he realised it was hopeless:

  “Still very much the beginner,” he thought to himself, imagining wiser sages than he meditating undisturbed through the noise. Instead, he refound Sylvie and, once the buses were available on demand, they headed to the gangway and left for town. For a second time, they found themselves woefully ill-prepared in terms of having a map or knowing anything about the city in which they found themselves. They wandered into a central square and then up a busy street, but somehow, despite wanting to enjoy it, Praia presented itself as a hot, dusty, noisy, busy conurbation, mildly threatening to those coming from comfortable corners of Western Europe, and Fergus became nervous about getting lost or worse. They weren’t even sure of the name of the street corner from where the bus would return them to the ship.

  They walked back down to the square, this time along a pedestrianised avenue, parallel to the road along which they had just come. This struck them as much less intense, without either the noisy traffic or the feeling of fighting their way through overcrowded pavements. Back in the square, they sat on a bench and tried again to take in the city, but it felt somewhat edgy. Young shoeless children came up to them and, though charmed by their innocence and concerned for their welfare, Fergus and Sylvie somehow also felt a need to keep an eye on their own possessions, to which they held on tightly, whilst fighting back a guilt for feeling that way. It was a searing heat which, combined with the urban environment, left them uptight and impatient, unable to enjoy Praia and to give it the chance it deserved.

  After a while, they went inside the nearby church and sat down for some quiet reflection. They both felt humbled by the local men and women who came in and genuflected before the ornate statues, spending a few moments in silent prayer, before slipping out again into the brilliant sunshine and their anonymous Cape Verdean lives. Fergus wondered what they had been praying for, what worries and needs they had privately placed before God. He felt a deep respect for them and again battled with mixed feelings: regret that they hadn’t done Praia (or more importantly its people) justice, but also an urge to retreat to the safety and familiarity of the ship, where they would be able to relax again. After no more than two hours ashore, the latter feeling won and they took the bus back to the Magdalena.

  It was by now lunchtime and they ate a crisp, refreshing salad, before settling out on deck for a relaxing afternoon with their books and a series of cool drinks. They watched in admiration as the smartly dressed waiters and waitresses tirelessly climbed up and down the stairs between decks, expertly balancing bottles, cups and glasses, and smiling naturally as if it were they who were on holiday, rather than serving drinks all afternoon, in the heat of the African sun.

  In the early evening, the ship cast off on schedule and turned back out to sea, holding one of its ‘sail away’ parties on the re
ar deck as it departed. Fergus wondered what the Cape Verdeans made of the loud noise these rich westerners were making as they headed off in all their luxury. At the same time, he had to admit that the crew – for whom deep down this was just another working day – successfully created a happy, carnival atmosphere. Although he and Sylvie didn’t actively take part, the mood was contagious and they felt energised as they witnessed the high-spirited celebrations from their vantage point several decks above.

  Amongst those keeping the party mood going were the Show Troupe, including Fergus’ dancer and Nicole, his sad voiced singer. The three Caballeros had been in their usual place, lounging in the hot tub when, all of a sudden, one made a rare venture out, running up to the dancer, lifting her into his arms and then holding her teasingly over the pool, before, to Fergus’ horror, dropping her fully clothed into the water. The Caballero thought this a hilarious prank as, rather like a reptile returning to the swamp, he slunk back into the spa bath with his two friends and their cocktails. Fergus was at least relieved to note that few passengers appeared to be sharing the joke. His dancer meanwhile swam serenely to the side, climbed out and, trying not to give the impression she was as fed up as Fergus imagined she probably was, disappeared through the crowd, presumably to get showered and changed in her cabin. Fergus stared back at the Caballeros and frightened himself a little with the animosity he felt towards the one who had committed this outrage.

  Meanwhile, a string quartet had boarded the ship in Praia and, before dinner, Fergus and Sylvie sat contemplatively together, this time in the Midships Lounge, listening to the smooth tones of the female violinist and the two men accompanying her, on Spanish guitar and double bass. Sylvie secretly hoped that this injection of calm would subsequently carry Fergus over dinner and, to his credit, it nearly did: just once or twice she spotted him wincing as shrieks, whines and guffaws pierced their ear drums from two tables away.

  “Did you get athore?” lisped Henry.

  “Yes, yes we did,” replied Sylvie.

  “Quite charming wasssn’t it?”

  “Delightful,” Sylvie outwardly agreed, whilst secretly wondering quite what they must have missed that had given him this impression, but she managed to add: “especially the church.”

  “Oh yeth, of courssse, interesting for you in particular Ferguth.”

  “Yes, it was very peaceful, and quite special seeing the faith of the local people,” Fergus responded, again feeling it churlish to correct him and resigning himself to (and to his surprise slightly enjoying) the clerical role in which he found himself an involuntary imposter.

  “Darling, you do remember, Fergus isn’t with the clergy,” Tabitha gently shattered the illusion.

  “Really? How exssthrawdinawy, I could have thworn…”

  “I do have a faith though, we both do,” Fergus quickly intervened, seeking to relieve Henry’s confusion and disappointment.

  “Well, that must be it then… perhapsss you could say a prayer for our boys, we’re wather worried about them?”

  “I’ll make a point of it,” Fergus replied, “Basil and Bugsy?”

  “Qwite wite, well wemembered.”

  “You did very well,” said Sylvie to her husband as they left, referring both to how he had handled ‘Gentle Henry’ – as they now affectionately named him – and to how he had risen above the irritation of their rather more abrasive neighbour further up the dining room. “And tomorrow is a formal night, so we can leave her to it and eat in the café.”

  Fergus felt relieved at the prospect, but also disappointed that they were unable to enjoy more of their dinners in the restaurant, albeit this evening he did congratulate himself: he had indeed coped better.

  “Can we miss the show tonight?” he asked, a bit like a child pleading to his mother.

  “Fergus! Come on… you’re on holiday, you can do or not do whatever you like… it’s the magician isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and he’s bound to pick someone out of the audience for his trick, it will probably be me and, even if it isn’t, I will have spent half the show worrying about it… Couldn’t we relax in the Conservatory Bar instead?”

  “We’ve unwound a lot today, why don’t we liven things up a little and go to the Atlantic Lounge? There’s usually a band playing late in the evenings.”

  This seemed a fair compromise, but Sylvie hadn’t realised that, with her own suggestion, she had sentenced herself to the anxiety that, in avoiding the magician, Fergus had evaded. The ship had a number of retired men who were paid to whirl solo women around the dance floor, the cruise company called them ‘dance hosts’ but Sylvie playfully nicknamed them ‘the Lotharios’. Between numbers they would scour the lounge like sharks hunting their next prey and Sylvie tensed up as soon as she noticed them, fearing she might be next in their sights. Fergus wished she could sometimes be a little more outgoing and, for example, enjoy this opportunity to dance with a professional. However, he quickly realised his own hypocrisy: who was he to pass judgement and when had he ever been the life and soul of the party?

  “I’m just going to nip to the Gents,” he teased, sensing his wife’s unease.

  “Oh no you are not!” Sylvie grasped him tightly.

  Deep down, she knew she was being unfair and that these rather elderly men, elegant in their smart white suits, were only doing their jobs, making sure women travelling on their own would enjoy their evenings. She was even impressed by their slick, relaxed style, something she had already observed a few hours earlier as she watched them at the sail away party, dancing energetically with the Show Troupe and encouraging braver passengers to join in. Nevertheless, here Sylvie wanted to keep her head down, or at least to make it as obvious as possible that she was not alone.

  They bought drinks and settled down to enjoy the band. Occasionally a lothario would sail past, apparently aiming for Sylvie but then shying off at the last moment upon noticing her husband.

  “You’d be a gonner if I left you on your own!”

  “Please don’t,” she said and Fergus was surprised by the hint of pleading in her tone.

  “Come on, I’ll take you for a spin myself,” he suggested, reaching for her hand. Almost before she knew it, she was up and heading for the dance floor with him and, just a few moments later, they found themselves moving amongst the other couples, including the Lotharios and their latest catches. Fergus and Sylvie both realised they probably looked faintly ridiculous, but, if they did, they certainly weren’t the only ones, and they stayed on the floor for the next few numbers, Sylvie slowly defrosting and Fergus’ mind wandering back to discos and parties he had attended earlier in life, pre-Justine, pre-Sylvie even. By comparison, those occasions had been much harder work, trying to fit in, while fearing he never really would. It had been a less forgiving time, now was more relaxed; there how you danced mattered, here it didn’t. He pictured his struggling youthful self without envy, he was happy to be when and where he was, in this time and place, dancing with his wife.

  “There, I think we’ve done our bit!” he said, after around fifteen minutes.

  “Oh and there was I hoping we’d still be up here for the slow tunes!”

  “Afraid not, but…” looking across at a couple of disengaged lotharios, “I’m sure one of these gentlemen would do the honours.”

  She gave him a gentle punch in the ribs. They waited a moment surveying the scene, then Fergus said:

  “Let’s leave the youngsters to it. I’m ready for bed.” Sylvie, looking at all the elderly people around them, noted the irony.

  “Come on then old man,” she led him towards the exit, fully intending going straight back to the cabin, but Fergus again wanted some air and so they diverted out on deck first.

  “I have an idea,” said Sylvie, grabbing his hand. At night, most of the ship was full of lights but, so the officers could see out from the bridge, the bow was kept in complet
e darkness. They couldn’t get right to the very front of the ship, but Sylvie could lead him immediately beneath the bridge, from where they gazed into the blackness ahead.

  “Look up,” she said. Fergus craned his head and they stared together high into the night sky. Gradually, as their eyes adjusted, more and more stars appeared, until they were everywhere: shimmering reminders of both the unimaginable enormity of the universe and the inconsequence of their own place in it. They continued to gaze up as the galaxy revealed itself further, just the two of them there to witness it, holding each other and without another soul there to break the spell, though Sylvie wondered whether Justine’s might somehow be nearby, observing discreetly, happy to see her parents relaxed and sharing a peaceful moment. Their lives didn’t feel inconsequential at all.

  “Why Sylvie, out of all the people on this ship, is it you who thinks to come up here late at night to stare at the heavens?”

  “I’m sensitive don’t you know?” she responded with a cheeky grin.

  “Yes, I think you must be.”

  They stood there another ten minutes, pondering the stars, taking in the warm sea breeze and enjoying the gentle motion of the swell. Fergus remembered that two ‘sea days’ lay ahead and he relished that prospect and, above all, the fact he would be sharing them with his wife. He turned to look at her and thought she might do the same, but her eyes remained fixed on the night sky, her mind still contemplating its wonders. As he watched her, he once again felt that nagging fear that one day she might not be there and this sent a sudden involuntary shiver down his spine. Noticing this, she finally turned to him, enquiring how he could be cold on this warm African night, but he just told her that he was tired.