“Good afterrrnoon, ladies and gentlemen. An update from the brrridge…” The Captain began his daily report of temperatures, wind speeds, position and estimated arrival times, but Fergus and Sylvie barely listened to these pearls of wisdom as they sat, out on deck again, deep in their e-readers.
“Since therrre is some significant swell, please do hold on to the hand rrrails as you move about the ship, in orrrder to avoid acc-Sea-dents.” For the first time this advice was sound and both Fergus and Sylvie were relishing the pitching and rolling motion as the Magdalena ploughed on through the waves. Every now and then, someone would walk by and be sent stumbling off sideways as the ship passed over another roller, but in most instances this experience was greeted with laughter and good cheer, like children on an exhilarating fairground ride.
“A few hygiene advices, please wash yourrr hands fre-Quent-ly throughout the day for 20 seconds using hot soapy water as this is the best method to prrrevent infection…”
“Yes, yes, yes, we’ve got the message!” Sylvie said out loud, remembering how she seemed to spend much of the day washing her hands or using the various hand sanitisers dotted around the ship and at the entrances to its restaurants. The Captain finished his message and peace returned.
Sylvie stayed put much of the time, relaxing in her chair, though she did go for occasional walks. Fergus, however, continued to enjoy wandering about a bit more. He would roam the ship, mainly outside but also in, exploring and savouring being on board, wanting to squeeze as much out of the experience as he could. In doing this, he found various nooks and crannies with new views over the Atlantic and he would stand gazing out towards the horizon, loving the fact that land wasn’t to be seen in any direction. The swell today only added to his sense of euphoria.
As he heaved open a door and ventured inside the ship, he passed the entrance to the Poseidon Theatre and could hear the criminologist giving a lecture about ‘Jack the Ripper’. Peeping in, he noticed how the audience appeared captivated by the little man as, whisky glass in hand, he paced the stage, excitedly expounding theories on these gruesome Victorian murders. Fergus again could not help but wonder why anyone would wish to sit indoors through this grisly detail when it was such a magnificent day outside, with the thrill of the Atlantic Ocean, but clearly many did.
He continued through to the Reception area where there were also a handful of small boutiques:
“Excuse me sir. Can I interest you in a video of the cruise?”
“No thank you.”
“But sir, they are tremendous value and beautifully shot, let me show you…”
“No thank you,” Fergus barked, shaking the steward off and heading towards the Salt of the Earth pub.
“And which European Airport has the code FCO?”
Fergus noticed Jennifer (the bespectacled librarian, crafts teacher and unlikely chatterbox introduced to them on the first evening) sitting on a bar stool with a microphone, hosting the twice daily quiz. He resisted the urge to shout out ‘Rome’ to her as he made his way through the pub and into the sleepy atmosphere of the bingo being played in the lounge beyond, in the corner of which he saw Mrs Huffington marking off her numbers with an oversized pen.
Finally, Fergus headed back out on deck, relieved to hit the fresh air again. As he walked, he noticed the Captain heading towards him. This was his chance:
“Good afternoon!”
“Good afterrrnoon,” the Captain replied with a warm smile, though without stopping. It had hardly been the leisurely conversation Richard and Cressida had enjoyed the previous day, but the only words he and the Captain would ever exchange still felt like a small victory to Fergus and he rejoined Sylvie feeling buoyed by the brief encounter. He sat a while with his wife, but, checking their watches simultaneously, both knew the respite would be short lived…
“I think our washing may be ready soon,” he half-heartedly suggested.
“Once more unto the breach?” Sylvie ventured.
“I fear so.” They headed down to the laundry and their machine showed just five minutes to run. The next challenge would be finding a spare tumble dryer. Several were already in action, but those that were not were still filled with clothes awaiting the return of their owners.
“Do you think we can just empty one?” asked Fergus. Sylvie looked unsure and, for some reason, this insignificant question felt like a matter of war and peace as they pictured someone furiously demanding to know who had dared to handle their knickers. However, their indecisiveness was resolved by a man:
“Mine will be finishing in a moment, you can have that. It’s a bit of a hell hole down here isn’t it?” They both felt relieved, mainly at the availability of the dryer, but also at evidence of another civilised presence with them there, an ally with whom to battle the machines, the heat and the noise. They restricted their answer to a unison:
“Yes it is. Thank you.”
So, with near perfect co-ordination, as their washing machine stopped so did the man’s tumble dryer, and they were able to transfer their clothes across, switch the machine on and escape for a further sixty minutes. During this interlude, they ate their usual light lunch on deck ten, outside the restaurant, smiling across at Gentle Henry and Tabitha who were sitting quietly, enjoying theirs in the sunshine, a few tables away.
“We seem to be yoyo-ing between heaven on deck ten and hell on deck two,” Sylvie observed to her husband, who was sitting eyes closed and face tilted up towards the sun.
“One more trip to hell!” Fergus responded, reluctantly, and without initially moving position, but then slowly coming back to life. Bracing themselves a final time, they collected their laundry, gave their T-shirts the most cursory of irons and, having gathered up all the socks and pants they could find, retreated back to their cabin to put it all away.
“Finally, job done!” Sylvie smiled.
They ventured out again, walking a couple of laps around the deck, before settling back down to their books and, in Fergus’ case, also to his meditation.
“Paradise regained!” He said, before putting his ear plugs in and starting his deep breathing. His wife took hold of his knee and gave it a shake.
“Paradise regained,” she agreed.
The line between paradise and hell is, however, thin and not always delineated so clearly as it was at that moment between the top and bottom decks of the ship. A few hours later, listening to the string trio playing in the Midships Lounge, Fergus bristled at a man holding a loud conversation with someone back home on his mobile phone:
“Surely they will sell for 54k? OK try offering them 58, but make it clear that we won’t go a penny higher… yes, the Melta Media presentation needs to be on the 6th January… no, it has to be the 6th… get Brett to start working on the slides…”
They had both thought that, while on board a ship, they would be free from what, to them, was a modern plague, but this naivety had been shattered as early as day two or three, when they had been awoken from an afternoon snooze out on deck by a female voice proclaiming loudly, to someone nearly a thousand miles away, that she was in the middle of the Atlantic, on her way to the Azores.
They had rolled their eyes at each other as the woman reported back every detail of the cruise to date and had then gone on to ask about “Archie and the girls,” before expressing shock at hearing that “Chardonnay has been suspended from school… again!”
Every few days a peaceful moment would be blighted in this way by someone oblivious to, or uncaring about, the volume of their voice. Some spoke so loudly that Fergus wondered whether they really needed a phone at all. This man particularly irritated him: talking while a string trio played was, Fergus preached to Sylvie (though quietly enough for the man not to hear), “disrespectful to the musicians and inconsiderate to everyone else.”
“Come on,” she replied, “while you are on your high horse, we may as well trot al
ong to dinner.” Sylvie cut through his indignation, a skill she had refined over the course of their long marriage.
“Yes, the Farthly deal takes precedence over all the other accounts, it’s too important… can’t you tell Jacoby to…”
“Giddy-up now!” Sylvie joked as they got up and headed to the restaurant, without waiting to hear what Jacoby should be advised to do.
They enjoyed dinner. Yes, the Maitre D’ as usual stood at the restaurant entrance squeezing hand sanitiser into their palms without ever looking up at their faces, but at least the arachnid lady had toned down her volume switch for the evening. The food was excellent and washed down with another rich and smooth Merlot. Meanwhile Angelo, their waiter, hurried around chaotically with plates and trays, somehow never quite dropping anything, joking with them as he rushed by that he had to get back to his chickens, which were busy laying eggs in the galley. Had the Maitre D’ loitered long enough after asking “is everything alright?”, the answer from both Fergus and Sylvie would have been a firm “yes”, but typically he was gone before they had time to respond. Instead, they just laughed and enjoyed the madness of the moment, along with the last sips of their wine.
Easily resisting the lure of the comedian performing again that night in the Poseidon Theatre, Fergus and Sylvie settled down in the card room and played Scrabble, before venturing out one more time to try to catch the stars, but there must have been cloud cover, because the sky above was a murky black.
“Canaries tomorrow,” said Sylvie.
“Hmmm!” replied Fergus, as the frustration of a lost day in Cape Verde resurfaced, but this time he caught himself in his grumpiness without the need for his wife to intervene.
“How do you put up with me? Why do you put up with me?” He asked.
“It’s a good question. I think it must be something about love.” She gave him a kiss and, as she did so, the moon emerged brightly from the clouds.
“How did you do that?”
“Spooky isn’t it?” She teased… “but I’m out of tricks for one day. And I’m dropping. Let’s go to bed.”
20
The Chilterns and beyond –
September 2004 to June 2006
Following that slightly awkward first meeting with her parents, Jones set off on his walk with Justine hoping that the Ljubljanan magic they had shared together had made it safely back to Britain with her. It quickly became apparent that it had.
She didn’t appear to share any of these anxieties, leading him eagerly through countryside she knew like the back of her hand, but which was for him all new. He liked it, but more than that he liked the enthusiasm with which she showed it to him, as they wandered up and down hills, through woodland and emerged into open valleys. They stopped to rest by a stream, where they witnessed streaks of blue shooting through the air as a pair of kingfishers dived for their tea. Justine was clearly proud of where she came from, Jones thought to himself, and rightly so.
“How was that for starters?” she asked as they completed the circle.
“Excellent,” he replied, admiring more red kites circling overhead.
“You’ve seen nothing yet, my biggest surprise is reserved for later, at least I’m hoping…”
They went into the house and Justine started to prepare some pasta while Jones sat watching on a kitchen stool.
“It’s good to see you again Freddie,” he said, as he mused to himself what the surprise might be.
“You too,” she responded, looking up briefly.
They ate their food, talking easily and also easily not talking. By the time they had finished it was early evening.
“Come on Jones, rest period over, it’s back out into the wilds… not far this time, but you’ll need to be quiet, and patient.” He put his boots back on and followed her down the garden and, ever so quietly, to the edge of the wood, where she sat down on a fallen tree, patting it for him to do the same. Then they waited. Occasionally Jones went to say something but she put her finger to her lips and whispered for him to be patient. He had never been on a date like this before, he was in new territory literally and metaphorically, but he felt strangely peaceful in the tranquil surroundings with nothing expected of him but to sit quietly in the warm late-summer evening.
After about thirty minutes, there was a distinct rustling sound, followed a moment later by a snuffling and a sniffing. Jones heard it clearly.
“Don’t move!” Justine whispered, as a black and white snout emerged from the bushes, hesitated and was then followed out by a large grey body. Jones’ first badger! Five others emerged behind, also snuffling at the ground with their snouts, two looking distinctly younger and more playful than the others. Jones was mesmerised and Justine clutched his hand tightly with excitement that her surprise had come off, just as she had hoped, and that he had been patient enough to wait. One of the younger badgers came within five feet of Jones and he was scared it would spot him and run away in fear, but it never did.
“Badgers have terrible eyesight and, as long as you don’t move, you keep quiet and you stay down wind, then they can come quite close… but I admit that was pretty good today!” Justine explained, as they retreated back to the house. The badgers, after fifteen minutes or so, had shuffled off into the woods and she had signalled to Jones that they should back away quietly. Even then the action had not been completely over, as a fox ambled slowly across the lawn in front of them and sat down, like a sentinel, by the front door, washing itself calmly.
“Look, brother fox!” whispered Justine. They stopped for a moment and then crept forward stealthily, until finally they got too close and it trotted away, disappearing into the trees the far side of the house.
“It was a date to remember!” Jones concluded.
“For good reasons, or because it was crazy or boring?”
“It was a little crazy, but it was never boring,” Jones replied.
“But was it good?”
Jones felt touched by her first sign of insecurity. She clearly loved this place and he felt privileged to have been shown into her magical world.
“It was the best, Freddie,” and he took her in his arms and kissed her, just as he had done in Ljubljana.
“It’s funny isn’t it,” she said dreamily and looking up into his eyes, “how neither of us calls each other by our real names!”
“Do you mind?”
“No, but I’ve not been called Freddie since school and, as for you, well I like the name Casey.”
“Freddie suits you Freddie… and Jones suits me and, anyway I told you, I’m named after a cat, so I prefer not to be reminded.”
“My parents will get terribly confused.”
“Sounds like fun!” he joked, then suddenly fearing she was serious, “but Justine is great too, so if you prefer…”
“No, I think I’m getting used to Freddie,” she interrupted decisively, kissing him again and leading him back into the house.
The next year and three quarters was Jones’ and Justine’s time. There was to be no wedding, no children, no growing old together, no happy ever after. This was the deepest personal relationship that Justine would ever know and, although it wasn’t going to prove quite that for Jones, it would still be a chapter of life that he would remember and treasure, even as an old man. Neither knew it at the time, but this fleeting period was all that they would share. For Fergus and Sylvie these were the months when they saw their daughter become (perhaps a little late) a grown woman, something which – on balance – they greeted with joy.
Jones had always wanted to be an airline pilot, but somehow the training opportunities were not there. His disappointment gnawed at him, even though he knew that, in being taken on as a management trainee at a major high street retailer in Cambridge, his safety net had been other graduates’ unattainable dream. Meanwhile, Justine had a number of interviews for dance roles, including
on cruise ships. In the end, like buses, three offers came at once: two at sea and one a six month contract from March working at a North Devon Holiday Camp. She opted to be closer to home and chose the latter.
She was thrilled about this, her first proper contract, and the experience exceeded her already high expectations, as she settled into life with her small group of fellow singers and dancers. She enjoyed rehearsing, performing, being with children and working amongst people who were on holiday, having well-deserved fun and building their own special memories with their families. The whole place felt happy and she knew she played a small but important role in creating that atmosphere. What’s more, in this tiny corner of Devon, she was (as her boss put it) a ‘star in a jar’ and she enjoyed the attentions that this brought, with children (and occasionally even adults) excitedly rushing up to her – the girl from the cabaret – as they saw her wandering the park.
Jones visited her twice a month over the next spring and summer while she was working there. He couldn’t believe how good a dancer she was the first time he watched her on stage, and he felt proud that this beautiful, skilful young woman – who he imagined entranced half the men in the audience – was his girlfriend. When she had time off, they would head to the sea, or sometimes to Exmoor, and they would hike along trails, not always with a golden sun on their backs, enjoying being on the beach or deep out in the countryside, even when it was pouring with rain. Chances for Justine to come home during this period were rare and she spent most of those occasions at her parents’ house, sometimes just with them, sometimes with Jones as well. By now, Fergus and Sylvie were growing to love Jones, all the more because he was sensitive enough to give them some time alone with their daughter. They visited her once in Devon too, also coming to see one of her shows, and Justine had been touched by how captivated they had looked as she fleetingly glimpsed them from the stage.
Devon ended in September and Justine again found herself at a loose end. She was not worried: her agent had found her a four month contract from January, dancing at a major holiday resort in Florida. She was excited by that prospect and, back home in the meantime, she had more opportunity to see Jones and even to enjoy a holiday in the Lake District with her parents.
Times and Places Page 16
