A bonus came when, unexpectedly, her agent found her work appearing in a music video, the whole shoot taking the best part of a fortnight, though most of that involving a lot of hanging around. She danced with three other women and with the singer, Summer Martins, who was already famous for her fun, upbeat style, though this particular song was more melancholic. Juxtaposed to the lyrics about grief and loss, the tune, however, somehow retained Summer’s happy personality, and this combination of ‘sadness with a smile on its face’ seemed to create something fresh and poignant. Justine realised that there was a good chance the song would be a hit and that her dancing would be seen on TV and across the internet. She found learning the steps easy and, though she didn’t say it to anyone, when she saw snippets of the video she thought she danced very well, perhaps slightly better even than the others. It was another boost to her confidence and she looked forward to the song being released.
That Christmas was the only one she and Jones ever shared. He came down late on Christmas Eve and, along with her parents, they went to midnight mass together. For Justine, this was always the best part of the whole festive period: a snug Christmas Eve full of anticipation, then venturing out into the night to their candle-lit church for carols and an hour spent remembering the very first Christmas and its message, before emerging at half past midnight into the magic of Christmas Day itself. The evening was rich with atmosphere, as well as the promise of more earthly pleasures when they woke up the next morning. They spent Christmas Day enjoying the usual big dinner, exchanging gifts, pulling crackers and wearing ridiculous hats. These were finally removed only when all four headed out in the afternoon for some much needed oxygen on a short walk.
Jones had first visited in late summer, but at this time of year the Chilterns looked very different: then it had been green and dry, but now the trees were bare and the ground caked in wet mud, in places almost impassable where it had been churned up by horses. The party slipped along these footpaths, wrapped up against the frosty wind, to the sound of crows cawing from their nests, swaying in the exposed branches high above. There was no snow, but nevertheless the scene to Jones seemed very bleak, though it was bleakness with a beauty and it felt exhilarating to live in a country where the seasons changed the landscape so completely four times a year. After a while, the house came back into view, a streak of grey curling up from its chimney and into a sky that was, even at four o’clock, already fast losing its daylight. Yes, smoke from a crackling fire that promised the walkers warmth and the prospect of a long, cosy evening ahead, pecking at snacks, soaking in mindless TV and playing old, worn out games.
All too quickly, New Year came and went and, a week later, Justine found herself on a plane bound for America. Her four month contract there was in hindsight a mixed blessing: she gained more experience dancing professionally, saw more of the wider world and made new friends; but she was a little homesick throughout for – in no particular order – Jones, her parents, her friends and her familiar corner of England. Had she known she only had weeks to live, she would certainly have chosen to spend them in the place and with the people she most loved. What her parents most wished after her death was either that she had never gone in the first place or, better still, that she had stayed out there longer, thereby avoiding her fate – unfortunately she chose the middle way and destiny wasn’t to be cheated.
On the bright side, Justine enjoyed the dancing in Florida and grew further in confidence whilst there. But it was a world away from Devon and the resort lacked the down-to-earth, family charm of the holiday camp where she had danced the previous summer. It also felt very temporary: many of the resort’s usual dancers were taking a break between the Christmas and summer peak seasons. It turned out that Justine was providing cover in some of the backing roles during a quieter time of year. There were a handful of others in the same position, including Tanya, a young dancer from Koblenz in Germany, with whom she quickly became firm friends. They spent half their free time happily exploring this sunny, new environment together and half pining for their homes. Tanya was touched that, out of all Justine’s two months of inter-railing, it had been her train journey between Cologne and Mainz, snaking down the Rhine valley and through her own home town, that she had found the prettiest. Neither girl was miserable, but Justine did observe that they had both chosen careers which all too often might take them away from homes they loved.
Come late April, it was with a mixture of emotions that both headed back to their respective countries, a close, but ultimately short, friendship having been established. For a month, Justine did not have a great deal to do, but May in the Chilterns is a wonderful time and place to be at a loose end, with spring blossoms bursting from the trees and swathes of woodland bluebells carpeting otherwise freshly green woods. After having ventured away so far, Justine enjoyed relaxing in this, the place where she felt she most belonged, staying out all day and wrapping the gentle scenery around her like a comforting blanket.
“I can’t believe it!” She bemoaned to Jones one day with mock despondency, “I’ve discovered I’m a home bird!”
“Surely not!?” he replied sarcastically. In fact her love of home was one of the many things he adored about her, sometimes he felt it little short of a miracle that she had ever gone inter-railing and met him in the first place, but he also knew her well enough to know that she had a strong independent streak too, perhaps that had pushed her to explore.
Justine’s agent had booked her an audition, just after May bank holiday, a week following her return from the States. It was for a London show which, if she were offered the part, would run from the autumn. The audition had gone well and she secretly felt confident, but without daring to hope too much. Just a week afterwards an envelope arrived asking her to go back for a further two days of try-outs and, at the end of the second morning, she was offered a role in the dance chorus. It felt like her biggest break to date, plus it was near home. Initial rehearsals began in London a fortnight later.
And so, on 12th June, Justine bought herself a Season Ticket, presciently only for a month (ironically she felt that buying anything longer was tempting fate), and she arrived for her first day at the East London dance studio with a mixture of excitement and terror. She surprised herself that these emotions quickly dissipated into a feeling of confidence, with the experience she had gained in Devon and Florida (and of course the dance video she had done with Summer Martins in between) reaping its rewards. She felt at home in the world of dance and fell in easily with her colleagues, also spending extra time watching the principals rehearse, seeking to learn from them and dreaming that one day this might be her. Her parents took great pleasure in witnessing their daughter’s success and Jones was telling anyone who would listen that his girlfriend was going to be in a West End show… in reality it wasn’t quite going to be in the West End, but it wasn’t so far off.
“I am so proud of you Freddie!” He said to her the last time they were together, some sixty hours before her accident, as he dropped her off at home after a final shared weekend. “And desperate to see the show!”
“You’ll just have to be patient!” She had teased, stepping out of the car and pulling her bag from its back seat, “all things come to those who wait!”
Alas, that is not always true and for Jones the wait was to prove eternal. He could picture her turning back one last time as she walked to her front door, he knew she waved at him and that he had flashed his lights in reply. But he didn’t remember having told her he loved her, not that night when it mattered most: he racked his brains as if doing so hard enough might mean he could conjure up the memory, but it was no good, you can’t recall something that didn’t happen.
So, life was going well for Justine as she sat on the train, heading for her eighth day of rehearsals, feeling content. More than content, she was happy. She was dancing for a career, rehearsing for a London show, and she felt she had held her own amongst the other dancers i
n the first seven days. More importantly, she had Jones.
Three days after her death, a small square package arrived for him through the post: he immediately recognised the writing. Shaking, he opened it. It was a CD, the soundtrack of the show in which Justine was to perform. There was no note, but on the CD cover she had scrawled:
“Jones, all things come to those who wait, but here’s a little taster for those who can’t! Love you, Freddie.”
21
The Canaries –
Friday 2nd to Sunday 4th December 2016
So far, because a stop in Cape Verde had been dropped, the cruise had comprised four days in port and eight days at sea; now, because a day in the Canaries had been added, they had five days at four different ports ahead, the first three being Las Palmas de Gran Canaria, Santa Cruz de Tenerife and Santa Cruz de La Palma.
On the first of these days, over breakfast, a smiley announcement rang out from the Cruise Director:
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Las Palmas de Gran Canaria. The gangway can be found today on deck three, forward, port side…”
“Where else?!” Sylvie heard a waiter say sarcastically under his breath, as he rushed across the room with a plate of food.
“… and it is just a short walk into town, but, ladies and gentlemen, it’s another beautiful one. Please remember the ship departs at nine o’clock this evening, so do be back on board by eight thirty. We hope you have a wonderful day here in Las Palmas.”
Almost identical, overly cheerful, announcements followed the next two days and Sylvie understood why, having heard hundreds upon hundreds of them, they may have grown a little stale on the derisive waiter.
After the Azores and Cape Verde, the Canaries felt a bit more on the tourist trail and, although the temperature was a little cooler, walking in the crowds became tiring, leaving them to wonder whether they were really enjoying it or just going through the motions because they felt they should. In both Gran Canaria and Tenerife, where the crowds were by far the worst, they opted for sightseeing buses to show them around and, once on board, they settled down and enjoyed the open top rides. Fergus, in his sunglasses and faithful baseball cap, didn’t worry about the commentary (available through earphones), instead he just relaxed in the warm breeze as the towns and their surroundings rolled by, occasionally lifting his arms into the air so his hands ran through the low-hanging leaves of the trees lining much of their route.
Each of the two locations had its highlights: for Las Palmas de Gran Canaria it was a late afternoon walk along the promenade of the Playa de las Canteras, watching the locals and the tourists relaxing as they strolled beside the beach, with the Atlantic waves breaking in the distance; for Santa Cruz de Tenerife it was the lush Parque Garcia Sanabria, with its sub-tropical green plants (from which they could all but feel the oxygen oozing) and its tall, exotic palms, some leaning slightly, reaching high up towards the sun and the azure sky above.
Santa Cruz de La Palma, on the third day, had a much quieter feel to it, and their walk up the cobbled pedestrian street towards the town was more peaceful. Two thirds of the way along, there was a church to which they retreated, escaping the heat of the sun and hoping to enjoy some reflective silence. These plans however were thwarted by three women, minding the building, who shouted out to each other across the nave and the pews, as they dusted and carelessly clattered around, performing various bits of minor maintenance. There is nothing more wonderful than sitting in a tranquil church, but little more frustrating than being there when that peace is lost amidst the intruding din of others. Eventually, Fergus and Sylvie gave up and, worn down by three days in a row ashore in similar places, they made their way early back to the ship.
Fergus took advantage and decided to meditate again, but it was to prove a patience testing day. He was just getting into his deep breathing when he was tapped tentatively on the shoulder:
“Excuse me sir, we need to do painting here.”
The maintenance man said it with utter politeness, as well as a smile, and Fergus was proud of how he rose above the irritation, quietly finding another location. He got a bit further through his session this time before a drilling started up behind him. He sought to put it out of his mind, even seeking to see it as a wonderful opportunity to practise detachment… but who was he kidding? The drilling stopped. Would it restart… ? Perhaps not? Then, just as his hopes were raised, the noise began again, stopping and starting every few minutes thereafter, the gaps often filled with two voices shouting loudly at each other in Mandarin. Fergus opened his eyes, feeling more uptight than he had felt before he had even begun.
Both he and Sylvie had previously found the amount of maintenance going on throughout the ship, especially outside, to be quite irritating. With their heads they understood it was necessary: the ship was kept in excellent condition, but one cruise began the same day the previous cruise ended, so most maintenance and repairs had to be done when passengers were on board. This logic did not, though, prevent it from becoming frustrating, especially because it always seemed to be taking place wherever they were… even once, when Fergus had been meditating outside at six thirty in the morning, his peacefulness had been interrupted by the ever approaching noise of water being used to hose down the deck, until he felt the inevitable tap on his shoulder and the courteous request to move on.
Finally giving up on the drilling and the loud Chinese chatter, Fergus got up and, seeking to maintain a calm which he wasn’t really feeling, he once again found another corner: third time lucky perhaps?
“Ladies and gentlemen, the crew will shortly be embarking on an emergency exercise. This is purely a drill and we apologise for any inconvenience.”
The tannoy jolted Fergus out of the trance into which he had just settled… he tried to relax again, but a series of announcements followed, each preceded by a loud fanfare:
“Code Gamma – Fire in the Engine Room… Fire crews to muster deck 2 aft!”
“Crew to emergency stations… seal all Fire Doors!”
“Close all water tight doors, close all water tight doors!”
“Lifeboat crews to lifeboat stations, lifeboat crews to lifeboat stations!”
“Code Yankee, Code Yankee, launch lifeboats, launch lifeboats!”
By now Fergus had given up on mindfulness for the day and, instead of battling on with his meditation, he wandered across to the side of the ship. Once there, he found his frustration was quickly diluted by fascination, as he watched the starboard side lifeboats being lowered into the harbour. He had to admit, although the timing of the drill had been annoying, the professionalism with which it was carried out was impressive, and he felt reassured should disaster strike the ship between here and Southampton, though he remained not at all certain how some of the more fragile passengers would fare. He hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.
About forty minutes after the drill had begun, there was a final fanfare:
“The Exercise is over, the exercise is over. Re-open Fire and Watertight doors. Crew Code Zulu. Officers to the bridge for debrief. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. This concludes today’s test.”
Lifeboats were re-raised and peace quickly restored to the ship, although Sylvie found herself briefly trapped on the stairs, trying to come up, as hordes of staff swarmed down, back to their duties from their muster points. Amongst them, she spotted Rachel who smiled and shrugged her shoulders as she passed, as if to say “sorry, but what can I do?” Sylvie, pressed against the wall, smiled back, pleased to see their cabin maid was in the company of a barman and two waitresses, all of whom were laughing happily together: it felt good to know Rachel had friends on board.
In truth, for Fergus and Sylvie, the calm they had built up from so much time at sea had been eroded by these days in the Canaries and, for him, there was a steadily increasing sense of tension. This wasn’t helped at all in the evenings, as they sa
t through three more dinners with the arachnid lady loudly talking inanities just two tables away, screeching with laughter, waving her arms about and flirting with her waiter:
“How’s your love life Frederico?”
Poor Richard and Cressida, next to her, got enmeshed in this drama every night and one sensed that their diplomatic skills, honed in the most desperate corners of the world, might fail them at any moment. While Fergus and Sylvie witnessed this from a slightly safer distance, it still left them feeling that evening meals were rather like endurance tests, and ones which both feared, beneath their English repression, they were failing. And didn’t the woman look more arachnid-like every day, with her spindly limbs, the lower ones sometimes wrapped around the table legs, holding them in a vice-like grip, while her upper ones shovelled food relentlessly into her mouth. In Fergus’ eyes, it was as if she were slowly but remorselessly turning into a monster.
For Sylvie, the food was also beginning to grate. She didn’t eat meat, but the vegetarian main courses were proving to be the poor relation on an otherwise excellent menu and she was growing tired of feeling a second class diner. As at so many restaurants ashore, she only ever had one vegetarian choice, which in her view was no real choice at all. On one night, pepper and courgette soufflé with a creamy sauce and fresh minted peas had appeared on the menu and her hopes had been raised that she would finally fare better. Alas, too many others before her had been tempted by it, away from their normal roasts, and the restaurant had run out by the time she sought to place her order:
“We can do an omelette madam…” Angelo said, without any obvious shame.
Seeing the usually carnivorous arachnid lady getting stuck into the last of the soufflés did nothing for the way Sylvie felt about her and, for once, it was Fergus who tried to take the placating tone:
Times and Places Page 17
