Times and Places

by Keith Anthony

  For Jones, this success had not come without cost, having indebted himself to levels which, if bordering on the excessive, at least demonstrated his commitment. This had all been rewarded when, just twelve months ago, he had obtained his Commercial Pilot’s Licence and, soon afterwards, a junior First Officer position. It had been in early 2012, during this flight training, that he had met Samantha, his girlfriend, who was now similarly qualified, though flying with a different airline. It seemed that both their professional dreams had come true and Jones now had no further career ambitions, happy to be a First Officer flying short and medium hauls across Europe.

  At the end of the runway, Jones completed the final checks with his Captain and then spooled up the engines so that the plane pulled hard against its brakes, until finally they were released and the throttles pushed to takeoff power. Fergus and Sylvie were pressed back into their seats as the jet accelerated and took off into the Slovenian sky. The freezing fog, which had lain thick on the ground, was not particularly deep and, as the plane climbed and turned, they soon emerged through it into bright sunshine and clear air. It seemed, through the window, as though they were rising over a mystical sea, the hilltops like islands poking through the dense mists, captivating Fergus and Sylvie with wonder, while Slovenia sank ever further below.

  Just two hours later, juddering through some light turbulence, the plane wheeled high above the Essex countryside and began its final approach towards Stansted. “50, 40…” the autopilot counted down the last feet to the ground, “30, 20…” Jones moved the throttles back to idle and, a couple of seconds later, they landed. There was a brief roar as he used reverse thrust to help slow them down, then stillness as the plane turned off the runway and taxied to the Terminal. Jones reached up to switch off the seat-belt sign and, moments later, Fergus heard another favourite sound, that of a hundred buckles undoing at the same time, signalling the safe end to another flight.

  They were at the rear of the plane anyway, but he and Sylvie purposefully made sure they were the last to walk down the aisle and, on reaching the front, they asked a stewardess if it would be possible for them to speak to the First Officer. She disappeared into the flight deck, briefly revealing a dazzling array of cockpit lights. Fergus and Sylvie waited nervously until a few moments later he emerged.

  “Jones! You made it! You’re a pilot!”

  “Yes I am… oh my gosh, Sylvie!” he stumbled in astonishment, his mind grappling for a few seconds, both with this wholly unexpected reunion and with the sudden coming together of his personal and professional worlds. Regaining some of his composure, he gave her a hug.

  “And Fergus!” he turned to Justine’s father and another embrace followed.

  “It’s great to see you both, I had no idea you were on board…” he hesitated, not quite sure what to say. Having had a couple of hours to prepare for this moment, Sylvie jumped in:

  “Well, we heard your announcement, but we thought we shouldn’t say anything until after we had arrived. It’s great to see you as well, it’s been too long…” She hadn’t intended it harshly but Jones looked awkward.

  “I know, I know… I’m sorry, it’s just that…”

  “I didn’t mean it as a criticism Jones, it’s just such a nice surprise.”

  The truth was that for two years after Justine’s death he had struggled to get on with his own life, all his thoughts had been fixed on her. After a while, he had concluded that the close touch he kept with her parents wasn’t helping and so he had cut back contact dramatically, until he was only sending them cards at special occasions.

  “No, I should have stayed in touch… I was just finding it so difficult…” he faltered and, realising he was struggling, Fergus intervened:

  “We know. We are just pleased to see you again. Come on, you’d better compose yourself, you’ll be making your next set of passengers nervous!”

  Jones gave a short laugh. “Yes, I really should be getting ready, we are off again in thirty minutes. Amsterdam.”

  “It’s all glamour!” Fergus joked.

  “Ljubljana is my favourite route though… I always remember…” again his powers of speech waivered as the memories rushed back.

  “We know you do Jones,” this time it was Sylvie who provided the reassurance, “come and see us sometime won’t you?”

  “I will, I will, I promise. I’d like that.”

  “Well, we’ll leave you to get on with… whatever it is you do next,” Fergus said, shrugging his shoulders in ignorance as to what that might be, “but we will see you again soon, yes?”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  They turned and left the plane, disappearing gingerly down its steps.

  Meanwhile, the Captain was busying himself with paperwork in the flight deck, enabling Jones to slip back into his seat, grateful for a few moments to reflect on the encounter. Through the windscreen, he studied Fergus and Sylvie traipsing slowly across the tarmac and it struck him how vulnerable and alone they appeared. For a moment, he felt unbearably sad but then, just before reaching the terminal, Fergus turned round and waved towards the plane. Without thinking, Jones raised his hand in response. Neither could have known whether the other saw, nevertheless Jones was cheered by the exchange, though it felt very private, and so he was pleased too that, head still deep in his documents, the Captain had not noticed.

  25

  North East Atlantic – Wednesday 7th December 2016

  Fergus woke at a quarter to three in the morning and, while Sylvie slept soundly the other side of the cabin, he grew ever more restless and ever wider awake, fretting about his lost cap, the Caballeros and his humiliation by the arachnid lady. After half an hour, and with sleep still eluding him, he opted to get up and go for a walk rather than lie there restlessly any longer, hoping by the time he returned to bed he would have broken the grip of this insomnia.

  He put some trousers over his pyjama bottoms and a jumper over his top. He slipped on some socks and shoes and crept out into the corridor, which stretched a short distance forward and seemingly endlessly aft towards the stern. He walked to the stairs and climbed two floors to the main reception area. The only soul in sight was a woman, some distance off, lurching drunkenly from side to side, as she stumbled away from him through the deserted ship. Fergus watched her a moment before quickly climbing another level, for fear she would turn around and spot him. From here he was able to get outside, walking a lap of the deck, now completely alone. Despite the hour and Fergus’ lack of a coat, it was not cold and he found the combination of sea air and solitude a heady mix, it felt almost magical to be out here by himself while the Magdalena slept.

  He put his hands on the rail and looked out into the darkness of the night-time Atlantic and at the swirling waters below. A familiar feeling stole up on him: with just a few seconds of madness, of loss of control, he realised he could easily climb over the rail and throw himself overboard. Nobody would witness it, he would certainly die, never to be found, leaving everyone wondering what on earth had happened. He’d had similar feelings ever since, as a very young child at the local train station, he had felt a tangible force pulling him towards the platform edge and on to the tracks. He had needed to hold tightly onto his mother to resist it. Now, nearly six decades later, his mother was not there to grasp and the magic he had felt just a few minutes earlier had suddenly changed into an unanticipated feeling of fear.

  Not trusting himself, Fergus went back inside and walked around the empty lounges and bars, places which during the days and evenings were crowded with a captive clientele, but which now were empty, save for the ghosts of the passengers who had cruised on the ship in years gone by… it seemed to him that they melted away as he turned a corner, resuming their hauntings only once he had disappeared around the next, the eerie night-time creaks and groans, unheard during the day, the only clues to their vaporous presence.

  Eventually, he
climbed down the stairs back to deck four and reached his cabin. For some reason, before opening the door, he looked back down the endless corridor towards the stern. In the distance he thought he could see shapes moving… he decided to take a closer look, but perhaps had only got a tenth of the way there when he stopped dead: he was almost certain it was a group of monks in hoods and orange robes padding aftward, away from him. Instinctively, Fergus put his back to the wall, making himself less visible, lest one should turn around and spot him. He watched as they walked ever further down the corridor before, finally, turning left through an inner door and disappearing into the bowels of the ship.

  Fergus waited a few minutes and then nervously crept all the way to the mysterious door, which was shut tight and bore a sign reading ‘Strictly No Admittance’. Fergus shivered and hurriedly made his way back up the corridor, occasionally looking behind anxiously, but there was nobody in sight. A sense of relief swept over him as he closed the cabin door behind him. Sylvie was still sound asleep and oblivious to his nocturnal wanderings. He got back into bed, but the whole point of the exercise had been lost and he was wide awake again, with his mind racing: who had the hooded and orange robed monks been? And why had they been wandering the ship in the depths of the night? Fergus sat up in bed as his mind conjured up ever more sinister explanations… Finally, after half an hour or so, he realised that he had briefly dropped off to sleep and, taking this as a good sign, he lay back down hoping that before long the rest, which had been so elusive for much of the night, would finally come. In the dark, with the hum of the engines and the gentle rocking of the ship, sleep did indeed sneak up on him, much like a gently flowing tide flooding unnoticed over his anxious thoughts, bringing him peace, at least until the morning.

  For once, Sylvie was awake and up before her husband.

  “Hello sleepy head!” she said, ruffling his hair. It took Fergus a few moments to come to and, during these, the memories of his strange night-time encounter came back to him. He considered telling Sylvie but held back. Instead, he lay in bed, preoccupied with his recollections, for another ten minutes or so, while Sylvie washed. He then did the same. Once they were both dressed, they headed to breakfast and the previous night quickly receded in his thoughts as they slipped into their familiar sea day routine.

  The Captain gave his usual monologue. It felt as though he should be saying words of wisdom, or at least warmth, and every noon time they hoped he just might, but he always disappointed them.

  “… and finally a few hygiene advices, please wash yourrr hands frrre-Quent-ly for 20 seconds using hot soapy water, as well as using the hand sanitisers you see about the ship and at the entrrrance to the rrrrestaurants. Have a very pleasant afterrrnoon.”

  Suspecting that fine weather might now be at a premium, they ate a final time on deck ten, outside the restaurant, again surveying the Atlantic around them. Fergus pondered a final swim, eyeing the pool far below, adjacent to which, in the spa bath, the three Caballeros laughed and joked between sips of their lurid coloured cocktails. Fergus stared with venom as they lounged cockily amongst the bubbles, shouting raucous words that could be heard but not quite understood at this distance. By the time he actually got to the pool an hour later, they were still in place, but their cocktails must have taken effect because they lolled their heads against the sides of the bath, one of them occasionally raising just enough energy to press the button to restart the bubbles. Fergus looked up at the sun and half hoped it remained strong enough for them to wake up burnt, but he caught himself in these feelings and settled for being grateful that they were at least now quiet. One last time, he lowered himself into the empty swimming pool, turned onto his back and floated effortlessly as he watched the clouds drifting by high above.

  Suddenly, he felt a gentle splash on his face and he immediately lifted his head and started treading water. Getting his bearings, he noticed his dancer crouching by the poolside and smiling at him:

  “Couldn’t resist, sorry!” Seeing her there only added to Fergus’ surprise and, for a moment, he coughed and spluttered so much that she wondered whether her tease had been misjudged.

  “I’d pull you in if I could reach!” he joked, immediately regretting his words as he remembered her experience at the hand of the Caballero.

  “I’m keeping my distance!” she laughed back. “Anyway, I’m impressed, you are still up to your old mermaid tricks even after nearly three weeks.”

  Looking up at her, he was angled so he could finally see her name badge: it read ‘Holly Parkin’.

  “I think this might be the final time, I doubt we’ll have this weather tomorrow.”

  “Nevertheless, on this ship you are quite the athlete: I think you were first in the pool at the start of the cruise and it seems that you are going to be the last out,” she surveyed the sleeping pensioners all around, none looking likely swimmers. Fergus felt a certain pride that this little achievement had been noticed, he had never received a compliment for his sportiness before, and certainly not from a young woman.

  “By the way,” she continued, “I watched the video… of your daughter… she was great, really. Nicole thought so too.”

  “You did? You thought so? She did too?”

  “Yes, yes and yes,” Holly replied cheerfully, once again twisting a lock of hair around her finger. “She was pretty as well, you should be very proud.”

  “I am, extremely.”

  “Will you come and see our last show tonight?”

  “Of course!” he answered, still feeling flattered that she should have been interested enough to look up the video and now, doubly so, that she should care in the least whether or not he came to her show. “But it’s the last one already?”

  “Tomorrow night is the farewell cabaret, we just do one number, and then the final evening is the crew show… so yes, tonight’s our last one. Catch us while you can!” she smiled.

  “I’ll be there.” He watched as she stood up, gave a little wave and walked off. He lay on his back again but, with the adrenaline pumping, he was no longer relaxed and he soon climbed out of the pool. He noticed that the three dozing Caballeros seemed to be glistening in the sun, as if they were gently roasting. A cocktail glass had fallen on its side beside the Jacuzzi and was rolling back and forth in a semi circle to the motion of the ship. Fergus picked it up and placed it on a table.

  “Be careful of the sun, boys,” he warned, but they did not stir. He tried again: nothing. He hesitated, wondering what he should do, but, despite the sunshine, the sea wind whipped across his wet body and he was starting to shiver, so, his conscience half clear, he leapt three levels up the stairs to the changing room on deck ten:

  “Closed for cleaning.”

  Fergus couldn’t believe it. Trembling violently now on the more exposed top deck, he eventually made his way its length to the lifts in the entrance of the Conservatory Bar. The journey down seemed to take an eternity, stopping at every floor and, more often than not, just as the doors began to close, someone would rush up and stick a foot between them, or press the button, and they would re-open. Sometimes the process would then repeat… when, with two floors still to go, an old lady started manoeuvring in on her mobility scooter, Fergus had had enough, but hid it by playing the gentleman:

  “Here, let me allow you more space,” he said as he squeezed out.

  “Thank you, that’s terribly kind… oh, you’re dripping wet!” But Fergus was already rushing down the stairs, desperately hoping he would not bump into Mrs Huffington.

  “Oh my goodneth!” said a startled Gentle Henry, making his way up with Tabitha, as a half naked Fergus charged down in the opposite direction towards him.

  “I can’t stop I’m afraid… I’ll see you both at dinner?”

  “Yeth, yeth, of courssse… the Lord doesss indeed work in mysterwious wayths…”

  Finally, back in the cabin, Fergus climbed out of
his trunks and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over him, rubbing his face as shampoo washed down from his hair. Swimming on the Magdalena was idyllic, floating effortlessly beneath a warm sun, rising and falling as the water sloshed around him, but (as so often in life) there was a price to pay afterwards and he couldn’t help but feel relieved that this had been the last time.

  An hour later, he was back on deck with Sylvie and their e-readers, lattés on order. As she started reading, Fergus was horrified to hear himself start singing one of the songs from the cabaret, he stopped himself, but too late.

  “So you bumped into your singer or dancer again?” Curses! How was she so perceptive?

  “The dancer yes, her name is Holly… You miss nothing!”

  “You don’t make it hard for me… most men keep their fancies quiet, you sing whenever you see yours!”

  “She’s not my fancy…”

  “I know, I know,” said Sylvie, fearing from his tone that she had pushed the tease a bit far and wary that her husband’s mild obsession may be more fatherly than anything else, the ghost of another dancer never far from his thoughts… or hers for that matter. She held his hand reassuringly.

  Only one coffee arrived.

  “Oh, I’m sorry madam, I thought sir did not want one… I will get one straight away.”

  “No, no, it’s OK,” Fergus replied, “I’ll just take a sip or two from my wife’s.” The waiter made certain they were sure and then disappeared. Sylvie stood up and took the coffee to the rail, where a few seconds later Fergus joined her. She offered the glass out to him and they held it between them, each releasing it occasionally to enable the other to take a sip. Had Justine’s ghost been there, the scene of her parents tenderly sharing the one coffee in this way may have reminded her of something she had once witnessed from a railway carriage window. But that was a long time ago.