Times and Places

by Keith Anthony

  He began walking down the corridor and got about half way along it when he again heard padding footsteps, many of them. People were coming. It was unnerving at this time of the morning and Fergus had an urge to hide, but there was nowhere to do so. From the next landing, the same group of hooded, orange robed monks as before appeared and, without seeing Fergus, they turned left into the corridor ahead of him, making their way silently towards the stern. He froze. After what felt an eternity, the first monk reached the same door they had used the previous night and one by one they again entered through it, the last one turning slightly, as he closed it behind him, to the extent that Fergus wondered whether he had been seen. For a moment, all was quiet and then suddenly the door re-opened and the last monk looked straight back out at him, his eyes glistening in the darkness of his hood. They stared at each other for a few seconds before the monk disappeared again, sealing the door behind him with a decisive thud.

  The corridor suddenly felt extraordinarily creepy and Fergus’ instinct was to rush back to the cabin. He resisted it though and, instead, quickly walked to the next landing and then up the stairs until he could get out on deck. His nerves had already been shredded from the twin experiences of dinner and the show, the monks now left him feeling as if he were on a descent into madness. As he exited, the fresh air hit him, surprising him with its coldness after nearly three weeks in the warm. He slowly re-gathered his senses and noticed a dark figure just a few yards further up the deck, leaning over the side, throwing up her extravagant dinner into the Atlantic: ugh, the arachnid lady! She disgusted him as she stood there, her limbs sprawled and flailing over the rails, retching out into the night, occasional splatters of vomit catching on the wind and dispersing towards her revolted observer cowering in the shadows by the door.

  She had not seen him, and Fergus wanted to retreat inside before she did… but something deep within him felt an old familiar draw, the same one he had felt all those years ago at the train station pulling him towards the tracks, the same one he had felt just the other night calling him to throw himself off the ship – except this time the call was for nothing so self-inflicted, rather for something more malign. He took a step towards her and stopped. Then another. Then again. Then two, three, four paces more as the malevolent game of grandmother’s footsteps neared its climax. She gave another enormous retch, standing on full tiptoe like a grotesque ballerina, leaning out even further as yet more of her meal poured out into the sea below. A large swell rolled the boat more extremely in the same direction and Fergus was standing right behind her…

  Some five hours later and, for a second day running, he woke after his wife, who leaned down to kiss him before making her way to the bathroom. Fergus lay there, trying to piece together what from the previous few hours had been real and what just a sinister dream. They slipped into their well rehearsed routine of breakfast, returning back to the cabin for their things and then heading out on deck with their e-readers. The weather was still fine, but the wind gusted with that cold bite now, as if to remind them where they were headed, and, for the first time in a fortnight, they dressed more warmly in jumpers and coats. At noon, the Captain gave his usual update, but Fergus and Sylvie kept reading, he breaking off at one stage for his twenty minute meditation. Later, they went inside for lunch and, with the cooler weather, soup this time rather than salad – another sure sign that, although they were still on holiday, they could no longer claim it to be a summer one.

  Fergus did briefly think of having a swim, but the effort of changing and then changing back, remembered from the previous day, got the better of him, especially given the deteriorating conditions. Instead, he and Sylvie completed ten laps walking around the deck (two and a half miles in total), before retreating back to their favourite sheltered haunt at the stern, where they read and dozed the afternoon away. Their relaxation was punctuated by two approaches to sell them coffee, the first by one of the wolf-like barmen, already carrying a tray with a number of pre-made, rapidly cooling lattés:

  “You need a hot drink, yes?”

  “No, we are OK, thank you.”

  “But your husband, he looks cold madam… it’s very warming.”

  “He’s fine, thank you.”

  “Twenty percent off madam, shall I leave them here for you?”

  “I told you, we don’t want coffee… but thank you,” Sylvie said, controlling herself. The waiter grudgingly slouched off, balancing his tray as he climbed the stairs to the next deck where, a few moments later, they could hear him trying the same tactics with someone else.

  “They don’t give up easily do they?” Fergus said from behind eyes that had been kept deliberately closed during the exchange.

  “At least he wasn’t pointing a camera in our faces too!” Sylvie replied.

  About half an hour later the approach was gentler and more genuine. The waitress, who at the start of the cruise had told them she was homesick, came up to them asking whether they would like any drinks, to which Fergus answered.

  “Lattés would go down a treat! Thank you.”

  “How are you? I’ve been thinking of you, I hope you are not missing home too much?” Sylvie enquired.

  “Oh madam, it is your holiday. I am OK, you mustn’t worry about me. It’s my job to worry about you!”

  “You look after us very well, I am sure your family are extremely proud.” This may have sounded a little patronising to some, but Fergus had meant it genuinely and it didn’t occur to her to take offence.

  “I hope so sir, it’s true I do miss them and my country. But I save money, so one day I go back.”

  “We wish you only good things, you deserve them. And my husband is right, you do an excellent job, and you are so elegant too.”

  “Thank you madam… I do my best.” She smiled and slipped off to get the coffees, bringing them five minutes later and placing them with precision on their table, along with two small biscuits and the chit for them to sign.

  “Thank you,” said Sylvie, “to tell you the truth, not all your colleagues are as professional as you.” She looked across at one of the wolves.

  “Oh, I’m sorry… some are a little over enthusiastic maybe…” the waitress replied, before whispering conspiratorially, “and I’m sad to say not all passengers are as nice as you!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry too… perhaps we deserve each other!”

  “Yes, I think so!” She reclaimed the chit from Fergus and withdrew back down the stairs, leaving them to contemplate her dignity: transcending her role through grace and good humour, despite working far from home. They hoped that they too may have made a positive impression on her, but suspected she saw so many passengers that it was hard for any to leave a lasting impact. And she had been right, of course, it wasn’t their job to worry about her, nor did she want them to, nor did it serve any purpose, but somehow they still did.

  They stayed out reading on deck until late afternoon when, distractedly running her finger beneath the table edge, Sylvie caught it on something sharp, crying out at the unexpected pain.

  “Are you OK?” Fergus enquired, coming up from his e-reader.

  “Yes, but I’ve just cut myself…” She studied the wound a moment, dabbing at the blood with a tissue. “I think I should wash it. I have plasters in the cabin.” And so they gathered up their things and headed back.

  “You’ll bleed to death if we bump into Mrs Huffington now!” Fergus joked from several steps ahead and then, as he turned the corner into their corridor, there she was again, walking slowly towards him.

  “Oh, Mrs Huffington!” he called out, primarily as a warning to Sylvie who stopped dead, unsure whether her husband was serious or teasing until, still behind the corner, she heard the elderly woman’s reply:

  “The Captain’s been up to his old tricks you know, banging on the wall of his cabin. He can’t stand noise you see. He’s a very bad tempered man, and universa
lly disliked by the crew.”

  “Gosh, Mrs Huffington, where do you learn all this?” replied Fergus, trying to imagine the Captain stomping around his cabin in a frightful mood, while perhaps the crew conspired together in the bowels of the ship, with mutiny afoot. But she just looked knowingly at him.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if he leaves the ship in Southampton and goes back to Romania… he’s not popular at all, and apparently the ship’s running low on whisky, that’s all I’ll say.”

  Fergus found this scenario most unlikely, the Captain sounded rather dull when making his daily announcements, but, on the few occasions he had actually glimpsed him, he had appeared genial enough, and Fergus remained in awe of his efforts at the welcome party, back at the start of the cruise. What’s more, hadn’t she previously told him the ship’s doctor was Romanian, surely they couldn’t both be? Nevertheless, he didn’t like to argue with an elderly woman and, thinking of the waitress, all he managed was:

  “Well, perhaps he’s a little homesick for Romania…”

  Mrs Huffington looked at him as if she were the one wondering whether he were crazy.

  “Terrible country!” she replied, shaking her head.

  “No, Mrs Huffington, I think you are being a little harsh. It’s beautiful, with its mountains and woodland.” Fergus was himself only drawing his knowledge from old black and white horror films he had seen in decades past, in which stage coaches broke down in the fog, stranding well-to-do passengers in the middle of deep, dark Romanian forests, only for one of them to point to a distant light, calling out in premature relief:

  “A castle, we’re saved!”

  That, and photos of a friend’s hiking holiday in Transylvania itself, on which she and her fellow walkers had been sheltered from a downpour by shepherds, who had apparently supplied them with some kind of local porridge to warm them and restore their energy levels for the journey ahead, while their ferocious sheep dogs growled menacingly outside in the rain. To Fergus, Romania had always felt a country of deep mystery and romance, but he had never been there and these were his only limited sources of information.

  Mrs Huffington gave him another stare:

  “I can only say it as I see it.” Fearing he had upset her, he backtracked a little:

  “Well, I must say you do sound a very experienced traveller.”

  “I am, Fergus, I am,” and she gave him another knowing nod and set off again down the corridor, “have a good evening Fergus, I enjoy our little chats.”

  “Thank you Mrs Huffington,” Fergus called after her, “so do I, and thanks again for my present too.”

  Once more she raised her hand in the air in acknowledgement as she trundled away, without turning round, and Fergus had a feeling that he had been dismissed. This didn’t prevent a familiar wave of guilt from hitting him: here was a lonely and elderly woman, travelling on her own and, while he sought to avoid her, she had given him a gift and shared her wisdom with him. Meeting him appeared to be a minor highlight in her day, and these encounters suddenly felt like a privilege which he hadn’t initially appreciated, even if her opinions were sometimes a little unexpected.

  “You’re a saint!” said Sylvie proudly, emerging from around the corner. “I had time to go and rinse my finger under a tap upstairs and then when I came back you were still talking!” Fergus felt a little proud of himself too, but he replied modestly:

  “Actually, I like her.”

  After the disaster of the previous night, who knows why Fergus didn’t suggest eating in the café that evening, but instead, they again made their way up to their usual restaurant. When they arrived it felt serene, quite sophisticated even, but the arachnid lady and her silent husband had yet to appear. They savoured the peace while it lasted, as did their neighbours on both sides. It was somewhere through the second course, with the serenity still intact and the table just beyond their neighbours still awaiting its occupants, that a horrible feeling began to spread through Fergus, as dream-like memories from the previous night returned to him. He began to sweat. Had he seen the arachnid lady on the ship during the course of the day? He usually did at some stage, but he couldn’t recall having done so today.

  “It’s lovely here tonight, isn’t it?” Sylvie said with a smile.

  “Er, yes, yes, it is…” he replied distractedly, but Sylvie could tell something was amiss. She probed gently:

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes, yes, I don’t know, just a little tired I suppose… maybe I am feeling ready for home.” It was another half truth. Fergus had enjoyed the cruise and could happily have stayed on board longer, but he also wasn’t sorry to know that in less than forty-eight hours’ time they would be safely home again. The untruthful half of what he had said to Sylvie was of course what he had not told her, the terrible dawning realisation that he may have pushed someone over board in the small hours of that morning. Sylvie knew better than to enquire further and, whilst disappointed that her husband did not appear to be enjoying this long overdue peaceful dinner, she was comfortable enough in his company to relax in it without the need for his conversation.

  Afterwards, they walked on deck, Sylvie looking up at the heavens and the stars, Fergus tormenting himself with what he feared he may have done.

  “It’s the farewell show tonight, shall we go?”

  “Yes, yes, let’s,” Fergus answered, without really thinking about it.

  Thirty minutes later and they were in the Poseidon Theatre and, as the Cruise Director told them what a wonderful performance they were in for that night, both Fergus and Sylvie realised they had made a ghastly mistake, but, alas, by then they were committed.

  “So a big welcome to the stage, ladies and gentlemen, to our wonderful comedian, Mr Wilson Wilberforce!” The audience clapped as a balding late middle aged man skipped out on stage.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!”

  “Good evening!” came back a self-conscious audience response.

  “I said, good evening ladies and gentlemen!”

  “Good evening!” the audience shouted out more loudly, with Fergus and Sylvie already sliding back in their seats.

  “That’s better! I’m used to people falling asleep in my act, but it’s only polite to be awake at the start!” The audience roared with laughter. Sadly for Fergus and Sylvie, the comedian’s first joke was his best, and the last that raised a genuine smile. Thereafter they sat – feeling increasingly awkward – while he recounted a series of lame and crude anecdotes, both of them forcing enough laughs to seek to demonstrate they weren’t the prudes they were feeling, all the time wondering just how long the torture could go on.

  “Wasn’t he wonderful!?” The Cruise Director enthused as finally the agony was over and he left the stage. “But we have plenty more in store for you, ladies and gentlemen, yes we do! Now, most of us have seen his amazing shows during the cruise, here is one last chance to see ‘Mystical Michael’, our very own on board magician!”

  Mystical Michael swept through the curtains, feigned a trip and immediately entered a tedious monologue which eventually ended in the worst possible way:

  “So, I am looking for a volunteer!”

  “Oh no!” groaned Fergus.

  “A volunteer required to help me dice with death this evening, before your very eyes.”

  “Oh no!” The spotlight began to whirl around the audience.

  “Someone with nerves of steel and the courage of a lion!”

  Fergus felt disqualified on both counts and, just as the spotlight passed over him, he ran his hand anxiously through his hair.

  “I saw a hand! We have our volunteer, ladies and gentlemen, let’s give him a round of applause!” An eruption of clapping rose from the audience as the spotlight lingered unrelentingly on Fergus. Sylvie gave the offending hand a sympathetic squeeze, as he got up and made his way half-heartedly to
the magician. His horror at what was happening to him was dominant, but, looking down from the stage, there was also in the back of his mind a curiosity that he was now seeing the theatre as seen by the singers and dancers. Sure enough, beyond the front row, faces were unrecognisable in the glare of the lights, but he consoled himself that Sylvie was out there somewhere.

  “And what’s your name sir?”

  “Fergus.”

  “And where are you from Fergus?”

  “Buckinghamshire.”

  “Ooooh, laaa de daaa!” Roars of laughter. “And are you married Fergus?”

  “Yes, my wife is in the audience.”

  “Lovely. And do you have any children Fergus?” The question, so public with Fergus on stage and in the spotlight, was cruel… but not intentionally so. The comedian waited for the answer.

  “Have you forgotten Fergus? Or perhaps you don’t know!” More roars of laughter. “Come on, you can remember if you try, do you have any children?” The magician stood ready with the perfect quip for any answer but the one that finally came:

  “I used to have a daughter.”

  The theatre fell silent and Fergus could see the panic in the magician’s eyes as his response sank in.

  “And where do you live Fergus?” he eventually asked.

  “Buckinghamshire.”

  “Oh yes, we did that one. OK, so this is what we are going to do…” and the magician launched into a detailed explanation of his interminable trick. The first step was for Fergus to sign a small white cannon ball which was then loaded into a gun on one side of the stage, while, on the other, the magician made a great show of standing in exactly the right spot. Finally, opening his mouth as wide as he could, he signalled with thumbs up that everything was ready and the audience counted down: