Times and Places

by Keith Anthony

  “Perhaps it was me not her, perhaps I was the monster all the time?” He whispered reflectively as everyone settled down to their meals. Sylvie reached out her right hand and, placing it on his left, replied:

  “Sometimes there are unseen monsters, but sometimes we see them where there are none… she’s not one Fergus, and neither are you – my extraordinary husband – you are all too human: wonderfully, infuriatingly, eccentrically, uniquely human… just like the rest of us.”

  An uncharacteristic quiet befell the restaurant, just the clatter of cutlery on plates and, at the side of the room, the noise of a drawer opening and closing by itself to the rhythm of the rolling ship, until, after a few moments, a waiter latched it shut. Though it was the same restaurant where Fergus had worked himself up into such a state on previous nights, it felt very different now and perhaps this, their last dinner, was the one they most enjoyed: relaxing in each other’s company, over good food and a final bottle of deep red Merlot. As the ship rocked them soothingly side to side, they felt at peace, both content to know that the next day they would see their home again.

  At the end of the meal they had their photo taken with Angelo who hugged Sylvie fondly and shook Fergus’ hand with a beaming smile.

  “I hope you enjoyed your holiday?”

  “Very much, thank you for taking care of us so well,” Sylvie replied.

  “Yes, thank you Angelo, you did a great job… we hope you enjoy your well-earned holiday when it comes too,” Fergus added.

  “Only 266 breakfasts, 266 lunches and 266 dinners to go!” He called after them as they left.

  They headed up to the Conservatory Bar for a final Pimm’s, while quietly pondering Angelo’s simple, optimistic outlook on life.

  “Are you too traumatised for the crew show tonight?” Sylvie asked.

  “I’ve recovered,” Fergus replied, “but let’s not sit at the front, just to play safe.”

  And so, for one last time, they found themselves in the Poseidon Theatre as the lights went down and the show began, this time with the ship’s crew the stars. It was a lively performance, done with humour and good spirit. Fergus and Sylvie felt especially touched by several acts which featured staff demonstrating traditional dances from their various distant corners of the world, including their homesick waitress who danced gracefully with five colleagues, transporting them briefly to the palm beaches of the Philippines.

  “And now ladies and gentlemen… when they find time to practise I really can’t imagine, but be prepared to be dazzled and amazed by the skill and athleticism of our engine room team, as we introduce… ‘The Shaolin Monks of the Magdalena’!”

  From each side of the stage burst five orange robed monks, brandishing swords which they immediately began spinning above their heads, the polished metal glistening in the stage lights, while drums beat out from deep within the orchestra. Then four of the monks dropped their weapons and proceeded to feign kung-fu fighting as, with ferocious leaps and cries, they exchanged dramatic but ultimately harmless blows. Suddenly, the remaining six took over, somersaulting and vaulting across the stage, chopping planks of wood with their bare hands and, in two cases, with their heads. The beat intensified and now all ten, facing the audience in one long line, started throwing extravagant kicks and punches until finally, with an enormous crash of drums, they all leapt high into the air and shrieked wildly, landing in a crouched position as a gong sounded.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, ‘The Shaolin Monks of the Magdalena’!” The audience roared with delight while, for a few moments, visibly catching their breath, the monks stared out intensely from the stage, before finally standing up and breaking into the broadest of smiles.

  “What did I tell you?” Sylvie said to her husband as they applauded.

  “You told me there would be an explanation… and you were right. Sylvie, you are always right.”

  “Usually, yes,” she grinned.

  All the performers returned to the stage to sing one last medley together, culminating in the whole theatre joining in an arm-waving rendition of a nostalgic old song. Perhaps, on any other evening, Fergus and Sylvie might have found this embarrassing, but somehow tonight they were carefree and their hands were soon high in the air, swaying side to side in time with the music, along with the forest of arms around them and, as the song reached its climax, Fergus felt a surge of elation. It wouldn’t last of course, he realised that, but he did wonder whether something might finally have lifted more permanently – not entirely, but at least in some measure – something that had weighed him down ever since Thames Valley Police had unexpectedly visited them, just over a decade earlier.

  It had been threatening to rain on that Midsummer’s Day all those years ago, and they had both been indoors at the back of the house, so neither had heard the car approaching. Sylvie had just returned from shopping and was busy unpacking in the kitchen: vegetable lasagne was a family favourite but it involved such a lot of preparation, and so many ingredients – she felt sure she had forgotten something. It had been Fergus, therefore, who had put down his work and gone to answer the knock at the door.

  “Mr Fredricks?”

  Seeing the police officers there, Fergus had briefly wondered what he might have done wrong, but a far worse possibility quickly came to mind.

  “May we come in?”

  Given everything else that happened that terrible day, it is strange how he remembered the detail but, as he stepped aside to let them through, he distinctly recalled noticing the first heavy drops splashing on the ground, as if a prelude to the storm which followed.

  It sometimes felt to him as though it had been raining ever since and, in truth, he had never much wanted it to stop. Now however, in the Poseidon Theatre, waving his arms to a nostalgic old song, Fergus, for the first time, was no longer sure that it always needed to rain quite so hard.

  30

  Norfolk – Late September 2015

  Jones stood with his best man, Ben, at the front of the little church in Samantha’s home Norfolk village, nervously waiting for her to arrive. It had felt a long road to get there, not physically, but through life… and there had been casualties along the way. He had always thought that he would have doubts about marriage and its lifelong commitment, but, now that the moment had come, he had none and he didn’t think his fiancée did either, though that didn’t stop him praying hard that she would turn up.

  After he had met Justine’s parents on his plane nearly two years earlier, he had kept his promise, visiting them in March the following year. It had felt strange to drive through the local lanes again, to turn between the hedges into the driveway and to see the familiar house ahead of him, looking just as it always had, staring back at him as if to say “where have you been?” to a returning prodigal son. He had stopped for a moment, gazing up to the woodland on the right where, the first time he had visited, Justine had made him wait patiently to see the badgers. He looked back at the house, half expecting to see the sentinel fox lingering there, washing himself nonchalantly, just as much at home as any of the Fredricks family themselves. But it wasn’t. For an instant Jones had again felt overwhelmingly sad, but he quickly rallied and continued slowly down the drive, his tyres crunching on the gravel, just as they had all those years before.

  He parked and stretched his legs while, high above, two red kites had danced and circled around each other in the March winds, as if in ecstasy at the turning of the seasons and the prospect of the three warmer ones ahead. The place was as magical as ever and the front door opened welcomingly before he even reached it, Justine’s parents emerging to meet him as he walked up.

  “It’s so good to be back!” he said.

  “It’s good to have you back Jones,” Fergus replied.

  With coats on, the weather had been fine enough to sit outside while they caught up with each other’s news over tea and sandwiches. Unguarded serviettes r
epeatedly made breaks for freedom, requiring one of the three of them to get up and chase them round the lawn, whilst the other two kept half an eye on the skies above, lest their luck ran out and they needed to make a rapid transfer indoors. Against this very English setting, Fergus and Sylvie were fascinated to hear how Jones had gained his wings and all about his life as a pilot, but he also had something else on his mind and he wondered how best to broach it with them.

  “I hope you know how much I loved Freddie…” he said, rather unexpectedly changing the subject. “I didn’t have another girlfriend for years. I mean, I didn’t want one. But, the thing is…” he paused, contemplating how to finish the sentence, but Sylvie did it for him:

  “You’ve found someone now?”

  “Yes,” he said a little sheepishly.

  “Oh Jones, but that’s wonderful!”

  “Really? You mean it Sylvie? I can’t help feeling I am betraying Freddie…”

  “Jones, sometimes it feels to Sylvie and me as if she’s still here, she was so much a part of this place. Of us. But we have had to come to terms with the fact that she has gone… physically at least. Having a ghost for a girlfriend wouldn’t be easy and we wouldn’t ask you to do it, nor would Justine, our daughter was better than that.”

  Fergus’ words were both logical and kind, even if they alone weren’t enough to relieve the guilt Jones was feeling as he sought to let go of someone he had loved. That was a process he had to work through himself, although what he had just heard would help. For a moment, he feared a tear might escape from his eye, but he was determined it wouldn’t and so kept his response succinct:

  “I’ll never forget her.”

  “We know,” Sylvie answered, equally decisively, “but you mustn’t have so big a place for her in your heart that you don’t have room for anyone else; you mustn’t remember her so much that you live with her in the past rather than with…”

  “Samantha.”

  “… with Samantha in the present and hopefully in a long, happy future. You deserve it and Justine would want it. It’s for parents to dwell in the past, not young men.”

  They sat a while without words, the place really was as idyllic as ever it had been, surely Justine would come rushing out of the door at any moment, calling out “Surprise!” and dragging him off, rambling across her adored Chiltern countryside. But the minutes ticked by and she didn’t. Then, as if to break the spell, their luck finally had run out, the clouds darkening the sky, the kites overhead wheeling against increasingly blustery gusts and the first spots of rain falling against their faces, as they packed everything up and rushed back indoors, just in time to avoid the shower which followed.

  Since then, Jones had called in on them every six months or so. They never expected him to visit, but they always enjoyed it when he did, and he was amazed how easily he slipped back into being with them and by how interested they remained in his life. Sometimes, he wondered whether they were seeking a glimpse into an existence of which they might have been a part, had things been different, and he was always happy to share his news. He never took Samantha: he didn’t hide them from her, she knew everything, but taking her may have been a little too painful for them. He had wondered whether they would accept the wedding invitation and their “yes” had meant a great deal. Now, as he waited at the front of the church, it felt good to know that they were there, somewhere in the crowded pews behind.

  The wedding preparations had been smooth, the only hitch having been a minor incident that very morning. The ladies of the flower rota had spent most of the previous day arranging their displays on pedestals, window sills and pew ends, only for Mrs Snellgrove to tweak them on the day of the wedding itself, even removing some of the roses so that there would be space for her to show off her gladioli. The other ladies, on discovering this, had been outraged and it had been down to Samantha’s mother to play the arbitrator, finding a compromise by which some of the roses were returned and some of the gladioli removed, restoring peace just before the first guests had arrived. Her daughter and future son-in-law were to remain forever oblivious of this little local drama that had briefly threatened their big day. Only Samantha fleetingly puzzled, as she stood peeking into the church from the porch, as to why Mrs Snellgrove had such a large bunch of vibrant gladioli on her lap.

  However, she did not have time to ponder this long, as suddenly the organ struck up the first chords of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March”, the congregation stood to their feet and, at the front, Jones and Ben instinctively turned round. Her father at her side, she stepped into the church and proceeded down the aisle, her twin six year old nieces Lucy and Catherine behind her as bridesmaids. Bringing up the rear Jones could just spot Gabriel, Samantha’s five year old nephew, trailing slightly behind the others as he looked all around from beneath a disproportionately large top hat.

  Hymns were sung, vows exchanged, prayers said, registers signed and forty-five minutes later they were married, with confetti raining down upon them as they left the church to the pealing of bells, in the brilliant late-summer sunshine.

  Afterwards, at the reception in a nearby hotel, Jones again felt nervous as he waited to give his speech. He had wanted to include an old girlfriend in it, but somehow that had felt wrong, unfair on the woman he was marrying and whose father was now proudly concluding his own words by raising a toast to the bride and groom. And so Jones’ moment finally came and, as he stood up, he sneaked a last courage bolstering sip of champagne.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I will keep this brief…”

  The guests, all in their finest attire, sat in front of him around ten tables which were littered with empty plates and coffee cups. Wine glasses were also mainly drained now, but champagne flutes had been topped up and were, once again, at the ready. Everyone was looking at him, even the hotel staff standing around the sides of the room. He tried to take the scene in: it felt slightly surreal that this was his wedding. He thanked Samantha’s parents for making the arrangements and Samantha herself for marrying him, spending then a few minutes recounting when they had first met and how their relationship had grown, culminating in today, the happiest of his life.

  As he spoke, he realised his lungs were too full and he was in danger of shallow breathing, so he paused while he let himself exhale fully, before taking another slow, deep breath. As he did so, he looked around and, to his amazement, all eyes were still fixed on him, he was holding their attention; only one of the bridesmaids – he couldn’t tell which – seemed uninterested, more focussed on finishing off with her fingers a plate of strawberry meringue left over by her father.

  “Some of you may know…” he continued, “I lost someone nine years ago, someone whose memory will always be dear to me, but then I found Samantha…”

  He noticed the bridesmaid abandoning the plate and burying her head in the lap of her mother, who gently stroked her daughter’s hair whilst keeping her own focus on Jones, as he spoke from the top table. He wondered whether the little girl had perhaps overdone it on the dessert. Taking another deep breath, he continued with his speech, describing how he and Samantha both had their dream careers and had purchased a small home, how everything now finally seemed very much ‘for better’ rather than ‘for worse’, and how they felt equipped to deal with whatever life threw in their direction.

  Nearly there, and Jones took a final pause before asking the whole room to be upstanding for his toast to Gabriel and the bridesmaids. This seemed to catch everyone by surprise and he waited as they rose to their feet, a process which felt as though it took forever and which was surprisingly noisy too, as his guests heaved themselves back out of their chairs. But Jones held his nerve and finally, when everybody was ready, he lifted his glass and called out:

  “Ladies and gentlemen – Lucy, Catherine and Gabriel!”

  “Lucy, Catherine and Gabriel!” came back a hundred voices and, as the three young children looked up
at this cacophonous calling of their names, so Jones sat back down, relieved: his speech had gone well, so long as his wife had not been upset by the fleeting reference on her own wedding day to a previous love. He turned to her to try to read her expression, but, before he could do so, she kissed him.

  “Was the ‘someone whose memory will always be dear to me’ line too strong?” Jones nervously asked her later, when they were briefly alone.

  “It was honest, it was kind. It was a gift for her parents who were here in the room. I married a good person!”

  Jones hoped so. He knew his wife and her generosity, but it had still been reckless for him to say it. However, he had wanted to do so, firstly because it was true, secondly because, if somehow she was there, he wanted Justine to hear it, and thirdly, as Samantha had insightfully spotted, it was a gift.

  A short while after he and his new bride had finished their first dance, Jones noticed Fergus and Sylvie at the back of the room, in deep conversation with an earnest looking Gabriel, both of them nodding back seriously in agreement with whatever it was the little boy was saying. Eventually, he ran off, top hat in hand, leaving them very much on their own in the otherwise crowded room. Jones walked across and Fergus smiled as he saw him approaching:

  “Hello there, we have just been learning all about the dinosaurs… it seems we have a young scientist in our midst!”

  “Well, I suppose good weddings should also be educational!” Jones laughed in reply, “Thank you for coming.”