Dead Slow Ahead (Casey Jones Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

‘I hear the poor lady is thinking of flying home from Palma,’ Mrs Fairweather went on. How news travels. ‘What a shame when we have such a wonderful cruise ahead of us, all those interesting islands. Full of history.’

  ‘We don’t have another spare cabin that we can move her to. The accommodation is fully booked.’ That underground grapevine spread news faster than I could report it to Head Office. The passengers had probably spotted the celebrity by now and were laying bets on when he/she would come out of the closet.

  ‘Might I make a suggestion? As I am also on my own, I should be very willing to share my cabin. There’s a second bed folded against the wall which could easily be put into use. I have few clothes and there’s plenty of hanging space for more.’

  Some people are saints and Mrs Fairweather was one of them. She had a standard cabin with twin beds, one folded away as she said. Rather like mine in size. It was spacious enough for one, but pretty cramped for two.

  ‘You really are very kind,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you should meet Miss Ember first and see how well you get on. Shall I organize some coffee for you, in the Galaxy Lounge in half an hour? If she decides to leave, the flight from Palma is not till the early evening.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Mrs Fairweather, closing her book. ‘She might think I’m a boring old fuddy-duddy.’

  And Mrs Fairweather might not like the acerbic maths teacher. Lucinda Ember could be quite ferocious.

  I hurried away to organize the rendezvous and some refreshments. The new cabaret artiste, Miss Judie Garllund, was due any time now, and I wanted to be around when she arrived. I had not met her before and knew little about her, apart from a brief CV and a touched-up photograph which her agent had sent.

  She was wreathed in a halo of blonde hair in the photo, so it was difficult to tell what she really looked like. Sharply pencilled eyebrows and large glossy lips overshadowed her other features. At least she was not trying to look like the legendary Judy. She was any age, from eighteen to thirty five. I hoped she could sing.

  Our agent in Palma always met new entertainers at the airport and laid on transport. Not my problem. Miss Garllund was due to have a twin cabin similar to the one used by Miss Ember the previous night. The steward would have serviced it ready for her arrival. I ordered some flowers from the florist. She didn’t merit flowers but it saved them from a premature watery grave.

  Lucinda Ember was bemused by the invitation to have coffee with Mrs Fairweather. She was in the middle of packing, having decided to go home and have her ticket price refunded. She was also hoping for token compensation, after enduring the trauma of rat and pig’s blood.

  ‘Why should I have coffee with someone I don’t know?’ she said, rolling up some gossamer stockings. ‘I’ve enough to do. Could you send someone to help me pack?’

  ‘Mrs Fairweather thought it would be nice for you to have a break before you leave the ship. In the Galaxy Lounge, then, in half an hour? I’ll see if there is a stewardess who can give you a hand.’

  ‘All right. I’ll have coffee with this Mrs Fairbrother. Is she paying?’

  ‘It’s complimentary, Miss Ember. Mrs Fairweather is a very pleasant lady.’

  ‘Isn’t she going ashore?’

  ‘Perhaps she’s going ashore this afternoon. Some passengers like an afternoon stroll, especially if they have been to Palma before.’

  This was cyc-swivclling time. I’d had enough of Miss Ember. Still smiling, I managed to dislocate myself from her steely gaze and escape. The coffee was laid on in the Galaxy Lounge with a plate of nibbles. The pastry chef was very good at bite-size nibbles. I could have eaten the lot.

  I introduced the ladies to each other. They were direct opposites. One warm and motherly. The other like a dragon drained of blood. I didn’t hold out much hope of a rapport. They wouldn’t have anything in common.

  Miss Judie Garllund arrived with enough luggage to clothe the entire dance troupe. Someone had steered her to my office and she stood there, obviously ill at ease, pacing the floor. There was not much room to pace.

  ‘I didn’t want to come,’ she said, dabbing at her forehead. ‘My agent booked me on this cruise without getting my consent. I don’t like flying. I don’t like the sea. My cabaret act is pure theatre.’

  I said nothing about the option to refuse to fly. Didn’t she read the small print? She could have got herself out of flying with some convincing medical condition.

  ‘How awful for you,’ I said, going into overdrive. ‘And we have been so excited about having you on-board. The passengers have talked of nothing else for days. It is a privilege to have you with us.’

  Where did I learn this drivel? It came out of my mouth, streams of verbosity, till Judie Garllund began to relax and think the booking wasn’t so bad after all. I ordered Buck’s Fizz and it arrived double-quick. The barmen must have recognized an emergency call. I ate all the fruit garnish.

  ‘You’ll be surprised when you see the theatre in the Princess Lounge. It’s big enough for spectacular shows and yet intimate enough for cabaret acts.’ I even amazed myself. ‘Passengers sit in armchairs with tables for their drinks. It’s like a classy nightclub.’

  ‘I’d like to see it,’ she said, sipping her drink.

  ‘You’ll have a passenger-standard cabin and I’ll arrange for you to eat in the Windsor Dining Room. Passengers always enjoy having a star at their table. It adds a lot to their enjoyment of the cruise.’

  She was relaxing more and more by the minute. She was not unlike her photograph, with a halo of frizzled out fair hair, drawn-on black eyebrows and lots of lip gloss. Add a glamorous dress and some great songs, and she would pass.

  ‘We have an excellent stage crew and I’ll be able to arrange rehearsal time for you,’ I went on. I was going to be there, at the back of the theatre, listening to every note. ‘I’m sure you are going to enjoy your time on board the Countess.’

  I used the word enjoy three times in the last minute. I needed a thesaurus.

  ‘I’m still going home from Gibraltar. I don’t fancy the Bay.’

  ‘Of course. Your return flight is booked.’

  Judie was looking a little less taut after her second glass of Buck’s Fizz. It was also doing me a lot of good. Champagne on an empty stomach was euphoric. Had I had time for breakfast? It was a long time ago.

  I phoned for a steward to take Judie and her mountain of luggage to her cabin. I was not sure if I could walk. We arranged to meet after lunch in the Princess Lounge. This would give her time to settle in and me time for essential eating. There was no time for me to go ashore, although I would have liked to visit the beautiful cathedral. The souls of all those stonemasons crushed me. How many had died in the building? Imagine falling from the high wooden scaffolding with no angel wings to catch you.

  I went out on deck, needing air. The view of the sprawling port was magnificent, lines of huge ships, so many masts of gin palaces and millionaires’ yachts. Halyards rattled and snapped like a chorus. How come all these people had so much money? And I worked my guts off to pay the mortgage on a small flat in Worthing? One day I’d have some furniture.

  But the sun was dazzling, catching on white hotels and cascades of flowers from balconies. My bad humour vanished into the sea. It was my personal sunrise. The whole picture was beautiful. And I was here, not drenched on a windswept deck in some northeasterly storm.

  ‘Ah, is it our popular Miss Casey Jones? And how are you? I don’t seem to have seen you for days. The Bay was a bit brisk so I was busy.’

  It was Samuel Mallory, looking cool and immaculate in black jeans and a white T-shirt, ready to go ashore, panama hat in hand. It was his off-duty look. The wind was teasing his dark hair but it was unable to disturb his granite stare.

  ‘It is me,’ I said. ‘I haven’t changed. I look the same as the last cruise.’

  ‘But you’ve changed.’

  ‘How? My hair is the same colour. I haven’t put on weight or lost height. Maybe the loss of sleep h
as added a few wrinkles. But I am the same person.’

  ‘No, you’re not, Casey. You are not the same person. Remember the wonderful day we had together in the Azores? All that laughter? Where has that sweet and carefree young woman gone?’

  I didn’t know. It hurt to think of that day. It had been magic. We had been lost in another world, feeling so close, linked together as if life was soon to end.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ I said, using the shortened name he liked. ‘But cruising is work. And that is what we are here to do. I keep passengers happy. You keep passengers healthy. We have something in common, but that’s all.’

  Dr Mallory hit the railing, hard fisted. He was staring ashore, into the distance. I could see a small tick in his cheek flicking. He was deep in serious thought.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Casey. Get this into your head. Nothing was happening last cruise. I like wandering around with you. There are a couple of hours left in Palma before we sail. Let’s walk around the town, breathe in the Balearics, relive their history. Casey, do yourself a favour, come down to earth for a few hours.’

  I could not resist him. Miss Garllund could chill out by herself. So I missed her rehearsal.

  I went as I was, in my blue Conway skirt and crisp white shirt uniform. No time to change. No time to eat, but Sam bought me a melon and strawberry smoothie with a straw from a harbour side stall. It was nectar. Sometime later we shared a crisp salad sandwich, thick with leaves and sliced tomatoes. We walked and talked, remembering other winds and other suns.

  ‘Will you go around sometimes with me on this cruise, nothing special, simply keeping me company?’ he asked. ‘Save me from the marauding mob of sex-starved matrons?’

  ‘You flatter yourself. I don’t want to intrude on your social life.’

  ‘I need rescuing, Casey. It should be in your job description. Any crew member in need of self-preservation should be allowed to call on your services.’

  ‘You can take good care of yourself. Get the radio operator to phone you every half hour with an urgent cabin call.’

  ‘Ingenious, Miss Jones, but I think I’d soon run out of patients. I’ll always remember those hours in the Azores. You were so different then,’ he said, with a sad shake of his head. ‘It was very special.’

  I fell apart when he said that. I still didn’t know what to do. But we walked, occasionally brushing hands, along the front of Palma, like people who had all the time in the world before them, who had nothing to decide, who had nothing difficult ahead.

  But the tour coaches were returning and work reared its demanding head, as people spilled out on to the dockside. Sam went to deal with any injuries. I had everything else. The tannoy blasted out the names of passengers who were not yet on board, or whose cruise cards had not registered. They needed rounding up. But many did not hear their names. The tannoy system did not reach every nook of every deck, despite what admin believed.

  The sun was going down and a foreign coolness swept the decks. The theatre group had been rehearsing all afternoon while everyone was ashore. Tonight’s show was ready to go. The girl dancers were exfoliating, shaving and eating lettuce, their hair in jumbo rollers. Don’t ask me what the male dancers were doing. Probably the same.

  It was time to change. Lee Williams was one of the last on board. He’d been swimming, walking, sightseeing, shopping, had a great time.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’m a little late,’ he said, breezing into the office.

  ‘You can do the bingo and the quiz tonight to make up for being late.’

  ‘My favourites,’ he grinned.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  The Countess was letting go her lines and backing slowly off the berth. Once clear, she swung the stern to starboard and headed out through the breakwaters. She then set course towards Barcelona, passing the western coast of Mallorca in the falling darkness.

  There was time for a little circulating as first sitting passengers went into the Windsor Dining Room. I was wearing my favourite Amanda Wakeley dress for the twentieth time. It was a sleeveless, mushroom-shaded chiffon, full length with crystals on the curving neckline. The colour complemented the blonde streak in my dark hair and the dress was so cool to wear.

  I’d forgotten all about the departure of Miss Ember, the purser’s department having made the flight arrangements. So I was more than surprised to see Lucinda Ember and Mrs Fairweather arriving at the dining room entrance together. They seemed to be talking quite pleasantly, but parted to sit at their different tables, either end of the room.

  I was full of curiosity and made a devious detour towards the large table where Mrs Fairweather was sitting. She caught sight of me and waved me over.

  ‘My dear, I have to thank you. It’s all worked out perfectly. Lucinda is not leaving the ship after all. She’s happy to stay on for the cruise, although she will still apply for compensation when she gets home. It was a dreadful experience for the poor lady.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘So Miss Ember was pleased with your offer and is going to share your cabin?’

  Mrs Fairweather’s faded blue eyes sparkled. ‘No, it’s better than that. I’m going to move into her stateroom. It’s on A Deck, you know. I was born in the country and I’m not afraid of a mouse or two. She says she’s got masses of room and a balcony. Won’t that be lovely? I’ve never had a balcony before. There’s a king-sized bed which they can unzip and divide into separate beds, so that’s no trouble. It’s all worked out beautifully.’

  For the time being. The odds on it lasting did not seem too hot and I didn’t want Mrs Fairweather to be upset about anything. I would feel responsible if anything happened to her.

  Fingers crossed for Mrs Fairweather. Everything else crossed for myself.

  Six

  Barcelona

  Once in the turning basin, the Countess swung short round bow to starboard before thrusting sideways to the berth. It was a tricky manoeuvre. Passengers hung over the rails for their first glimpse of the great city, church spires and tall buildings receding into the distance. The onion-topped spires of the still unfinished Sagrada Familia dominated the skyline.

  Most of them thought it was like parking a car. Forty-five thousand tons of steel like parking a car? Need a good lock on the wheel.

  A little shopping time along the colourful boulevard, Las Ramblas, would be therapeutic, if Lee could hold the fort in the office. But I was doubtful. Miss Garllund was proving an odd sort, one minute cooperative and the next a feral cannon. She didn’t like the colour of the lighting. She didn’t like the timing. She wanted to change the days when she was scheduled for shows. The schedule was practically hewn in stone, everyone knew that. Only a monumental disaster would alter the rota of show spectaculars and individual artistes.

  I saw Miss Ember and Mrs Fairweather taking the first shuttle bus into the heart of the town. Chalk and cheese, but I wasn’t sure who was which. It was good to see that they were on speaking terms. Their first night had passed amicably, it seemed. Grapevine reported that they had gone to the quiz night and collected the second prize.

  Lee was already in the office. He looked up from his desk. ‘Miss Garllund has called three times. She will only speak to you.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll speak to her when she calls the fourth time. Do you know what it’s about?’

  ‘It was fairly garbled. She needs a set built or something.’

  ‘A set built? What does she think we are? A construction firm?’

  I switched on the computer and ran through my emails. All the usual spam. I deleted the rubbish. Why did these people think I was in the market for buying Viagra and anatomy extensions? I did not need a personal loan nor had I applied for a job with an international bank.

  ‘She wants a Juliet balcony.’

  ‘Then she’d better find a Romeo to build it for her.’

  ‘Tut, tut, Miss Jones,’ Lee teased. ‘Where’s that sweet nature of yours?’

  ‘I left it in bed, where I should b
e now.’

  ‘Your fault for getting up so darned early.’

  ‘I prefer to do my mile run before the promenade deck gets clogged up with passengers. I like them, of course, but they walk in rows. It turns any exercise into an obstacle course.’

  I switched off my mobile and shot out to the lift. There might be time for a quick breakfast in the Terrace Cafe before having to deal with set building. The queue was not too bad. Barcelona was a regular port of call and many had been there before. A walk along Las Ramblas and a leisurely coffee at a street cafe would suit them. They didn’t have to hurry, could take their time.

  The organized tours were enticing but they meant an early start. I’d have liked to see the jagged mountains of Montserrat or take a boat trip along the Tossa de Mar’s beautiful coastline. One day perhaps, as a passenger, and subject to weather conditions. One coach trip recently spent four hours stranded in fog. Being marooned on a coach, looking out of a window at cloud was not much fun. At least they got their money back and complimentary wine at dinner.

  There was a free table on deck, so I took my bowl of fresh fruit outside. The view was inspiring. Sometimes I thought I ought to live in Spain, eat oranges and mangoes, teach English, become a tour guide, write historical romances. The warmth and the relaxed atmosphere suited me.

  ‘May I join you? For a moment of mooching?’

  Dr Mallory had a tray full of carbohydrates and fats. He had a crew-necked jersey on as if it was cold.

  ‘That’s a very unhealthy breakfast,’ I said.

  ‘It’s called fuel,’ he said, spearing a delicious-looking hash brown and popping it into his mouth. ‘Your body doesn’t get any fuel, that’s why you are underweight for your height.’

  ‘My weight is my own business,’ I said, spearing a slice of melon with similar enjoyment.

  ‘It’ll be my business when you collapse from malnutrition. Only don’t do it in port. The paperwork is horrendous. So, are you going ashore today?’

  ‘I was going to but doesn’t look like it now. We have a new cabaret singer aboard, Ms Judie Garllund, who wants a Juliet balcony.’