‘He calls me that,’ said Aggie, quite shyly. ‘But isn’t it a simply perfect name for her? You see it’s a sort of play on Tran-sylv-ania, isn’t it Nobby?’
‘A sort of play, yes: a sort of play – yes indeed.’
‘Sort of taking out the middle bit, sort of thing,’ clarified Aggie. ‘Ooh – stand by, Nobby – it’s nearly photo time. You don’t maybe know, Jennifer and … Stacy, is it? Yes – Stacy. First-timers, are you?’
As Jennifer and Stacy numbly nodded, Nobby was nodding too – his face full to bursting with indulgence and understanding.
‘Always got to be a first time, hasn’t there? We were virgins, once.’
‘Nobby!’ said Aggie, quite sharply.
‘Sorry,’ whispered Nobby. ‘No offence, I’m sure.’
‘It’s just that they take a ‘Welcome Aboard’ photo of everyone just before you board,’ Aggie rattled on. ‘We’ve got quite a collection, as well you might imagine. Always try to wear something a little bit different, don’t we Nobby? For the photo.’
‘Always try,’ agreed Nobby, rather airily. ‘Always do, yes we do – we always do try to do that, yes.’
Aggie simpered at him. ‘So we can tell them apart.’
Jennifer was casting her eyes wildly behind her, now (there must be escape!), but the narrow corridor was jammed with people as far as she could see: the only way was forward.
‘I need a drink,’ she said.
‘There’s generally a welcome beverage laid on of a teatime,’ allowed Nobby. ‘Nice hot potful – and Sylvie can usually be relied upon not to let us down in the way of a selection of peerless scones and dainties. Embark, you know – that’s another little word with an interesting origin.’
‘Look!’ gasped Jennifer. ‘They want you to have your picture taken. It’s your turn. Look!’
‘Do you know you’re right? Best foot forward, Aggie! Yes – embark. ‘Barco’, you see, is the Spanish word meaning ship – you go on the left of me, Captain Honeybunch … while ‘embarcar’ – are you with me? Means to actually, so to say, go on board the ship. Follow? Well – doesn’t take a great leap, does it, to see where we obtain the word ‘embark’ from, no? Tell you what – what say you two join us for the photo? Hey?’
‘Ooh yes,’ enthused Aggie. ‘We’d certainly have no problem identifying that snap, would we? Nobby and me – with our two new little friends? Oh – it’s going to be a wonderful summer!’
The picture was pinned up later that very day outside the photo shop, on board ship, alongside hundreds of bright and glossy others. To the right of the vast and flowery wreath, Aggie and Nobby seemed to be in a state approaching rapture, their arms locked tightly around Stacy on the one side, and Jennifer on the other. And neither Aggie nor Nobby appeared to notice that Stacy looked quite pallid and thoughtful, as if gauging whether or not she could maybe just hold on for a few moments longer, or if in fact a bucket was urgently needed now – and nor that Jennifer (maybe due to the fact that both rigid lips were pulled so well back as to reveal practically all of her teeth, as her eyes glowed dark) radiated murderous intent. Certainly one for the album, was Aggie’s view – and she cheerfully paid out thirteen dollars for a pair of prints – one of them destined to be a small token of welcome, slipped beneath the door of the cabin on Six Deck registered under the names of their two new little friends (I think they must be sisters) together with a notelet inviting them both to meet up at six-thirtyish in the Piano Bar, for maybe a sherry before a three-course slap-up dinner in the Gondola restaurant. (Aggie had scribbled as a PS: Nobby is eager to ‘chew the fat’ – another of those nautical terms, as it happens – but I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it himself).
*
‘Ahhhhh …!’ was the deeply appreciative and faintly bovine lowing sound that accompanied the spreading of Stewart’s arms wide as Dwight, Charlene, Earl and Suki emerged from the covered gangway and into the softly carpeted Midships reception. ‘My very most favourite passengers, the Johnsons. Welcome back, I must say. Very, very, very good to see you all again, all you Johnsons. How was London? Weather nice and bright?’
‘Oh hiiii, Stoo,’ cooed Charlene. ‘How you been?’
‘Good,’ responded Stewart, with emphasis. ‘Doing good, Mrs Johnson – doing great.’
A little vernacular – a touch of home – went a very long way, Stewart had found in the past: you should see him with the Japanese – bowing away like one of those little plastic ostriches (or could they be emus?) one used to see around really quite a lot, one time, eager for their sip of water. A few bruised temples in the early days, yes, before he quite got the hang of the thing – but no dishonour, he would rush to assure you, was incurred or bestowed: I haven’t yet, he would intimate with a twinkle, been threatened with a Samurai sword! (We’re all friends here.)
As Charlene kicked things around with Stewart, Earl was bending down to murmur into his father’s ear, Hey – what’s with this jerk? Like it’s maybe what? Ten whole hours since he saw us? And Dwight just shrugged and said Beats me: these English guys, I guess it’s what they do, how they maybe really are.
‘Dee-aaad?’ whined Suki. ‘I’m kinda bushed, you know? I split – grabba couple hours, maybe. See you guys – kay?’
‘Sure, honey,’ approved Dwight. ‘Only don’t go forgetting this goddam drill they put us through every single goddam time. What’s with the – jeez, that mother of yours: she ever gonna quit with this guy, or what? … yeah – what’s with the alarm and all the drill anyways? Ship goes down, ship goes down – am I right?’
Earl was smirking his agreement; he touched his father’s shoulder. ‘Catch up with you guys.’
Dwight was nodding glumly.
‘Yeh sure. Your mother ever quits yapping to Stoo, then maybe I can get some shut-eye too. All we did all day is nothing and I tell you, boy: I’m pooped. Hey – Charlene, already – enough, yeah? Leave the guy alone.’
Charlene allowed herself to be led away, her eyes and fingers still fluttering their farewells to Stewart, who was winking hard and mouthing, while still his arms were spread so wide that anyone passing could easily assume him to be the sole custodian of prior knowledge of the truth that at any moment now something very large indeed was due to be hurled right at him, his role on earth to field it deftly. He turned then to face the next batch of (marked on his clipboard ‘I’ for Important) upper deck cruisers, and seemed close to passing out with the pleasure this gave him.
‘All I was,’ explained Charlene, as she and Dwight climbed the broad staircase, ‘was trying for him to tell me what the toon was?’
‘Toon? What toon is this now? What’s this with toons, Charlene?’
‘Jeez, Dwight – sometimes I think you see nothing and you hear nothing and maybe you don’t even think nothing. You didn’t catch the band on the quayside? You didn’t hear them?’
‘I heard sump’n. So what?’
‘So what? All it was was, like – the Queen’s guard band or some goddam thing? With, like – the big fur hats?’
‘Yeh yeh …’
‘So anyways, there was this toon, right? They were playing? It was so familiar … you ever get that? When you hear this toon and you know you know it but you just can’t seem to …?’ Charlene paused at the landing on One Deck and turned to search the shut-down mask that often now was all she saw where once her husband’s face had shone so brightly, filled with wit and love. ‘No, Dwight … I guess you just don’t, huh?’
But soon her eyes were dancing again as they fell upon Julie – and Julie was already locked on and coming right on towards them (and shee-ut, thought Dwight – now of all times, now when all I wanna do is lie me down with a Jack on the rocks – now it’s Julie we gotta do).
‘Julie, sweetie!’ was Charlene’s vast and dazzling greeting – and the wrists of both of them clanked and jangled as they clasped each other’s hands as their eyelids closed up and their lips went off and sought out the heat of their respective chee
ks or jowls. (Hey look, was Dwight’s take – since morning they ain’t seen each other: what is this?) ‘You didn’t get off, sweetie? You been here all the time?’
Julie had on a cocked and sneering lip (rather like, you know – real late Elvis? When he was hamming it up? Yeh OK – but on Julie, this was for real).
‘London I know,’ was her clipped and dismissive response. ‘London I been to.’
‘I got the most darling pieces of paddery in the Harrods store? You’ll just love ’em, Julie sweetie. Catch ya in the Zip Bar, huh? Benny OK? Still with the stummick?’
Julie just shrugged, some.
‘Benny’s OK. Benny’s doing fine. What can I tell you, Charlene? Benny’s Benny.’
And as she peeled away, Dwight just exhaled his relief.
‘Maybe now we can get to our cabin? Soon it’ll be with the alarm bell schtick and I don’t even got off my shoes.’ And as he heaved himself up the final flight of stairs (and each tread – hey, he had thought this how many times? Each tread is real shallow, you know? So how come under me they always feel so steep?): ‘Benny’s OK … Benny’s doing fine. Huh. Benny ain’t neither thing, I’m telling you, Charlene. Benny’s one sick guy. So what’s noo? I lived with Julie, all day long I’d be gnaw-shuss.’
‘Godsake, Dwight: leave it already, huh?’
Dwight turned the key in the door of their cabin.
‘So,’ he sighed, ‘what was it? You find out?’
‘What hell talking bout now, Dwight? I find out what?’
‘Toon. The toon. You find out what toon it was, or what?’
‘Oh yeah,’ smiled Charlene, as she slipped inside. ‘It’s like all these great pieces, you know? They’re, like – part of your life and nobody knows what they’re called? You gonna take a shower? Guess I’ll take a shower.’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘So? So what’s with all the so, Dwight?’
‘The toon, goddam it, Charlene. Jeez.’
‘Why suddenly you’re so eager to know the toon, now, Dwight? Before you was saying you didn’t even hear no toon.’
Dwight sat down heavily on one of the twin beds, and sank back his head with gratitude into the pillows.
‘Time to time, Charlene,’ he barely whispered, ‘you drive me crazy. You know that?’
Charlene stopped stock-still.
‘I drive you crazy? I drive you? Oh that’s neat, Dwight, you know? I mean, crazy from you – that’s real neat. I’m gonna take a shower – I’m, like, outta here, Dwight – and maybe when I come back you’ve remembered some manners?’
Dwight closed his eyes and opened them and stared at the riveted ceiling. And then he roared up at it:
‘What’s the name of the goddam toon?!’
‘Dwight Godsake: next door they’ll hear you!’
He turned on her weak and watery, imploring eyes, and said so softly:
‘The toon …? Hm …?’
Charlene flounced away towards the bathroom, tossing back over her shoulder:
‘Flintstones.’
Dwight blinked. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Flintstones, Dwight. Wassamadder – you ain’t hearing so good? Flintstones. Da-da-da-da-da-da-fam-i-lee …?’
Dwight listened for a while to the gushing water from behind the bathroom door, and then he closed his eyes again. OK – so now I know. All she had to do was to tell me, yeah? For why I wanted to know, I can’t even say. But now I do know, so I’m cool with it. Now I can rest easy. The toon was the toon from the toon. And that, dear Lord above us, is what I learned today.
I wanna sleep, is all. Is all I wanna do. But I gotta do this drill again, yeah? And then I gotta bathe and dress and then it’s, jeez – cacktails with Julie and Benny and then I got dinner with Charlene and Earl and Suki and all she’s letting me eat, now, is goddam chicken, on account of my bowels. And what’s in my head? Tell you all that’s in my head right now? It’s yours for a nickel: Da-da-da-da-da-da-fam-i-lee … Cute, or what? Any which ways, I’m kinda stuck with it.
I check the icebox: we’re outta Jack and we’re outta beer.
And now with the bell. You hear that? The bell? I’m thinking, you don’t hear that mother, then I’m telling you, boy: like, you’re dead. The bell means I gotta half-hour. Then I put on some dumb kid’s water-wings and we all go troop up to the restaurant and then we get to stand around like a buncha jerks and they tell us what to do if one of the biggest goddam ships in the world starts to sink in the middle of the goddam sea. You know what you do? Tell you what you do: you toot on a whistle. Yup. More’n two thousand of us up to our fuckin’ eyeballs in the Atlantic Ocean like a loada rubber ducks and every goddam one of us, we’re all like, blowing on whistles. Maybe to the toon of The Flintstones.
Again I check the icebox (why I do that?). Yeah and guess what? We’re still outta Jack and we’re still outta beer.
*
David was sitting on the bed (his side – nearest the door and away from the portholes, as Nicole had decreed) – and was doing so as unobtrusively, he would quite humbly assure you, as he possibly could manage (because you always knew, with Nicole – there was never even the shadow of a doubt – when you were very much meant to feel in the way: she’d cross and recross you with a pile of whatever, destined, she rather thought, for this upper drawer just here, and then a couple of suit carriers for hanging over there, behind the curtain affair, and each and every time she’d stop dead for maybe even less than a millisecond and glance down and tut just once at the sight of David’s feet just, oh God – sticking out like that, and very annoyingly attached to not just his ankles and then those protruding knees of his, but all the bloody rest of him too, and then she would make quite a fair miming show of circumventing this truly irksome obstacle – not easy, simply increases my workload – before she turned and Christ, had to suffer it again).
‘Look, I’ll …’ volunteered David – trying to catch just one of Nicole’s busy busy eyes, while at the same time jerking away both of his in the direction of the door, as if to make clear that his fundamental intention, here, was – for the good of all – to sling his hook.
‘The champagne,’ said Nicole, ‘I thought was a very nice gesture. And the fruit: the fruit looks lovely. Do you know which shirt you’ll be wearing tonight?’
The short answer to that would of course have to be, um – no, very much no; an extended version (though here was hardly the moment – on this day of all days) would involve the eyes in a good deal of startle, while the voice would be called on to assure Nicole in a heavy tone as flat as a bat (and rubbed in well with nose-twitching oil) that in fact No, hadn’t if you want the whole truth of it, actually subjected the bulk of his mind to wrestling with that one – hadn’t, you know, actually got so far down the road as to have earmarked with pinpoint precision the one and only shirt that was to be plucked from the colour-coded ranks of its chums to proudly be on display tonight (though if you press me, sweet Nicole, I should have to confess to feeling myself strongly inclining to opt in the direction of this one I’m already bloody well wearing).
‘Maybe the blue …? You decide, Nicole. Look – why don’t I just …?’
‘We can order a drink, if you want a drink. Open the champagne. And there’s all sorts of – here, did you see this? Menu thing? Order all sorts of sandwiches and tea and so on. What do you mean – the blue? You’ve got loads of blue, haven’t you? Anyway. Wasn’t it odd, David, when we were leaving? You know – actually setting sail, or whatever they say.’
Well yes – David just had to concur on that one. It had been odd, very – and not just because by this time of day all the terrible and separate both crushing and pinprick hurts and winces booting and scurrying their way around him generally tended to congregate somewhere between the base of his skull and the tip of his spine to maybe join hands for yet one more raucous end-of-term get-together till we all meet again the next time for a rousing dressing down and knees-up (which won’t be long in coming). At such mo
ments, any sort of behaviour and the majority of perceptions appear distorted, in that they are at once both dulled and heightened – and certainly in a state of flagrant agitation. But if you add to this the very singular sensation of standing on the deck of this truly extraordinarily vast liner (you don’t get it, really, till you’re on it) with many hundreds of eager and wind-whipped strangers to the left and right of you while almost imperceptibly this mighty thing with little you inside it inches at first and then coolly slips away from the dockside, as even more hundreds of nearly hysterical and very rum sods on shore wave at you flags and scarves as if you’re going to war (and we’re not, are we? Doing that?) and then when you lob on top of this the thought that from now on in it is to be the sea, the sea, the sea and then more sea – until in about a whole week’s time, this gives way as dawn comes up to the looming mass and sparkle of New York City, then I think it is fair to say that Yes, on the whole – yes: leaving (actually setting sail, or whatever they say) was, if you like – as Nicole would anyway have it – odd, decidedly odd (not to say outright astonishing – as well as, and I’m thinking this now, just a little bit scary, in a way I have yet to nail down).
‘Was,’ said David. ‘Was.’
‘One good thing,’ said Nicole, quite absently – her mind gone from setting sail by now (she’d long ago departed from that) – ‘there’s certainly plenty of drawerspace …’
And David knew (of course he knew) that you just didn’t comment on that sort of comment – a low and indecipherable murmur, maybe (for what other sort of noise, in the face of such an observation, could actually and with profit be made?).
‘Look,’ said David, by way of a stab at direction – and standing up now, maybe, would add to the general air of shifting, here. ‘I think I’ll – I’ll maybe just go and have a wander, yes? Check out the lie of the … well, not land, obviously, but you know what I … And then I’ll, what – meet you somewhere, will I? Or shall I just come back and change and – ?’
S.O.S. Page 6
