S.O.S.

by Joseph Connolly

  ‘Two things,’ said Nicole with emphasis; and then she was dreaming again: ‘I think I’m OK for shoes … but I’m not sure I’ve brought enough tights, now … Still, I expect they’ve – you can probably get, I should think.’ But soon she’s back: ‘Two things, David, we have to do tonight – ‘Cruise Director’, whatever that means, wants to welcome us, which is sweet, and then we’re having a quite little sort of private-ish partyette with the Captain – rather exciting. His main thing for everyone else is tomorrow night, apparently.’

  ‘Really?’ put in David, edging across to the door. The Cruise Director. And a quite little sort of private-ish partyette with the Captain: oh what joy. Probably need about four shirts in total, for that little lot.

  ‘Which is,’ continued Nicole, ‘a bit more like it. I mean I’d heard that competition winners get treated like, you know – film stars and things, but so far I haven’t seen very much sign of it, I must say.’

  There was a knock on the door when David was just about on this side of it – and that made him jump, while at the same time it served to encourage one or two venomous membranes that lurked just above his left eye to nip in and give him a swift kicking and remind him who’s boss. David opened the door and there was a very small and smiling brown and broad-faced young woman, peering gamely through the basketed drama of exotic flowers she was holding out before her.

  ‘Captain and crew – he say welcome,’ she said.

  Nicole was at once enchanted.

  ‘Oh how perfectly – ! David – aren’t they – ?’

  David nodded (would’ve tipped the woman, but she’d scuttled away). ‘So – later then, yes? Hour? Bit less?’

  ‘Orchids – and lilies, I think these are – oh and freesias, they’ll make the room smell lovely. Not too sure about the maidenhair fern, though – spoils it, I think. What do you think, David? I might just remove that, I reckon. What do you think, David? Oh God – no good asking you anything, is it? Oh God go, if you’re going, David – why do you always keep on hanging about?’

  David nodded, once and shortly, and left the cabin. The corridor was hushed and maybe a bit too warm and so incredibly long and unchanging that David was again feeling this slight but salty prick of fear. It was a bit like, maybe … but then anything big, anything on this huge sort of scale would always seem, wouldn’t it, a bit like a film set? But David felt sure that there could in truth be maybe four or six cabin doors to either side of him, and if he tried to venture further in either direction he’d be sure to slam face first into flush-fitting mirrors cunningly mounted to perpetuate the illusion.

  He was barely aware of the undersides of his feet softly trudging the eternal length of the rich and royal blue carpet (he had an arm out in front of him, but no mirrors so far). From time to time, a young man in a neat white jacket and bits of gold about his shoulders would appear and grin at him really quite manically and then disappear, David wasn’t sure where. A very old lady then hove into view – everything about her face and unwisely bare arms was yearning to be allowed to slump on down to the ground, and rest there; her head was bowed so low that her sole view of life, David was surprised to find himself thinking, would have to be limited to the slow and deliberate placing of her trainer-clad feet, as each of them in turn moved inexorably towards whatever was coming to her. Earrings alone must have weighed a ton. In fact, looking at her again – and now she and David were practically crossing, her softly white and crinolined face had set up a great slash of a smile that in any other context would have scared you half to death – if she could only bear to part company with even half of all that jewellery, she might well find people saying to her Oh my how you’ve grown (and by way of a bonus, she could then raise her sights and get a broader perspective on life).

  Now then. Let’s have a look at these signs … (And another thing – I’m not actually aware of any real movement, you know, although we’ve been at sea now for what must it be? Couple of hours? Couple of hours at least, I should say: there’s a sort of booming other-worldliness about me, yes, there is that – that slightly airless and pressurized atmosphere, but no more so than you get in the bowels of those sorts of hotels that do functions, and so on – when you emerge slain and parched from some bloody conference or workshop or Christ knows, and those cups and plates and beakers are all lined up for you on grey-topped limed-oak tables).

  Black Horse Pub. Upper Deck. That’s, where is it …? Two floors up. Right. That sounds favourite. Hm. Wonder what Rollo and Marianne are up to? They each got a cabin to themselves, you know. Because they are both young single people of opposing gender. My wife Nicole and me – we’re of opposing gender too (well let’s face it: opposing bloody everything, really) but we got lumped in together. Which is cosy. Not young, you see: and nor are we single.

  And no, since you ask, Nicole: I don’t know why it is (honestly couldn’t tell you) that I always keep on hanging about. I get asked this too by Trish – but with her, I think, this means Why don’t you ever just come to me. Think so, yes. Could be wrong. But with you, Nicole – it’s different.

  *

  ‘It’s not, is it …?’ enquired Marianne doubtfully, as if not wishing to offend, or anything, but at the same time earnestly seeking some big reassurance, here. ‘I mean – very grand, is it? Do you know what I mean, Rollo? Is it what you –? I don’t think it’s quite what I expected, I think I mean. I mean – it’s very sort of big and impressive and all the rest of it … it’s just that I don’t think it’s – ’

  ‘What in Christ’s name are you on about?’ zapped in Rollo.

  He had been swiveling this way and that on his bar stool, glancing from time to time at the massed ranks of bottles, lit up and set against a mosaic of coloured mirrors (thinking Mmm – Southern Comfort: like that. And mmm – Bacardi: can quite go for that with cranberry). But you couldn’t really blank out Marianne for all that long; like a lot of girls, Rollo supposed (don’t have much, do I? To go on) she’d only maunder on in that dorky wet girly dweeb little way of hers – not actually saying anything, you will of course observe: never actually concluding a thought, oh Christ no. Just rambling on and on and on about sod bugger all until you’re just forced to bloody ask her what in Christ’s name she’s on about – and then she’d have some half-arsed and interminable go at actually starting it all up again and telling you (as if I gave a shit).

  ‘The ship, of course,’ snapped back Marianne – trying again to wriggle herself into a degree more comfort on the too-high stool (I keep on feeling it’s going to tip right over). ‘What on earth do you think I’m talking about? Transylvania, yes? We’re on it? You’ve noticed?’

  ‘OK, mm, yes – very bloody amusing. Transylvania – yes: we’re on it – so bloody what? Stupid bloody way of getting anywhere, I think. Christ – we could be in New York by dinner time if only we’d done what normal people do and taken a bloody plane. Check out the club scene – rave till dawn: yeh! Instead of that we’re stuck in this bloody stupid so-called ‘pub’ with phony pumps and phony glass and phony bloody everything else – and Christ, look around you, Mar – it’s bloody empty: where the hell is everybody? Do you think they all saw sense and got off at the last moment? Bloody wish I had …’

  ‘Daft, Rollo …’

  ‘Oh no they didn’t, though, did they? Cos we saw them all at the poxy little safety drill with orange great plastic things stuck up around their bloody ears. I didn’t wear mine.’

  ‘You did when that steward person or whatever he was told you to, though, didn’t you? You went all red.’

  ‘Oh shuttup, Mar, can’t you? Took it off again after, though.’

  ‘It was pretty funny, actually – all that. Everyone standing around with a lifejacket and listening to what to do if the ship went down … God, we’d only just got on it …’ And here Marianne let out a brief and snorting half-laugh which she sort of covered up with three of her fingers, as another aspect struck her. ‘And then – do you remember? Did you he
ar him, Rollo? After they’d told us all what to do if faced with drowning, right – he then said, all po-faced – ’ and at this point Marianne had to sit up straight and drag down the corners of her mouth into an approximation of a humourless official, and her voice husked up and clouded over in tune with it all: ‘ ‘And now – a word about fire …’ Jesus! Fire and water – one of them’ll get us, that’s for sure. What do you prefer, Rollo? You going to burn or sink?’

  Rollo had the goodness to smirk.

  ‘D’you want another of these? Barman’s pushed off now.’

  ‘I think I’ll just have a Diet Coke. Where’s Dad? Do you think he’s got lost?’

  ‘He’ll find us. We’re in a pub, aren’t we? He could find it blindfold. Unless he’s been waylaid by some other bar, of course, in which case we’ll have to go and haul him out at midnight.’

  ‘Oh don’t be so mean, Rollo. You’re always going on about Dad.’ And in an effort to head him off at the pass (because he did, you know – go on and on about Dad, Rollo, all the time, all the time – and once he’d started he’d never stop): ‘But the ship, Rollo – that’s what I was saying. It’s not like in all those old movies, is it? When you see all the ballrooms and chandeliers and columns and stuff on those world cruises and things. Maybe I’m just thinking of Titanic.’

  ‘Oh Christ don’t mention the word Titanic. Did you hear all those little kids on the stairs just after the drill thing? Oh look, Mar – bloke’s back: Coke, yeah? Yeah, um – nother Budweiser and a Diet Coke, please.’

  ‘Ice in the Coke?’ asked Sammy. ‘Can I get you some nuts, or something?’

  ‘Yeh, ice,’ said Marianne. ‘That Diet? Yeh? Great. I don’t want nuts – you want nuts, Rollo?’

  ‘I’m bloody starving – if I start in on the nuts I’ll never stop. When’s dinner round here? Yeh – let’s have some nuts.’

  Sammy smiled as he poured the beer deftly into the glass – just slanted at the angle he had been told and told to slant the damn thing.

  ‘It’s always dinner time on the Transylvania. People only stop eating to come in places like this and start drinking.’

  ‘Oh God …’ groaned Rollo. ‘Is that really all there is to do? I mean Jesus, Mar – that’s a thought, you know. It’s nearly a week we’re on this thing. What in hell are we supposed to do?’

  ‘There’s a kind of nightclub,’ volunteered Sammy. ‘Regatta Club, it’s called – other end of this deck: down there, and keep going.’

  ‘Regatta Club!’ burst out Rollo, with true deep loathing. ‘Regatta Club – Christ. What sort of crap happens there?’

  ‘Some people like it. There’s a band on in the early part of the evening, pretty sure. I’ve never actually been, if I’m honest – I’m always stuck here. And there’s a deejay. Strobe lights. Not too bad.’

  ‘Yeah …’ intoned Rollo, with real and heartfelt scorn. ‘A groovy popster deejay spinning all our fab and fave, oh Christ – platters by Abba and Ricky Martin and the Spice Girls – and that Doo-Wah-bloody-Diddy thing …!’

  Sammy laughed at that out loud. ‘That’s pretty much exactly what Jilly said! She works here – behind the bar. She hates all that stuff.’

  ‘Oh look!’ said Marianne suddenly. ‘There’s Dad. Can he see us? I don’t think he can see us. Dad! Dad! Oh God look at him – he’s going the wrong way. Dad! Dad! Over here!’

  Rollo said to Sammy, ‘Who’s this Jilly, then?’

  ‘She’s due on in five minutes. She’s actually my, sort of – you know: girlfriend sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rollo. ‘Right.’

  Marianne touched his arm. ‘It’s OK – he’s seen us. He’s coming over. Come on, Dad! What took you so long? What kids, Rollo? What kids were you talking about?’

  ‘Christ,’ growled David, as he yanked out a stool and dumped himself up on to it. ‘Don’t ask. Like a bloody maze, this place.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear them?’ piped up Rollo. ‘All those kids running up and down the staircase.’

  ‘Like a bloody warren …’ huffed David. ‘Grouse, please – large one, touch of water, no ice. Good.’

  ‘They kept on going – ’ and Rollo opened wide his eyes and constricted his throat and forced it now to cope with the coming falsetto – ‘It’s like the Titanic! It’s just like the Titanic! Christ – you should’ve seen everyone’s faces …’

  ‘But that’s just my point,’ pouted out Marianne. ‘It’s not, is it? Do you see what I mean, Dad? It just isn’t, is it?’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ moaned Rollo. ‘Here we bloody go again.’

  ‘It’s not what, love?’ asked David – rather more kindly now that the first hit of Grouse had warmed his mouth and then rushed down him.

  ‘Oh, sort of …’ And Marianne rolled her eyes and flipped her fingers as her lips were left to flutter around what might well prove to be the mot juste. No: didn’t. ‘Grand, if you see what I mean …?’

  ‘Pretty bloody grand …’ grunted David.

  And Rollo glanced round as a new voice now jumped in:

  ‘Hi, everyone. My name is Jilly, and I shall be your barmaid for the evening. Happy for the moment? Get you something?’

  ‘OK for now,’ said Rollo (and I maybe did, did I, come out with it just a touch too quickly? Yeh – and I think I must’ve sounded like a nerd).

  ‘No, Daddy – you don’t see what I mean,’ Marianne was persisting. ‘I mean it’s big, of course it is. Yes? It’s big?’

  ‘Well spotted,’ said Rollo, drily.

  ‘Shuttup, Rollo – I’m not talking to you. But look, Dad – look around you: it’s not at all in any way grand …’

  ‘Mm,’ nodded David. ‘I sort of see.’ Yes – I sort of see: I sort of see a lot of things, and I so don’t care about practically bloody all of them. ‘Another large Grouse, please, Jilly. You kids all right? Yup? OK. Just the Grouse, then.’

  ‘When do we eat?’ went Rollo – smiling briefly in Jilly’s direction because he thought he maybe half caught a glimpse, there, of her briefly smiling at him – but of course (he now saw) it wasn’t that at all, was it? Oh God how embarrassing. All it was was a polite and simple acknowledgement of Dad having ordered a drink – that she had taken in the words and their meaning and would now turn around and jam the glass against the optic (as, indeed, she now was doing. Mm. She’s got a lovely arse on her, look at it. Mm).

  ‘Up to your mother,’ sighed David. ‘She’s changing. I said to her where we’d be. Yeh – pretty hungry, actually.’

  Yes indeed: up to your mother. I don’t, you know, say this with any regret or sense of belittlement, not any more I don’t. There was once a time, of course – way back – when I would breed and then feed deep resentment for anything at all that could be up to your mother because, yes, that’s partly me – but also my generation, you see: I’m the man, is how the thinking goes, and so it’s very much up to me. But that was then – oh, so much then. Now, well – now I’m all for anything whatever being up to your mother or, failing that, anyone else at all who’s passing. Which maybe, at work, is beginning to show: never ever put myself forward, you see – don’t want to be responsible for anything, do I, because then what it is, what it becomes is my responsibility, doesn’t it? And that is not at all what I want, because in truth – if I really am about to come clean, here – I’m not actually a responsible person. Not any longer. I am responsible for nothing, and that is the way I need it to be. All it really is, I suppose, is that sometimes when one thing or another fairly naturally occurs and I just happen to be around, yes? Well, if that thing, that thing – whatever – that has just occurred, is generally perceived to be good, to be positive, and if such a result is attributed (almost always misguidedly – all I do is nothing, now) to, um – me, well – well then, fine (oh good). But if people are pointing the finger – if what they are actually saying is Oh Dear Me: here is a bad thing … and further, if such a result is attributed (almost always misguidedly – all I do is nothing, now
) to, um – me, well – well then, shame (too bad).

  Anyway, anyway … as soon as your mother, as I say, has got changed (not changed out of the outfit she finally elected to wear for the travelling down here, you understand – oh good Lord no. That particular outfit was discarded within minutes of entering the cabin in favour of some sort of wide-legged and not unshiny trousers, maybe pantaloon sort of efforts – suitable, she said, for lounging in one’s berth; yes really – she truly did say that). But now that berth-lounging is out and Captain-meeting followed by Duchess Grill dining are next on the agenda, so does Nicole, your mother, find herself hanging up with care the Pierrot or Harlequin number, and easing herself with yet more of that very idiosyncratic care of hers (she has care to spare, Nicole – she is concealed from view from behind a scaffolding of care, it sometimes seems, though there’s none of it there for me) … easing herself, as I say, into whatever svelte and chic and just-so thing she deludedly imagines to be eye-catchingly correct for shaking hands with a glorified bloody sailor (who will smile, incline his head, and fail to catch her name). This is, of course, always assuming – and it is seldom wise, with Nicole, to even contemplate assumptions – that she has not by now got firmly in her mind that Captain-meeting and Duchess Grill-dining are not two events so easily encompassed by just the one single costume. In which case – and it seems, as I mull it over, increasingly likely – she will be back down again to number One Deck, changing the whole ensemble just one more time (maybe, in the interim for thought, slipping back on the, now I think of it, outright glossy and clownish apparel that she very determinedly deems so fit for these singular if plenteous berth-lounging moments).

  So, Rollo, in answer to your question – simply put and deeply felt – When Do We Eat, the honest answer is Christ alone knows, right? An answer neatly dodged but at the same time well summed up by my telling you straight that it’s up to your mother. I said to her where we’d be. But, when we encounter, she will quite surely not agree with this. She will be unshakeable in her absolute knowledge that where I said, in fact, we’d be was somewhere else entirely, and to any suggestion that there is maybe here the merest shadow of a case for arguing that this can’t – can it, actually, Nicole? – be wholly true as Rollo, you see, as well as Marianne and myself have somehow managed to congregate in the precise and purported bloody fucking spot where I said we’d be, well … in response to any of that Nicole will merely, I fear, dismiss the two children’s limited understanding on the grounds that they are, the both of them, no more than children, while my own woodenly put and futile protestations will be swept away, and then ritually atomized. Why? On account of I’m not responsible. And here, of course, she has a point.