S.O.S.

by Joseph Connolly

  It’s actually pretty cool, just sitting on your own and listening in. You don’t want to look like you’re listening, of course; I’ve been stirring and stirring the dregs of this orange for ages – looking right into it so people will think I don’t have any ears; and no – I don’t dare order another because Mum keeps banging on about the money thing – and anyway, all I really want to do is eat and that’s meant to be free so where on earth is she? (Well – not on earth, of course: at sea.) Another thing I heard – that table over there (don’t look now), just by the piano. See it? Well – the white-haired woman – truly one of the wrinklies, amazingly old, looks about a hundred plus – she said to whoever the other woman with her was in a quite restrained maybe Texas accent (I think it was Texan – not very good on American accents: Texan is the whiney one, yes?) that in all honesty – mah dee-uh – she had been homesick now for thirty-nine-and-one-bit days. God. It’s so weird that Mum and me are on this ship – it’s so un-us. But she’s got this thing about flying, see – which amazes just everyone when she tells them: no one feels Mum could be afraid of anything – and she was just so adamant that we get to this wedding. I know, I know – you don’t have to remind me: Mum is totally down on marriage, yeh I know – but this is her only sister (my Auntie Min) and well, I don’t know what she’s thinking … maybe she’s going out there in a last-ditch effort to change Min’s mind and carry her back to England, in triumph. (Auntie Min’s only in America at all because she met a New Yorker in London and married him and went with him and then she, yeh, divorced him.) All I can think about now is food. Oh Lord – where is she?

  ‘God!’ Stacy could at last exhale. ‘At last – I’ve been waiting for simply – ’

  ‘God Almighty, Stacy, where on God’s earth have you been?’

  And Stacy just sighed a bit and wagged her head and went on stabbing at the warm and rotten end of her long-dead orange. It’s just typical, this: I’ve been hanging around for bloody years, and so of course it’s my fault, isn’t it?

  ‘I’ve been here all the time. Where’ve you been – that’s more to the point. Doesn’t take that long to change a pair of tights. Did you run into James Bond, maybe. Mum? That it?’

  ‘Need a drink,’ huffed Jennifer, flopping down beside her. ‘What’s that funny music? Oh God look – there’s someone on the harp. What an extraordinary sound. Need a gin. Where’s the bloke? And for your information, Stacy – and if you had eyes in your sweet little face you would’ve already seen – I’m wearing my rather smart black trousers, yes? Bought in the Harvey Nichols sale for half their original price which was still nonetheless about four times the amount of money I currently possessed. How foolish is that? Think of it as an investment. Oh thank God – here’s the bloke. Evening, yes – large G and T, please. Thanks. Stacy? You OK with that?’

  Stacy shrugged. ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘Well it’s not what I want, is it? Do you want another orange, or what?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Too much orange is not at all good for you. Acid. Also, it discolours the teeth. Just the gin, thank you.’

  And when the waiter had left, Jennifer leaned forward across the table and informed Stacy with huge accusation:

  ‘I don’t seem actually to have packed the bloody tights, which is a total and utter pain in the arse because if they do sell them on board they’re bound to cost an absolute fortune. The odd thing is I distinctly remember putting them in. I got two Boots multipacks and I could have sworn I bundled them in with the Tampax and the Ambre Solaire.’

  The gin arrived and it tinkled to Jennifer’s profound satisfaction: she ate a good half of it quickly.

  ‘This plinky-plonky harp actually rather gets on your tits, doesn’t it? After a while. And no I didn’t, since you ask, encounter anyone remotely similar to Mister Bond, and don’t please think it was for the want of looking. All the men around seem to be short and fat and more or less bald – or else sort of papery old. Sometimes all three. Four. Except for the waiters, who seem quite sweet – but I’ve heard they’re all of the homosexualistic persuasion. Anyway, they’re too poor. Also – painful-looking pimples.’ Jennifer slurped again, and her eyes now gleamed at the memory of the next lot: ‘Talking of Bond, though – did I ever tell you about all that business with Simon? No? I did, didn’t I?’

  ‘Which one was Simon? Was he the stockbroker one?’

  Jennifer looked at her daughter as if she was mad. ‘Stockbroker? Simon? No of course he wasn’t a stockbroker. How could Simon be a stockbroker?’

  ‘Well I don’t know, do I? How should I know? I don’t actually care, do I?’

  ‘Stephen. You’re thinking of Stephen. Stephen was the stockbroker. In all probability, still is. No – Simon was in advertising.’

  ‘Right. Great. So?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that he had this thing about James Bond, you see – liked to play out scenes from the films. Are you sure I’ve never told you all this?’

  ‘No. You haven’t. And I’m not sure I actually want to know, Mum, OK? Look – I’m starving. Why don’t we go and eat?’

  ‘I might just have another little drink …’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Anyway – one day … well night, very probably, can’t really remember …’

  ‘Please, Mum …’

  ‘We’d already done the train scene – Russia With Thing, pretty sure, when the woman’s drugged and in a nightie. We actually embellished on that particular vignette just a little. In the film, Bond sort of slaps her about a bit to wake her up, but the way we did it – ’

  ‘Oh God …’

  ‘The way we did it – don’t keep on interrupting, Stacy. I can’t quite seem to catch that waiter’s eye. He must be of a homosexualistic tendency. We did it that I slapped him around, you see, and then he had to teach me a lesson I wouldn’t in a hurry forget. Ah me. Anyway …’

  ‘I just don’t believe this. You are quite disgusting.’

  ‘Child. You’ll learn. Anyway – that’s when he brought up Goldfinger, you see. Asked me how I’d feel about being painted.’

  ‘Painted? What – you mean, when she – like in – ?’

  ‘Yup. And naturally there wasn’t anything to worry about because of course we both knew about leaving a patch of skin and all the rest of it. Pores, or whatever. And anyway, when men are painting, they always leave out bits all over the place, don’t they? I was, I confess, just slightly concerned about the sheets, which is why I insisted we go to his place. Ah! You’ve come back to us. One more of these, please – G and T, yes? And Stacy? Yes? You OK?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Right. Just the one gin. Did I say large? Thank you so much.’

  Stacy watched the waiter’s retreat – and though she hated herself for doing it, now said:

  ‘And …?’

  ‘And what? Did you see? Did you notice, Stacy? That waiter? Didn’t so much as glance at either one of us. And your nipples, you know, are perfectly delineated against the tug of that silken camisole in which you have elected to flaunt yourself. More likely viscose, I imagine. Top Shop, is it? Obviously one of the homosexualistic brethren. Which is no doubt very nice for him. If he likes that sort of thing. Which he does, presumably …’

  ‘Look, Mum – either finish the story or let’s for Christ’s sake go and eat, OK?’

  ‘Can’t go now – ordered drink. Oh yes – the story. Well in the end, we didn’t go through with it.’

  Stacy held her gaze.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Great story, Mum …’

  ‘Well I would have,’ protested Jennifer, ‘but then he talked of sanding down, do you see. Told me quite seriously that preparation was nine-tenths of a perfect job. And then when he produced a tub of filler and talked of making good, well, I just had to draw the line and say Now look I’m awfully sorry but enough is enough, you know? I think his eventual plan was to seal and varnish with three good coats of Ronseal and either sell me to Tate
Modern or else utilize my various immobilized orifices for the storage of MiniDiscs. Finish. No pun intended. Didn’t see him again. You know, just thinking about it, I don’t actually think he was, you know …’

  ‘Oh God I’m so bloody hungry. Was what?’

  ‘Hm? Oh not Simon – I’m not talking about Simon. Stephen – yes? A stockbroker? I don’t actually think now he was …’

  ‘You don’t really need gin, do you Mum? Your mind’s messed up to start with.’

  Jennifer’s new drink arrived, most of it surviving for not very long at all.

  ‘I think he was a rep for something to do with toys. Or maybe a wholesale butcher.’

  The heart of Jennifer’s easy amusement was now and immediately struck down dead. She glanced once and quickly at Stacy with large and fearful eyes, and these were now dragged with massive reluctance upwards and across to where the terrible noise had surely come from – rapidly blinking as if to deny or accelerate her arousal from the worst of nightmares.

  ‘Ah so you did locate the Piano Bar! Well done – ho ho. I knew you would – Aggie was just a little bit on the worried side, but I for myself was unconcerned: no qualms whatsoever.’

  Nobby was beaming as he drew up two chairs and settled Aggie into one of them – all but tucking her in and slipping her a barley sugar, for sucking on the journey.

  ‘How are you both faring, Jennifer? Stacy? Keeping well, I trust. Yes – you will already in this very short time have discovered how very logical and pleasing is the layout of this grand and beautiful vessel. The decks go as follows, starting from the top: Bridge, Signal, Sun, Boat – what’s next, Aggie?’

  Aggie grinned at Nobby, and then turned the full works on to both Jennifer and Stacy in turn. It was as if the four of them had then and there forged and anointed a secret pact, and soon they would be snaffling buns and cooling pies from an unsuspecting window sill.

  ‘Upper and Quarter,’ she said, with the smug pride of the school swot.

  ‘Correct, Captain Honeybunch – you can’t ever catch her out, hey Aggie? Ask her anything. Go on. Anything. Here, love – tell our two friends what is the overall breadth – breadth, mind, of Sylvie? Listen up, ladies.’

  Aggie’s face was near splitting with pleasure. Stacy’s was held as if in a trance, or was maybe stranded amid the initial and irreversible stages of rigor mortis. Jennifer’s face might well be imagined – but overlaid across the signals indicating the likely collapse of all internal organs, rage and a plummeting heart were each flagged up by purplish and then palish dapplings.

  ‘One hundred and five feet and two-and-a-half inches.’

  Nobby cocked his head and winked three times (one for every man jack of you ladies).

  ‘Which is …?’ And his bulbous eyes were egging her on.

  ‘Thirty-two point oh-six metres. Precisely.’

  ‘There you go. What a marvel. Isn’t she a marvel? Be honest. You’re a living marvel, Aggie – Jennifer and Stacy think so, and I know I do. So yes, as I say – Upper and Quarter, as Aggie has informed us – and where we now in fact find ourselves situate. And from hence on down it’s simply One to Seven decks, as you well might expect. We’re on the same deck as yourselves, as it happens. We never pay the prices for the larger cabins, oh no – not us. We love every inch of her, so why trouble? Hey? Why trouble? Which means, of course, that we are down to dine in the selfsame restaurant.’

  ‘It’s very good,’ simpered Aggie, as Jennifer and Stacy’s eyes were drawn and fused, sensing something awful.

  ‘It is,’ allowed Nobby. ‘It’s very good. And better still – it’s all Harry Freemans, barring the shandy to which Aggie is partial – and my glass of Guinness, of course.’

  ‘I’m starving, actually …’ muttered Stacy, plucking at Jennifer’s sleeve.

  Jennifer was immediately standing.

  ‘Yes,’ she rushed. ‘We have to – ’

  ‘Ah well yes,’ agreed Nobby. ‘In fact we have arranged for you a little surprise, haven’t we Aggie?’

  Aggie nodded. ‘Little surprise.’

  ‘I know the head waiter quite well, obviously – we both go way back – and he’s rigged us up a nice little table for four by the window: round job. Maiden voyage – don’t want you two being lonely. They can’t actually just shove the tables together any old how, you know. Oh no. All bolted down, you see – and let’s hope you don’t find out why! Although me – I don’t much mind a bit of pitch and toss. More authentic. You really feel you’re all at sea. So then – will we be off?’

  Nobby and Aggie led the way: Jennifer and Stacy were clustered behind them, and clinging closely.

  ‘I’m not,’ husked out Jennifer – and her eyes were imploring, and nearly tearful. ‘I … just … can’t …!’

  ‘Food, Mum – food. Just think of the food.’ (It’s odd, but for all Mum’s front, she sometimes gets like this, and when she does, you just have to take charge – look after her. I’ll always look after my Mum.)

  ‘But I’ll be sick. I’ll kill him. I’ll be sick – and I’ll kill both of them …’

  Nobby was back and … taking their arms!

  ‘Can’t have you two maidens dawdling about on their maiden voyage, can we? Get it? Maiden, you see. We don’t actually know the full origin of that particular term, if we’re talking gospel. Ships of course are ladies, and I suppose it seemed natural to refer to an untried one – no offence – as a maiden, see? Here we are – lovely restaurant, you’ll love it. Arnold, my dear old mate – are we well? Are we well? But listen, Jennifer – listen to this, Stacy, you’ll be very interested in this. Harry Freemans, yes? You heard I said that? Short while back? Now here is a popular misconception. People generally assume it’s simply a play on the word ‘free’ – as in ‘gratis’, follow? But nothing could be further from the truth. No no no – Harry Freemans was very much a real live living person, and he sounded a very nice cove, to boot.’

  ‘He sounded lovely,’ said Aggie. ‘Jennifer – you have the seat by the window. See all the waves.’

  ‘A very nice cove indeed,’ went on Nobby. ‘Stacy – you happy here? Yes? Prime. Yes – owned a warehouse out Tooley way, you know? Near Tower Bridge, yes? Any seaman who called there with his load was sure of a foaming tankard of finest ale. So free beer, you see, became known as a Harry Freemans.’

  ‘It’s a nice story, isn’t it?’ said Aggie, tucking her napkin into her neckline and scanning the menu. ‘Ooh look, Nobby – they’ve got sardines as a starter.’

  ‘And then, of course, it came to mean free anything …’

  Nobby made quite a business of settling himself down at the very little table, right up close to Jennifer; and then he patted her frozen hand.

  ‘Mm …’ he said with appreciation. ‘I like a nice sardine.’

  PART TWO

  All at Sea

  Dwight had that feeling, you know? You ever had that feeling he’s meaning? Like, when some outta-the-way and big-deal event has finally come a-knocking at the door and still after, hey – how long knowing it was coming? You just ain’t in no kinda state to be taking it on. Like, back home, any of the goddam get-togethers Charlene keeps on fixing – Welcome Home parties, when the kids come on back from college; We Just Wanna Say Hi parties for any new guys to the neighbourhood – plus all the clambakes, cook-outs, cocktails and come-as-you-ares, or maybe just having the Reverend come call. Sometimes, Charlene she hits me with these, jeez – munce back. Sometimes I don’t know nothing about it till the drive’s fulla cars. Either which way, boy, I just feel it done snuck up on me and all I wanna do is high-tail outta there. Sump’n special’s going down, then listen up – I wanna be someplace real plain and homey. I’m done up in a tux and we’re in the rental stretch and going to some goddam five hunnerd bucks a plate benefit dinner (is there any guy in America I ain’t yet benefited?) then what I want is just maybe to slip into jog-pants and a sweat and maybe shoot some pool and have a few beers down at Joey’s, you know �
� kick around stuff with Barney and Harry and the rest of the guys.

  And right now in this lousy stateroom or whatever the hell, I got this feeling all over me. Passed that kinda English pub on the way up here – like the Green Man I never got to see in the Harrods store? And I thought yeah – there I’d like to be, sat up real close to the bar, bowla pretzels, maybe (could be get the lowdown from a fellow American how the Nicks’re doing back home, you know? You get outta touch: on a cruise, you get no nooze). And what am I instead? I’m jammed up against this here wall, baby: seats is all around, but we’re all standing up and holding a glass and everyone’s goddam mouth is open and yapping at the same goddam time. Charlene, she’s talking to the Captain, and she ain’t about to let him go, not for nobody. How many women I seen come up now? All with that pap they put on their eyelids, you know? In the same goddam colour as all the crazy, chi-chi, how-in-hell-much-that-cost-their-husband dresses (just like Charlene – about this I know) and they all come a-sidling up and the Captain, he makes with the glad-hand (and jeez – what kind of a life? Huh? I mean, why in hell don’t he kick his ass upstairs and drive the goddam boat, stead of jerking around with this massa broads?) But does Charlene give a damn? No siree – she’ll let ’em kinda slide in a whiles, and then they’re back outta the circle afore they know what’s hit ’em. Like that maybe is she English woman right this second – look at her go. Guy behind her – he’s just gotta be the husband, right? Looks like he wants to up and plug just either one of ’em.

  I’m sweating like a hog, and ain’t no liquor in my glass. And get this – I’m wearing my Brooks Brothers button-down, here (Charlene ain’t never gonna get me into one of them British, is it German Street, shirts with, like, bones and French cuffs), but what I can’t deny no more is that one more time, baby, I just went up a size. How many times this happen to me in the last couple years? Soon there won’t be no shirt in the world that’s gonna come close to buttoning around this lardy neck I got – but maybe by then, with the good Lord behind me for guidance, I’ll be dead and buried.