S.O.S.

by Joseph Connolly

  Oh boy – now it’s the tanned guy with the blond bouffant coming right at me: Hi, there, Mister Johnson, he’s gonna go …

  ‘Hi, there, Mister Johnson! Doing OK?’

  ‘Hi, Stoo. Yeh yeh.’

  And Stewart smiled broadly and then he turned away and his face hooded over and he thought Bloody rude and ungrateful sods.

  And jeez! Did you get what that stoopid woman just said to the guy who could, I dunno, be the English dame’s husband? Poor schmuck – he maybe dealt with it all in just about the only way a man can do:

  ‘I really love, actually,’ the youngish woman was fluttering to David, ‘biblical names, you know?’

  David stared at her momentarily, before behaving like an Englishman who had inadvertently glimpsed something not intended for his eyes, and immediately reverted his quite glazed gaze to the alluringly distant door: and there was longing in those eyes.

  ‘I mean, real biblical names – yes? I mean, your name – David, yes?’

  David dragged back his whole skull and distantly focused on one of her ears. Was he really now meant to say Yes? I mean – was he really? She had just a minute before asked him his name and he had replied David, is my name: David, yes (at least the question hadn’t been tricky), and now she was requesting verification. This must, then, must it, be what he vaguely recalled as chit-chat. Party gabble. Small-talk (a thing that always had defeated David – along, of course, with big talk too).

  ‘Yes …’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ the woman approved. ‘But I mean sort of – more real, you know? Obadiah? Yes?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘And, um – Ezekiel. That’s biblical, isn’t it?’

  David felt panicked and wild. Got to leave, now. Can’t think why I’m here. Got to now leave. I’ll tug, will I, at Nicole? Will she kill me if I do that? Or shall I just go? No – if I do that, she’ll kill me. I’ll risk just touching her shoulder.

  ‘Well I think,’ Nicole was gushing, ‘that the whole idea is ravishing – simply enchanting … ah, David. Captain – I’d like you to meet my husband. This is David. David – our Captain.’

  Oh God, thought David – I’m in even deeper, now: I seem to be about to talk to the man we came to see (which was never, I don’t think, a part of my plan).

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Greetings, David!’ practically bellowed the Captain, most of the bits of his quite brown face eagerly cavorting all over the place in their efforts to please – to convey not just welcome and animation, David could only assume, but the sort of electrifying fascination that could easily leave one glassy-eyed and mute – a spent and burnt-out wreck. ‘Many congratulations on your stupendous prize – and welcome to the Transylvania. I hope you won’t be disappointed. As I said to your charming wife, all my staff and crew are at your disposal. And now – do you good people by any chance happen to know what day this is?’

  Nicole was momentarily thrown, but her ecstatic grin was still stuck firmly in place, baring the teeth, while behind her eyes the bell rang to signal the start of a rapid bout of wrestling.

  ‘Tuesday, isn’t it …? David? Isn’t it Tuesday? You so lose track …’

  He doesn’t, David was thinking, look much like a captain – let alone the Captain of a ship this size: his hair isn’t white, and he hasn’t got a beard. And nor, good God, is he gruff: I’ve seen more sullen people got up in a ginger fright wig and vast polyester loon pants (not, it again occurs to me, at all unlike Nicole’s berth-lounging combo) twisting about squelching and sausagey balloons at a nine year-old’s knees-up.

  The Captain, maybe sensing that David was in a palsied or maybe even drunken state (God I wish!) rattled along with the gist of whatever this deeply tedious thing might turn out to be, while somehow even managing to notch up the delirium stakes a ratchet or two.

  ‘Ah yes Tuesday – but not just any Tuesday!’

  No, thought David with deep and gathering gloom – because we are still a part of, aren’t we, this Day of All Days? And those few large Grouses are wearing off fast, I can tell you that – and all they seem to be offering at this quite ludicrous party is all this endless champagne, and God it’s gassy, that.

  ‘Not …?’ tried Nicole – and even she was getting a wee bit tired of it, David could tell.

  ‘C’mon, Captain,’ zipped in another voice. ‘Don’t you be cheating on your lil Charlene, now! You just know you’re my best man …’

  Nicole was thinking What a rude woman. David was thinking Good God, how is it possible that anyone on earth can actually sound like that (unless they were earnestly vying for the part of the fan-fluttering saloon bar hostess in a remake of Gunsmoke)?

  The Captain elongated his blazingly energetic grimace of joy so as to easily encompass the whole bang shoot of them – and maybe, by way of a finale, gobble them all up.

  ‘Well I’ll tell you,’ he finally conceded – and Dwight heard that bit (he had actually been thinking Yeah – and the waist in my pants: this too I gotta get fixed – feels like a goddam vice). So yeah – he just caught that bit, and what he muttered was Hally-fuckin-looya. But still this Captain of ours is taking time out for effect – or maybe waiting for another shoal of big-eyed broads to swim on under that net of his. There were two of them just alongside of Dwight who were certainly closing in (the crazy-looking one, he had only recently flinched from hearing, had been screamingly assuring the other that she had been in the world of fashion, please believe her, for such absolute yonks that she could remember not only when grey became the new brown, but even when backs had been dubbed the new cleavage).

  ‘Eighty-nine years ago this very night,’ announced the Captain delightedly, ‘the Titanic went down.’

  For just the beat of a heart, the bray and sizzle of the party all around them was all that was heard: for just that instant, it was as if everyone within hearing had been slammed in the mouth with the iron-shod hoof of a run-amok mustang – but almost immediately, then, there emerged a rippling succession of joshing comments and self-declamatory laughter, as glittering female eyes peeked over stiff and cradled fingers and grew large in panto-incredulity. The welcome result of this whole silly farce from David’s point of view was a surge of not just pathetically agog and yes, good Christ, exceedingly infantile and tell-me-more enthusiasm – but also the press of surrounding bodies, along with quite a few more from the wider shores, which enabled him to ease himself back and out of the throng quite unobtrusively, and with a relief that came as close as anything to making him pleased. Right, then: let’s survey the situation. Marianne seems quite deep in conversation over there, more or less where we left her, with someone or other … Rollo’s chatting up yet another bird in the corner. God curse him (Christ Almighty – wasn’t the bargirl enough for him, bastard?), and Nicole, well, she’s just never going to be hauled away from the Captain, is she? Not that I feel consumed by any urgency at all to do the hauling. So she seems to be there for the duration – unless, of course, Calamity Jane there sees fit to draw on her a Colt, and fill her full of lead. So all in all, time I think to wander. Quick couple, and then meet them all down at dinner, I think is favourite. You know … just glancing across at Marianne again, it looks like that man … that man in black, she’s talking to. Mm.

  ‘This one hell-hole, or what?’

  David turned to the sound of this, seemed to him, quite human voice, and grinned his complicity at the large and fleshy man there.

  ‘Hate this sort of thing,’ said David.

  ‘Check. Name’s Dwight. You with her, right?’

  And David followed the trajectory of Dwight’s sideways neck jerk, the virtual arc coming to rest on a rapturous Nicole.

  ‘Right,’ agreed David.

  ‘Yeah. Mine’s in there too, someplace. What is it with women?’

  David shook his head. This was either the most insignificant or hugest question in the whole wide world – anyway unanswerable and usually best ignored (and certainly now).

  �
��David,’ he said, extending his hand – which was firmly gripped and at once released. ‘Anywhere we can get a decent drink round here, do you know?’

  ‘You reading my mind, boy. Wanna beat it?’

  David caught Dwight’s eye, and met a keen twinkle there. He exhaled very heavily, as if newly liberated.

  ‘Very much,’ he said.

  And just at that moment – wouldn’t you bloody know it – Nicole and Charlene hove jointly into view, each of them instinctively curling possessive fingers (their tips so brightly japanned) around the forearms of their two respective soulmates in the journey of life (it seemed almost as if they had been programmed to do this).

  ‘You two boys making mischief?’ demanded Charlene – archly, it maybe was: roguish, might well have been the overall intent. Either way – to David, here was nothing short of the worst sort of pain.

  ‘Tracks,’ said Dwight, ‘is what we’re making, hon. This here’s David.’

  As Charlene gabbled her unspeakable delight at that; Nicole held out her hand to Dwight, while hissing quite unkindly at David:

  ‘You might at least introduce me, David. Hello, Dwight – how do you do. I’m Nicole. Charlene was telling me you don’t share our enthusiasm for the Royal Navy – our boys in blue. Is that right?’

  ‘Tain’t just your navy – I just don’t got a lotta time for navies, period. Army – that’s more a man’s life, far as I can see it.’

  ‘Dwight,’ smiled Charlene, ‘is a Vietnam Vet. Right, Dwight?’

  And Nicole’s eyes were huge with approval.

  ‘Oh I’m so terribly glad to hear that. Oh I think that’s just wonderful.’ And then to David: ‘Did you hear that, David?’ (And he had, of course.) ‘I just think it’s so marvellous that somebody takes the time to worry about all those poor little animals in that terribly odd little country. Do you not find it a bit inconvenient? Living there? Did that war thing affect it awfully?’

  Dwight looked right at her – and David said very quickly (and for both their sakes):

  ‘Drink?’

  Dwight nodded briefly. ‘You got it.’

  *

  Marianne was standing up on tiptoe, the better to try for some sort of view over both dark and colour-clad shoulders, as well as in between all the bobbing heads. She glimpsed her father ducking off and out with some really big-looking guy. Rollo and her mother she seemed to have lost sight of, for now.

  ‘I think,’ she said – with what to Tom came across as sincere regret, or at least a degree of reluctance, ‘I’d really better be going, now. My parents …’

  Tom nodded, quite understanding.

  ‘Yes yes. I quite understand. I’ve enjoyed very much, this – our little talk. I – ’

  ‘It’s just that I said I’d meet them all for dinner about now, you see – my brother’s here too and – oh, I’m so sorry: what were you saying?’

  ‘Hm? Me? Oh no, nothing – nothing at all. I was simply going to say that I hope, er – that is, if you’re not too busy on this, uh – voyage, that maybe we might possibly …’

  ‘Talk again? Oh yes – I’d love that. Truly.’

  Tom dared to look at her.

  ‘Really?’ he said, quietly.

  Marianne was looking for somewhere to lay down her glass. Yes – she was doing that, but also she was using the spliced-in sliver of time to examine her feelings: So – really? Truly? Would I love that?

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you. Bye, Tom.’

  Yes, she thought, as she squeezed her way through the I suppose now slightly thinning out crowd, smiling her apologies – yes, I would love that. But I honestly – and this is funny (isn’t it funny?) – can’t quite explain to me why.

  ‘Hi, there! My name’s Stewart – Assistant Cruise Director. Doing OK?’

  And shortly after, Stewart turned off the dazzle at the mains as he veered off, scowling: Bloody rude and ungrateful sod – all he did was just stare at me and go mmm.

  Yes, that was all Tom did – because he was intent on not simply keeping watch on Marianne’s retreat and the flurry of her hair as she continued to weave her way towards the door, but also to retain for a few more seconds the fleeting scent of her, the still mutual air their breaths had disturbed; there was a blur of her and others, and then she was lost to sight.

  The very first thing I said to that girl – do you know what it was? I can barely believe it. She said to me hello (why did she do that?) and I replied Oh good evening: my wife, you know, has died – yes, quite recently. And she did not run nor even wince – she did not nod and pat me and move away, no she did not: she stayed and talked to me. No one – since – has done that. No one – since – has even touched.

  *

  ‘Mm,’ went Nobby, eyes now closed as he viciously rubbed sideways and then back again at his mouth with a napkin, for all the world as if to thoroughly rid himself of any remaining traces of a leprous kiss. ‘That was, if I’m any judge, a very fair ice cream.’

  Through lips so compressed that words barely made it, Jennifer said We Have To Go. Now.

  Stacy was up and eyeing her mother with concern; she had been silent for the better part of a course-and-a-half, Jennifer, and this could never be a good thing.

  ‘Course,’ continued Nobby, quite genially, ‘because I’m so pally with the head waiter, as you maybe have divined, he can usually be relied upon to afford us three scoops each.’

  ‘Two is standard,’ put in Aggie, with quiet and glowing pride.

  ‘Got to go,’ said Jennifer – standing now, and dangerously looming.

  ‘I haven’t enjoyed a meal so much,’ expanded Nobby, ‘since – do you recall it, Aggie love? At the Round Table, must it have been Michaelmas time?’

  ‘Ooh yes,’ enthused Aggie. ‘Very tasty indeed.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Nobby. ‘They laid on a very nice buffet fork supper with cash bar afterwards. Quite choice. Particularly partial to the shrimp.’

  ‘I’m going,’ said Jennifer – very firmly and, to Stacy’s ears, a bit too loud (and yes it was true – inquisitive heads were making quite a show of refusing to quite revolve). ‘I’m going just anywhere – not our poxy cabin because there’s no room in there to swing a bloody cat, but somewhere, anywhere, in order to quickly become at the very least half slewed. Comprendo?’

  Nobby blinked up at her.

  ‘Nautical term, as it happens – swinging a cat. Doesn’t refer to the feline of the species, naturally, but the somewhat barbaric old cat-o’-nine-tails. Very nasty. One needed five-and-a-half feet swinging clearance, we learn – ’

  ‘Stop it!’ snapped Jennifer. She was eyeing him so coldly. ‘Stop it, please, or else I shall kill you.’

  Nobby and Aggie’s wide-eyed faces were nonetheless impassive as they watched them leave.

  ‘Well,’ said Aggie – and Nobby nodded to that.

  ‘First-night nerves, I expect,’ he allowed. And then more dreamily: ‘Half slewed, yes – shame she didn’t tarry to hear the origins of that one …’

  And Aggie was animated. ‘Oh I know – don’t tell me. When the yards that carry the sails are said to be ‘half slewed’, yes? It means they are not properly braced to catch the wind, and are hence rendered ineffective.’

  ‘Prime, Aggie: prime. Whereupon they sway and shake, of course, and from this we derive the image of tipsiness. Quite, yes yes. Talking of which, I might just allow myself a small tot of rum – and then it’s early for Bedfordshire, if I’ve any say.’

  Aggie smiled her agreement. ‘I’m all for that. Quite pooped. Pooped, Nobby – yes? The overwhelming effect of a huge wave that breaks across the stern or poop deck. How’s that?’

  Nobby gazed at her in full admiration.

  ‘Captain Honeybunch – as I live and breathe, you’re a walking marvel.’

  And Aggie went pink and curled up in delight.

  *

  Stacy was really struggling to keep up with her, but she couldn’t just let her go – not
when she was like this. She upped the pace into a canter.

  ‘God’s sake, Mum – slow down, can’t you? How much further? You don’t even know where you’re going … !’

  ‘Just follow – we’ll find something.’

  Oh yes, absolutely – on that particular point Jennifer was totally determined. She had of course rejected all thoughts of the bloody Piano Bar out of hand as that was where she had hit and then got gummed up in the terrible web relentlessly spun by Nobby and Aggie – and who was to say they would not return there to haunt and plague them and suck her even drier? Jennifer was not pledged to the committal of murder, not wholly, but neither was she over eager to lay herself bare to appalling temptation. The Zip Bar was briefly seen to be a possibility, but it looked both pricey and poncey and was anyway quiet and decorous and Jennifer badly needed to rip something up. The Black Horse pub would have done at a pinch, except that a band of drunkish men were larging it down the other end and horsing around with a karaoke mike – which needn’t have been an altogether damning thing in itself, except that every single one of them was old and short and fat (and if by way of a wager they had all chipped in their collective reserves of remaining hair, it might just have run to sufficient for a halfway decent weaver to cobble up a fanny wig).

  And then she glimpsed and was caught by the blue-green neon glowing in the not too far distance: Great, we’ve found it – at last, thank Christ.

  ‘This is it, Stacy – Regatta Club, get ready: here we bloody come.’

  ‘Hi!’ boomed Stewart in welcome, just as Jennifer was veering inwards. ‘My name’s Stewart – Assistant Cruise Director. Doing OK?’

  Jennifer barely glanced over as she told him to go and fuck himself, and Stacy skittered on into the club at her mother’s heels as Stewart turned away, glowering, and stamped off muttering blackly from behind his tight shut pearly teeth.

  *

  ‘God – I see what you mean,’ half-roared Rollo, ‘about the music…’