S.O.S.

by Joseph Connolly

  ‘Well … well I suppose I’d think that you were being mugged, yes? And that you were resisting …?’

  ‘Correct. You would assume that. And so would anyone else. The police would, certainly. And if the tall and muscular black man protested his innocence – as in this particular scenario he would be surely bound to do – if he said Oh no, officer, you’ve got this all wrong! This man – he came on to me – was demanding my wallet and everything. Anyone believe him? No. Nobody. Which means that if ever I felt moved to attack just such a person, I could do so with impunity. See?’

  ‘Ye-e-es …’ agreed Marianne, with unease and a huge if unexplained reluctance. ‘But Tom – one point. You are not exactly, are you – Mister Universe? The tall and muscular black man would beat you to a pulp.’

  A flicker of consternation briefly made him wince.

  ‘There is,’ he conceded, ‘that …’

  And God – he nearly smiled.

  ‘Weird, Tom …!’ laughed Marianne. ‘Want that drink now?’

  ‘Drink – yes indeed. I rather think I could go for some orange juice – had a glass this morning: it’s particularly good.’

  ‘Yes – that’s what I … ice, maybe?’

  Tom lost no time in nodding his full-blooded assent to that – even was rubbing his hands together, now, apparently relishing the thought (that just-there half-smile still in place).

  ‘And possibly,’ he added lightly, ‘some soda water, yes? Thin it down.’

  And as Marianne ordered two of those from the so-attentive steward, she had already begun her wander down the avenue of wondering as to just who and what this Tom might be. And now it was evening (and will he? Come to the ball? Will he? I doubt it. He might come, yes, but I doubt it) and still I couldn’t tell you. It’s just like I’ve been walking down some street or other, minding my own business, and I turn a corner and am suddenly confronted with the vision of Tom. And I don’t know him from Adam.

  *

  So now I’m all dickied up in this goddam tuxedo just like I am every goddam night on this goddam tub, and what it was, what I was saying to Charlene – Charlene, listen up: I don’t care too much that the stoopid valet’s always saying he’s a-sponging and a-pressing, this dang suit smells no better than a coyote’s crotch. You go wash out your mouth right this minute, Dwight, is what she’s yelling down my ear. And then I get all this about Jeez, Dwight – it ain’t as if we’re poor, you know? I told you – didn’t I tell you, Dwight? I told you way afore we even got to booking this here: every night they dress formal – kay? So one tux over three munce just ain’t gonna cut it. Yeah so – I tell Charlene what I told her then: ain’t no way, honey, under God’s sun and stars I’m gonna spring for no second tux, and I tell you for why – like, how many times I gonna be wearing one, back in New York? Tell ya how many – zero with one capital zee, baby: ain’t never I’m gonna be dickied up in this dang thing ever again in whatever hell’s left of my life. First thing I do we’re back at home is I torch the mother; so much sweat and anti-sweat spray all over the goddam rag – listen, it’s gonna go up like firecrackers on the fourth of July. And sure I can afford a brand-new tux – you reckon I ain’t aware, Charlene? Hell – I can afford to buy up Saks Fifth Avenue, sweetheart, and the reason for that is I look after the dollars, and I don’t throw ’em around: this, Charlene, I leave to you.

  So anyways, I’m standing here, right – and I’m plumb alongside of Charlene and she’s a-yapping and a-crapping with David’s Nicole and some other goddam wimmin (one of ’em’s Patty – looks OK, but she ain’t no chicken) and this here’s the Viva America Ball, they all kept on telling me – but it sure as hell feels to me like any other goddam night here, but for you gotta do a whole lotta standing up, and all around you got balloons: what’re we – kids? Jeez.

  I kinda figured Dave might be hanging loose, you know? And kinda eager to break out? But I ain’t seen hide nor hair of the guy since we hadda couple drinks roundabout lunchtime. Nicole – she ain’t too pleased this man of hers ain’t shown (hoo boy! I try that on with Charlene, she’s gonna kill me) – and speaking for myself, I ain’t none too sweet neither, on account of there ain’t no one else about this place I wanna jaw with, I bleeve. Sure over there there’s Julie’s Benny – near dying on the floor, sure looks like – but Benny, he don’t hear too good; also he don’t think too good. Let’s face it, guys – Benny ain’t no good for nothing no more: so what you gonna do? So – Dave don’t show real soon, I lose Charlene and I’m like outta here. Also how I figure is this: Earl and Suki, they ain’t around neither. Didn’t even show down at the Grill for sump’n t’eat. Suki, it don’t surprise me none – but Earl, Jesus, when’s that boy not feeding his face? I guess he’s got better stuff to do with his time than hang around his Mom and Dad, huh? His age, I sure as hell did, and that’s a fact – yessir, you better bleeve it. Right now as I’m standing here with a glass of this French lemonade and a-yapping and a-crapping Charlene and all these goddam balloons, that boy of mine could be humping some dang sweet young piece of ass. Funny thing – when you’re a boy, a young man, it seems like everyone else is young too, you know? Leastways, anyone worth hanging with. So the girls you meet at college – young, right? On account of anyone good has just gotta be. It ain’t till you put on a few years – hair’s going grey on ya, and you need around your waist one of them cowhide straps from one of Charlene’s trunks, iffin you wanna keep up your pants. It’s then you get to see that real young girls are kinda like a whole different gender from the crapped-out wimmin they grow up to be. And like a noo and fruity wine, you wanna sip ’em. Yes indeedy. You sure do wanna do that. And my man David – Jesus Aitch Christ: if that guy weren’t telling me no lie, he’s upped and caught hisself one of the sweet little honeys – with her, I guess, long blonde hair bouncing in the sun and her eyes lit up and all, like real foxy diamonds – you know what I’m saying? Warm, slim arms and legs and fingers, all clean and peachy and hot as hell itself. Man … I don’t stop thinking like this I’m gonna turn right round now and kill Charlene for having growed old (and still she’d go on squawking).

  ‘So listen, Nicole,’ was the latest round of yak from Charlene that was filtering across to Dwight, each word squirming its way fitfully through a dense and humid mist that was causing Dwight to drip. ‘Did I tell you how much I am loving your gorgeous dress? Ain’t that dress just to die for, Patty? I can’t recall ever I saw something so lovely as that.’

  And as Nicole flushed hot with raw and deep-felt sheer and downright pleasure at that, she was thinking Oh yes, dear Charlene, you are perfectly right – it is utter heaven, this dress, and you might well have further observed that its cumulative and show-stopping effect is in no small way due to not just the way I carry it (it’s all about knowing exactly how to place one’s feet and hold one’s stance) but also the don’t you think quite inspired accessorization? Yes yes yes – but listen: given all this, could some kind person please explain to me (because I really would, actually, very much like to know, all right?) why all male eyes in the vicinity are upon not me but Pat? Well of course it’s perfectly obvious, isn’t it? (I don’t in truth need a guided tour, here). It’s because, isn’t it, she’s wearing six-inch heels and little more than a sort of powder puff affair and a glorified belt – which apart from being cheap and showy and vulgar and far too young for her is just so wholly and completely wrong: I mean to say, this is a ball, for Christ’s sake – not a fucking pick-up joint! (God I’m angry.)

  Charlene was still beaming all over Nicole, and what lingered in her head – lodged not too far behind the megawatt and starstruck dazzle – was yeah, Nicole, you look OK I guess (leastways you ain’t making with the honeybee like earlier on, yeah? With all the banana and black schtick) – but hey, get real. Like, what are you – picking up a Oscar?

  That thought, and the surrounding bubbly hubbub (as well as the electric organ chorus from Surfin’ Safari) were now cut into by the tinkling of a bell that came f
rom … where was it coming from, actually, thought Nicole distractedly, this rather tinny and irritating noise? Ah yes – over there, I think, up in front of the band on the podium. Still the murmur of conversations rumbled along over and all around her – spiked by the odd whoop and silly drizzling gale of party laughter – but the bell was still clinking away for all it was worth, and gradually the shushing and the hushing began to hold sway, and soon there prevailed the closest to silence you’re ever really going to get at this sort of thing – because there must be just hundreds of people here, you know: hundreds and hundreds, I reckon. Oh look – it’s that rather embarrassing little Assistant something-or-other person, isn’t it? The one that now I come to think of it (oh God I shouldn’t – it’s just too cruel) rather reminds me of those bright red and shiny Peking ducks you see hanging up in all those windows in Chinatown; which is maybe why he chooses to carry through the theme and wear a bird’s nest on his head.

  ‘Good people! Good people!’ Stewart was now braying bravely, his – and yes it did look rather cooked – perspiring face only just about managing to rein in the wilder manifestations of some or other recent and tremulous ecstatic conversion. ‘Little bit of hush, please, ladies and gentlemen … little bit of hush … shh … ssh down, please, ladies and gentlemen …’

  Oh shut the fuck up, you bastards, thought Stewart, with savagery. Christ, it’s not as if any of you’s got anything to say, is it? Bloody hell – it’s normally the actual Cruise Director who does all this (and where is he? Yeah well – you tell me. Where is he ever?). Raises his bloody finger – instant silence. I’ve been making like Quasimodo for the best part of ten minutes with all the bloody bells and here I am now practically pleading with all these sods to cut the yap for just two minutes, can’t you? I’ve got to introduce the bloke who pretends to drive the thing – and the joke is I can barely talk anyway – my lips are completely fucked up from all those bloody balloons.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for your kind attention. Without more ado, it is with great pride and pleasure that I present to you our Captain. Captain Anthony Scar, ladies and gentlemen – please put your hands together for a great big round of applause for the Captain! Yay! Let’s hear it!’

  And people did what they could, give them their due – but it’s never easy, is it? When you’ve got a glass in one hand (and are they coming round, do you suppose? Or is one meant, I don’t know – to go somewhere for a refill?) and in the other a rather odd sort of little pastry and could-be chicken and something else a bit tricky to eat, quite frankly, canapé kind of thing (if I can find an ashtray or a crevice or a plant, I might quite discreetly get rid of it).

  ‘My Lords …’ announced the Captain (and did he glare at Stewart? He might have done) ‘ … Ladies and gentlemen. I won’t break up this magnificent ball for terribly long, so please don’t worry. Well – I hope all of you managed to get up on deck today …?’

  A general and meaningless murmur arose, hung about a bit, and died the death.

  ‘Those of you who did will have enjoyed the most wonderful calm blue sea and, I am reliably informed, plenty of warm sunshine. I wouldn’t know …’ went Captain Scar, now – voice down an octave, merest twinkle in the eyes and one finger pawing the side of his nose as his mouth turned downwards (something by way of a pleasantry was surely on its way, then, was Stewart’s opinion: and if so, get on with it, you cunt). ‘ … I wouldn’t know about that, I’m afraid, because as you all know, I am kept toiling night and day on the bridge …!’

  The usual muted hoo-hah ensued – a clutch of dark and knowing chuckles here, a honked-out chorus of deploring and mock-sympathetic animal noises there: sort of enough.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ came the Captain’s wide-eyed protestation. ‘Well one or two of you must come up and see how the sweat just pours off me! ha ha. But seriously for a minute – I hope you did all enjoy the weather today … because tomorrow and the next day …!’

  And a collective groan rose and fell like a Mexican wave in the last of its death throes – still speckled, though, with clumps of laughter from those who assumed or maybe hoped that here was just another joke.

  ‘No joke, I’m afraid,’ maundered on life-of-the-party Captain Scar. ‘The augurs are not good. I’m not suggesting anything …’ – and here all the nose and fingers, eyes and mouth stuff was hastily reinstated – ‘ … anything, um – titanic …!’

  And wafted over to him were further gales of mirth – though several pockets of quite grim silence were detectable too, as people studied their feet, and those of others.

  ‘ … But nonetheless, I do advise you – and here’s a little something for all you Londoners here tonight – I do advise you to, er, as the old bus conductors used to say while guiding their red double-deckers through a really bad peasouper, ha ha – I do advise you to Hold On Tight! Anyway – enough of all that. We’re all here to enjoy ourselves, yes? So – on behalf of my crew and staff, I wish you all – my Lords – ’ (and did he glare at Stewart? He might have done) ‘– Ladies and gentlemen – a wonderful Viva America Ball, and an equally wonderful crossing – weather or no weather. Music please, Maestro!’

  Yes, thought Stewart, let’s all face the music and dance. The bandleader, Christ help us, has just instructed everyone to take their partners for the foxtrot – which just has to be the blackest joke really, doesn’t it? Most of the people here, on account of free booze, extreme age and often a wholly poleaxing combination of the two, can hardly find it within themselves to maintain the perpendicular. Just look at that ancient old mare over there – would’ve keeled right over if it hadn’t been for one of our eagle-eyed and off-white deejayed minders; they’re gigolos, really – but they double as pretty useful fielders.

  At the first sight of her mother sashaying across the floor with her usual studied elegance, Marianne had thought with a rush Oh God – she’s going to start grilling me about where on earth Dad is, and I don’t know, do I? Haven’t seen him all day long. But now it became quite clear to Marianne that Nicole was not at all intent upon tackling her daughter on this or any other subject – hadn’t even noticed her, it actually looked like: swept right past and on towards the podium. Surely she wasn’t going to ask the band to do a request, was she? (Possibly some romantic thing that reminded her of Dad – something maybe on the lines of Where Do You Go To, My Bastard?) That, anyway, certainly appeared to be her destination – but now Marianne was rather irritatingly distracted by someone or other, oh God – talking to her (and it isn’t Tom, no – it’s some little red-faced fellow with plenty of yellowing teeth) so I can’t, damn, see where she’s gone to, quite, and now I suppose I’ve got to turn and face this new and awful thing, then, have I?

  ‘How do you do it?’ came the man’s rather jovial if guttural enquiry.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  A tremor of uncertainty rippled quite palpably across the man’s brow: he didn’t look so happy, now.

  ‘I am being of so sorrow,’ he hugely regretted. ‘Is that not correct saying? I am from Vienna, yes?’

  ‘Ah!’ went Marianne, as if a true dawning light had spread its glowing mantle upon not just this, but all other conundra the world had to offer.

  ‘Do not you say, How do you do it? You isn’t?’

  ‘I think, maybe,’ smiled Marianne, ‘you mean How do you do. You don’t actually need the ‘it’.’

  The man’s whole forehead was deeply furrowed, now – it was as if he was seriously salting away and maybe filing alphabetically this new and valuable nugget.

  ‘Ah so. To hell with ‘it’. Excelling. I love the London.’

  ‘Do you? Oh good. That’s, um – ’ (I glanced around, just then – God, it’s getting so totally packed in here: completely lost sight of Mum, now: don’t know where on earth she’s got to) ‘ – nice.’

  ‘Best place on vorld to wisit for suitings. I do buy there the ter-vills – yes?’

  ‘Really?’ I have to, thought Marianne, go
now.

  ‘Yes yes. And plus I do buy there the ter-veeds. Some have bones of herrings. Some have eyes of birds and tooths of dog. One is checked by Prince of Vales!’

  ‘Really? I have to, I think, go now. Sorry …’ she smiled, as she began to squirm her way back into the throng and away.

  The man was beaming at her – and now as she receded, he raised up two waggling fingers in a gesture of farewell.

  ‘How do you do!’ he called after her. ‘How do you do? Yes? To hell with ‘it’!’

  I think, thought Marianne, that could be Mum – way over there past that extraordinary ice sculpture thing (could be a dolphin, I think – but it’s a bit melted, now). Needn’t be her – only caught a glimpse – but I might as well make for that particular dot on the horizon: there’s nobody else here I know. But ‘Hi-i-i …!’ was crooning a big brown voice right into her ear; she turned, and there was the big brown face it had surely come from.

  ‘Derek – hi. My name is Derek. Believe in getting all that sort of thing out of the way at the onset. I’m in property. Well – I say property: what I actually do is buy to sell. Yes? Location, of course – well, I expect you know that. Tend to go for the smaller period properties – right area, but just a leeedle bit out of the way, you know? A mews is favourite, but it’s getting to be like gold dust, quite frankly. Basically, you want a couple of Cretan olive jars – big bastards. You slap one of these each side of the front door, chuck in the bay trees and already you’re looking at kudos: money in the bank, you want the God’s honest truth. Other thing you got to remember is neutral, yeh? You go neutral with your colours, else it’s a bugger to shift. Plus, these days you need a kitchen that looks like a bloody operating theatre. Kraut job. Crazy, really – not one of those City boys and their tarts know how to boil a bloody kettle.’

  And then the big brown face split into a huge and tongue-laden leer that was so utterly and frankly terrifying that Marianne felt herself positively flinch.