A Wide Berth
Stella Whitelaw
© Stella Whitelaw, 2010
Stella Whitelaw has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in .
This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
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To Captain David Warden-Owen and his crew for their skill and seamanship during twenty-four hours of a gale force nine on an unforgettable Friday.
My grateful thanks to
Tanya Whitehurst
Christine Noble
Anna Telfer
James Nightingale
Security Officers whose names are withheld
Valerie Bowes and Diana Green
Ian Green and Charles Thomas
Table of Contents
Casey’s Ten Commandments
1. Acapulco
2. Acapulco
3. Acapulco
4. At Sea
5. At Sea
6. San Juan del Sur
7. Costa Rica
8. At Sea and Fuerte Amador
9. Panama City
10. Panama Canal
11. At Sea
12. Hurricane Ricky
13. At Sea
14. Curaçao
15. At Sea
16. Isla Margarita
17. Mayreau
18. At Sea
19. At Sea
20. At Sea
21. At Sea
22. St Lucia
23. St Lucia
24. At Sea
25. Barbados
Casey’s Ten Commandments
— Always listen sympathetically
— Always listen with patience
— Never look bored
— Never discuss politics or religion
— Never mention illness
— Never ask personal questions — even if the passenger offers answers
— Never boast — exude authority and confidence
— Always be tidy
— Always be sober
— Smile
1. Acapulco
‘Casey, we’re really sorry, but you’ve got to go. We’ve booked the flight. It’s an emergency. We’ve no one else to ask.’
‘This is my leave. I’m on holiday. You know, the time of the year when you don’t do any work.’
‘But we need you. There have been a couple of strange things happening.’
‘I don’t do strange things.’
‘Casey, we are depending on you. It’ll go down well on your record when it comes to the annual review and assessment.’
*
I was born with sea legs but not air legs. The long, cramping, fifteen-hour flight from Gatwick to Acapulco had been purgatory, imprisoned in a seat so small that if there had been the instruction to assume the crash position, it would have been physically impossible. My legs had folded themselves into a concertina and were reluctant to straighten. I didn’t know if I’d be able to walk off the plane.
It was hot. Mexico was hot. Acapulco was a spectacular bay of sand and sea with a surrounding range of mountains. Every grain of sand sparkled. The sea was molten silver. For a moment I stood outside the airport buildings and drank in the rugged vastness of the mountains in the distance, but there wasn’t time for more than a glance. I had to get a taxi to the quayside.
Strange things happening …
*
I am a reluctant investigator, though that’s not what it says on my passport. They flew me out to join the refitted ship Countess Aveline of the Conway Blue Line at a moment’s notice. I was supposed to be on leave. There were two reasons. The ship’s current entertainment director, Tracy Coleman, had gone missing, as had a male passenger.
The two events did not seem to be connected, though the two missing persons may have met on board. Head Office thought I might be able to shed some acceptable light on the mysteries. Their assumption had been based on pure lucky guesses I’d made on two previous cruises on the sister ship, Countess Georgina.
‘My job is to run the entertainment side of cruising,’ I said when Head Office phoned me at my flat in Worthing. I was standing at my fourth-floor window, looking at my distant sea view. I had only bought the flat for the view. It cost a pound a pebble. ‘I’m not a detective. Send in an extra security officer.’
‘Casey,’ said a soothing administrative voice, hired for just such a role. ‘That’s exactly what we want you to do, get the entertainment running with style again. Tracy has been missing for four days, and there’s a slight air of panic in the emails from the ship. That’s why we are flying you out to Acapulco. Is your bag packed?’
‘It’s always packed.’
I had a wardrobe of creaseless cruise clothes that only took moments to fold into my wheelie suitcase. Some of the dresses were vintage, unique, glamorous; in the evenings, I had to look the part.
*
The Countess Aveline was the oldest cruise ship of the fleet and she had recently been refitted to meet current fire and safety regulations. A couple of sun decks had been added and all sorts of luxuries updated, cabins refurnished and public rooms given a facelift. She was still an elegant ship, only much bigger.
She had a proper theatre for the shows with a low-slung balcony and tiered seating. They could fly scenery, stage a circus. I’d seen photographs and I was impressed. It was part of my job to glide onto that stage and announce the evening shows. It was still two shows a night, first and second seating for dinner, and the endless feeding round in the Zanzibar Dining Room and the upstairs Boulevard Café.
Aveline Conway had been eldest of the two daughters of grandfather Jordan Conway, who founded the shipping company, Conway Blue Line. Aveline’s partner had been Royce Quentin, the famous explorer, and the couple travelled the world. I knew all this because I loved the history of the three Countess ships. Each one was different with a distinct style, but all the ships had that elegant bow line and sweeping hull. Grandfather Jordan was long gone, but he would have approved of the changes that his granddaughter Georgina had made to the Countess Aveline.
‘Welcome aboard, Miss Jones. You are Miss Jones, aren’t you? No one told me what you would look like,’ said a young officer, stepping forward to greet me on the quayside. The ship was moored starboard to the pier. They had been expecting me off the Gatwick flight. I didn’t have to go through the tiresome checkin routine that new passengers had to endure. I was crew.
‘Well, now you know,’ I said. ‘And who are you?’
‘I’m a deck cadet,’ he said nervously. ‘No one, really. Everyone else seems to be busy.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being a deck cadet,’ I said. ‘Everyone has to start somewhere.’
‘Follow me, please.’
I followed him up the crew gangway, a steward also following with my suitcase and flight bag. This was service. I was used to carrying my own luggage.
‘When did you get here?’ I asked.
‘This morning. Early. We had passengers to disembark and now we have a new crop arriving. They will be coming on board from mid-morning onwards. I’ll take you to your cabin first and then send someone to take you to the entertainment director’s office. It’s a brand-new office.’ The young cadet seemed anxious to get rid of me. He was nervous. First tour of duty.
‘Lovely,’ I said, with faint enthusiasm. My office on the Georgina had been a couple of crowded rooms backstage. Hardly room to swing a computer.
&nbs
p; The cabin was low down in the deck hierarchy, but it was an outside stateroom with a decent picture window, sitting area with sofa, writing desk and flat-screen television. The bathroom was a dream, laid out with every toiletry known to women, down to cotton buds and emery boards.
‘I hope you will be comfortable,’ said the young cadet, still agitated. ‘Please phone the housekeeper if there is anything you need.’
‘Thank you very much,’ I said. ‘What did you say your name was?’
He hadn’t said. But he had already gone. So had the steward. There was a lot to do with new passengers arriving. At least they had left my suitcase.
As well as being a speedy packer, I could unpack at speed, too. I would be needing an evening dress for the first night, and I shook out my favourite black silk chiffon with the fishtail hem. The show must go on.
There was no point in waiting for someone to escort me to the entertainment director’s office. I had to find my own way around this huge ship. I also had to find the crew office to sign on, get my photo taken for a crew card, sign lots of papers and fill in forms about state of health. Current state of health: worn out.
There was the usual pocket map of the decks tucked into all the cruise literature in my cabin. My office was not on it, of course, but ten to one, it would be near the theatre. I headed in that direction. The theatre was called the Acropolis. The world-wandering Aveline Conway had a lot to answer for.
No time to tidy up beyond a quick brush of my unruly hair. Still light brown with a weird blonde streak at the front. Nature had been playing a trick.
After quite a few false starts along opulent corridors and cul-de-sacs, as well as aimless wandering, I finally hit gold and found the theatre. The plush red double doors were locked. A notice said that a rehearsal was in progress. No admittance.
‘That doesn’t include me, buddy,’ I said to no one in particular, pushing open a side door that had been left unlocked.
I was stunned by the size of the auditorium. It was as big as a small West End theatre. Rows and rows of tiered seats stretched out in all directions, and above circled a balcony with even more rows. It must have been three decks high. It was situated somewhere at the front of the ship, the pointy end being at the back of the stage. I could feel the narrowing shape of the ship within the shape of the theatre.
My office was probably at the pointy end.
There was dancing on stage. Girls and young men in rehearsal clothes were going through their routines, taped music blaring. They were good. Good-looking, too. Lots of blonde hair tied back in ballerina knots. And that was only the men.
I sat down in one of the comfortable seats, glad to rest for a moment. My bad ankle was starting to ache. The theatre was air-conditioned; a relief from the heat outside. The music was lulling me into a false sense of relaxation. Any minute I might fall asleep.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ said an angry voice. ‘No admittance, it says. Can’t you read?’
A man was striding up the central aisle from the stage area. He was medium height, but Stewart Granger handsome, wavy black hair brushed off a square-jawed face. His scowling eyes were dark with anger.
‘Get out, whoever you are,’ he said loudly. ‘No one is allowed in here during a rehearsal.’
‘Please don’t talk to me like that,’ I said. ‘I’ve no intention of getting out. I’m looking for the entertainment director’s office but sat down to watch the dancing for a moment. They are very good. I’m looking forward to this evening’s show.’
I stood up, despite my aching ankle. The flight had made it worse. My rescue remedy was to deny the pain. Tell myself it wasn’t happening.
‘And who are you?’ he asked, thrusting his hands in to his pockets and rocking back on his heels. He was wearing slim white jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt. I could see a glint of gold round his neck. I guessed he was the choreographer.
‘I’m Casey Jones, the new entertainment director. I’ve flown out to replace Tracy Coleman. It was a long flight. I’m tired. So please, I don’t want any hassle.’
He started walking round me like I was some animal on exhibition in a zoo. It was unnerving and hardly courteous. I made a quick decision to keep out of this man’s way for the entire trip.
‘You’re the new entertainment director, did you say? Remarkable. I didn’t know that we needed one. Replacing Tracy Coleman, you say? The young lady that has gone missing? No doubt she’s sunning herself on some beach, stoned out of her tiny mind, surrounded by perspiring local gigolos.’
I liked him even less.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to find my office. There’s probably a pile of things awaiting my attention.’
‘Allow me to show you to the office.’
He was smiling to himself. From that, I should have been warned, but I was only too glad, at last, to be able to dig into some work. Planning the daily activities on board was a complicated job. It was convenient that the Aveline was staying for two days in Acapulco and not leaving until six p.m. tomorrow. It would give me a chance to sort out any problems.
The man in white took me out of the theatre by another side door and along a plush corridor lined with photographs of famous stars and entertainers. Memo to self: take a good look at photos another time. I might be able to use snippets of starry gossip in my introductions.
He opened an unmarked door on the left and walked in. I nearly gasped in amazement. There were three islands of computer desks, each separated by shoulder-height partitions. It was twice the size of my office on the Georgina, as well as air-conditioned, light and airy. None of the desks were occupied at the moment; staff probably supervising deck games or quizzes or taking a few moments ashore.
‘So this is my desk,’ I said. There was a discreet gold name plate with ENTERTAINMENT DIRECTOR on the wide desk to the left. ‘It’s very stylish.’
‘No,’ said the man with some satisfaction. ‘That’s my desk. I’m Pierre Arbour, the entertainment director aboard the Aveline. You are replacing Tracy Coleman, my deputy. Like it or not, you are working for me.’
It was a shock, and I was speechless. I could swear that Head Office said that I was to replace the entertainment director. But I didn’t have a tape of the phone call. I hadn’t made notes. I was the director on the Georgina, the woman in charge of a small but loyal team. The entire entertainment programme was my responsibility and there had been very few hiccups. I could not believe I had been demoted to deputy. Surely there had been a mistake.
‘I was given to believe that I was replacing Tracy Coleman, the entertainment director. No one mentioned you or that I was to be your deputy,’ I said, trying to keep my voice even and reasonable. ‘I am normally in charge. I am the director on the Georgina.’
‘So I’ve heard, but she’s a far smaller ship. This is a big ship, nearly twice the number of passengers, twice the number of activities to organize, West End calibre shows — altogether a different scenario to your previous experience. I doubt if you could handle this on your own.’
Pierre Arbour said this with such arrogance that I felt like flying straight back to the UK. I was so angry, I could have even flown on my own steam. How dare he downgrade my beautiful Georgina, the most elegant ship on the seas.
Hold on, Casey, I said to myself. It’s not forever. This is all training. Pierre Arbour was the most repulsive man I had ever met, but I might learn something from him. And I had to think of that annual review. So I swallowed my pride and nodded in agreement. It was an effort.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘So which is my desk? What do you want me to do?’
He seemed surprised at my sudden capitulation. Perhaps he enjoyed a fight. He pointed to the central bank of computers. ‘Any one of those. You don’t have your own desk. Use what is going. Take a look at the draft for tomorrow’s daily programme and check for mistakes.’
Wonderful. How would I know what was right and what was wrong? Did I have a magic wand that would give me instant knowl
edge of the entire ship and tell me what was supposed to be going on, where and when? I didn’t even know where my cabin was. It might be days before I found the Boulevard Café.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Leave it to me.’
‘Coffee over there,’ he said, leaving with a dismissive wave. ‘Don’t take too long. It has to go down to the printers for distribution this evening.’
This took me back to my early days, when I was the most junior member of the team. The daily programme was a nightmare. It had to tell passengers everything that was going on, from line dancing to art classes, from shows to piano recitals, and from quoits to mini-golf tournaments. And I had to give publicity for all the arrangements for tours so that passengers knew exactly where to assemble and at what time.
I went to the source of all information, a stack of past programmes. This was the middle leg of a long world cruise. It would be making South American ports of call and then some Caribbean islands, including one tiny private island where cruise ships had never called before. That should be interesting.
Despite my tiredness, I had to concentrate. Pierre Arbour was not going to get the better of me. I was going to show him that I could cope and solve those two mysteries. But how? Jet lag was catching up fast. I needed sleep. The computer screen began to blur and my fingers crashed the keys.
So Tracy Coleman had been missing for four days. The ship’s last port of call had been San Francisco, an easy place to get lost. Perhaps she had gone on a harbour cruise under the bridge and a dense fog had suddenly come down, as it does. Maybe she had simply had enough of the arrogant Pierre Arbour. I remembered enough of school French to know that arbour was French, meaning shady place or trellis. That ought to give me enough ideas for a suitable alternative name. Woody was too good for him.
When he introduced himself, he rolled the V of Pierre over his surname so that it sounded like rabrouer, which was French for scold, dress down, snub. Endless possibilities here. This cheered me enormously. Name-slinging should keep me going for the entire cruise.
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