A Wide Berth

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘Tracy Coleman wasn’t that discreet. She made sure that everyone knew what a pain in the rear side Monsieur Pierre Arbour could be. He’s two-faced. So charming to all the passengers, officers, company directors, onshore officials, anyone who might further his career. But anyone below his status gets a raw deal.’

  ‘I thought it was just me, because I’m new. And also because I do have the same senior position on the Countess Georgina,’ I said. ‘I’m only here temporarily till they find someone to replace Tracy.’

  ‘Do you? That’s interesting. That’s not what he said in the officers’ mess at supper tonight. He said you were a new recruit and hardly knew what you were doing. Your programme drafts were a mess and you had no idea how to introduce the entertainers. You’d apparently made a haystack of the Russian’s concert this evening, and Romanoff cancelled the second performance as a protest.’

  I slipped in a CD of Status Quo and turned the volume up. It was mainly so that any explosion of anger couldn’t be heard. ‘That’s completely untrue,’ I said, fuming. I was so angry, I could feel my temperature rising and my heart thumping. ‘The concert went like a dream. I said all the right things. Romanoff didn’t say much afterwards, but then he was completely exhausted. He only said he was too tired to play any more and went to his cabin.’

  ‘He never says much. That’s why I was surprised to hear that he had complained. It’s not like him at all. He lives only for his music. He wasn’t even listening to whatever you said.’

  ‘I made a suitable announcement in the Cairo Lounge later and everyone was most sympathetic. His shirt was soaked. You should have seen him.’

  ‘The man lets his music talk for him.’

  That was a surprising comment, almost poetic for a sailor. I was liking the chief engineer even more. He would know how to mend things, how things worked, keep the engines going till I got my orders to fly home.

  Edmund Morgan strolled into the disco. It was the last place I expected to see him. His ears were curling, so I turned down the volume.

  ‘We don’t do requests,’ I said. ‘No Elgar or Gershwin in the stack.’

  ‘Ah, what a pity. I fancied a few bars of Rhapsody in Blue,’ he smiled. It was the nearest Edmund had even got to a joke. ‘I got a message on my voicemail that you wanted to see me.’

  I nodded. ‘It’s not desperately important and rather sad, really. But I think I’ve spotted one of the quiz teams cheating. They’ve some ear device that they can use to contact and get answers from someone situated elsewhere on the ship.’

  ‘It’s called Phone a Friend,’ said Daniel, ordering a beer for Edmund. ‘Would you like a drink, Casey, while I have the barman’s attention?’

  ‘It’s probably Bluetooth,’ said Edmund, who seemed to know about modern technology. ‘Clever stuff. Pretty expensive. It’s an open wireless protocol for exchanging data over short distances from fixed or mobile devices, creating personal area networks.’

  ‘Orange juice, please, with ice. Thanks. Bluetooth? I believe I’ve heard of it. Is there anything we can do about these people? There are six of them. Five at the quiz in the lounge and one more, the Bluetooth fairy, listening somewhere at the other end.’

  ‘The trouble is, if I warn them off, they may not come to the quiz evenings any more. Worse still, they may not return to Conway as passengers again. So the company loses money, rather than merely a few bottles of champagne.’ Edmund licked off the rim of foam from his mouth.

  This didn’t seem fair to me. ‘But there’s also the other quiz competitors to think about. The genuine winners are not getting a fair chance. The bottle of bubbly might be one of the high points of the cruise to them. Never won anything before, type of memory. I once won an old Scottish pound note, mounted in a frame. I hung it on a wall because I was proud of it.’

  Daniel Webster was grinning. ‘And what did you do to win that rare note?’ he asked.

  ‘I made up a limerick. You know, one of those five-liners. It began There was an old lady of Sutton, who suddenly sat on a button. I can’t remember any more of it. I think the last line had the word glutton or mutton in it.’

  Daniel sighed. ‘Stick to introducing Russians, if I were you.’

  ‘Leave the quiz cheats to me,’ said Edmund. ‘We’ll think of something subtle. It will come in a flash. Maybe we can fix up some interference.’

  Both Daniel and Edmund drifted away after finishing their drinks. It had been another long day. I closed the disco at one in the morning. The barman needed his sleep. There were a few murmurs of discontent, but I smiled and said that I didn’t have Gary’s stamina. He could keep the disco going to any hour, apparently.

  Sleep was of the essence. I still hadn’t caught up. It would take several more days, and these late-nights were lethal. I wondered what Peter-pecker would have in store for me tomorrow — no, it was today already. No doubt he would think up something diabolical. It was another full day at sea, so he would have plenty of opportunity. No chance of jumping ship.

  I was deep in some weird dream about packing when my bedside phone began to ring. At first I ignored it. Then I fumbled with the receiver, not to listen, but to take it off the hook. But half of my brain was functioning, and I heard Edmund Morgan’s voice. He sounded shaken.

  ‘Casey, Casey? I’m really sorry to wake you, but something has happened. Something pretty nasty. Can you come? No uniform, just a tracksuit or something. I’ll come and fetch you. Five minutes.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘I need to have a witness. Preferably female, discreet.’

  ‘Why not one of the nurses?’

  ‘The nurse on night duty can’t be spared. She can’t leave her patients. It wouldn’t be ethical.’

  ‘All right. Five minutes. This had better be good.’

  ‘Good, it isn’t.’

  It was nearly three in the morning. The witching hour. The ship was quiet and empty, only the night crew on duty. The army of cleaners had not yet started their dawn combat assault on dust and germs.

  ‘Do I have to do this?’ It was the small hours, but I tried to look stunning in a dark apricot tracksuit, white trainers and a short, white cardigan. My streaky hair was tied back with a turquoise and apricot bandeaux scarf. I was the fastest dresser in the west and you never knew who you might meet.

  It was quite a surprise.

  Almost a collision. He was coming round a corner, head down in a file. Officer status, loads of gold braid. He looked as if he had been up all night, too.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said automatically. I even say sorry to automatic doors if I make them waver.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said in a voice so dark and deep, it was almost like wading in treacle. I looked at the officer with interest, although there wasn’t really time to take in much about him. At a quick reckoning, he was about my height, well built but athletic, crew-cut dark hair and a lot of stubble. I wondered if he was growing a beard. I couldn’t see his eyes properly, but I thought I caught a flash of blue. Edmund was hurrying me along the corridor.

  ‘Up late, sir?’ asked Edmund.

  ‘Navigational problem. We were heading for Hawaii instead of Nicaragua. All sorted.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ The officer strode past, then turned back, looking straight at me. ‘Don’t often see a vision at this hour of the night.’

  ‘I’m into visions,’ I said pertly.

  I waited until he was well out of hearing. ‘Well, who was that sailor sorely in need of a shave?’

  Edmund looked surprised. ‘Didn’t you know? Of course not, you haven’t been to any of the parties. That was the captain. Captain Luke Wellington. Boots to his friends.’

  I tried not to laugh. Everyone got nicknames on board ship. I didn’t yet know what they were calling me. One day someone would let it slip. Nutcase would be a good one.

  We were in a recognizable corridor, cabin numbers in the low five hundreds. We were going to Tracy Coleman’s cabin, 516. Edmund s
topped outside, key card in his hand.

  ‘I have to warn you,’ he said. ‘You won’t like this.’

  *

  The cabin had been partially tidied and cleaned up. I hoped Edmund Morgan had remembered to get photographic evidence. No one would have believed us without some photos. I followed him into the small adjoining bathroom. At first sight it looked the same. Cosmetics everywhere and writing on the walls.

  I glanced down. The toilet bowl was full of blood. Some of the splashes were dark and congealing. It was sickening.

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t like this before,’ I said, taking a few deep breaths and turning away.

  ‘Perhaps the lid was down. It’s not something that would register.’

  ‘Has the doctor seen this?’

  ‘The doctor’s coming. Urgent cabin call first. Elderly couple taken ill on A deck.’

  ‘Who reported this?’

  ‘The cabin steward who came in to clean. A young man called Abraham.’

  ‘Why did he leave it till now to report it?’

  ‘There was some misunderstanding.’

  I went back in to the cabin and sat down on Tracy’s bed. It had been freshly made up. The tumble of shredded sheets had gone. ‘There could be a perfectly normal explanation,’ I said. ‘Tracy could have had a very heavy period. Some young women do. That’s why women call it ‘the curse’.’

  Edmund’s face flushed, embarrassed. I looked away. Some men never got used to hearing about a woman’s cycle. He had that unmarried, unattached look. A man in his forties who had lost his way. No Mrs Morgan around with a book.

  ‘Er, yes, of course. That could be an explanation.’

  ‘The other explanation is not so straightforward.’ It had to be said. I had seen it in my flat-sharing days, long ago when I was a ballet student. Dancers were always beautiful. They had hundreds of admirers. They were also always starving.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘It could be a miscarriage. A miscarriage entails a lot of blood, pain. A woman in pain might be in agony, sitting on a toilet seat.’

  I had gone too far. Edmund Morgan looked sick. ‘We’ll wait for the doctor,’ he said. ‘We won’t make any guesses.’

  ‘If this is the case, then the young woman needs attention. Tracy may be still haemorrhaging. An unattended miscarriage is serious.’

  He went pale. ‘You mean, she could be on board ship even now, somewhere, bleeding away?’

  ‘She’s probably passed out by now. We have got to find her. And she hasn’t got her inhaler. But firstly, we need the doctor to examine the contents of the toilet bowl. Don’t let anyone flush it.’

  Edmund went even paler. I was beginning to feel sorry for him. He needed fresh air, coffee, a lecture on female endurance. Some men have no idea.

  ‘Let’s lock up and leave it to the doctor,’ I went on. ‘There’s nothing we can do except search the ship from bow to stern, every inch. We must find her. Upstairs and downstairs. She could be anywhere, collapsed. In a cupboard, a store room, an unused office. Tracy Coleman has to be found. Can we get help?’

  ‘I’ll speak to the chief steward about a search.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What about Pierre Arbour? What shall I tell him?’

  ‘Say anything. Scare the daylights out of him. She’s a member of his staff.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure,’ said Edmund, recovering his colour. ‘That man is not exactly my favourite person. He has several times been extremely rude about the role of the security officer.’

  ‘I can imagine. He deserves some straight talking.’

  ‘Straight talking. I can do that. I’m your man.’

  I doubted it.

  6. San Juan del Sur

  I did not expect to be allowed to go ashore at San Juan del Sur. Permission came as a surprise. Tenders were being lowered into the sea. There was no quay long or sturdy enough to accommodate our ship. We were anchored offshore, with the tenders busily ferrying everyone ashore. Two days at sea was enough. Nicaragua was a new port of call for the Conway Blue Line.

  Once ashore, I realized why Pierre had so graciously given me time off. There was nothing here. There was nothing to see beyond a wide stretch of flat creamy-yellow sand and a half-built promenade with a few small palm trees waiting to be planted. Behind the fringe of trees was a desolate landscape of high bare hills, rocks and rubble.

  A road pitted with potholes and wrecks of cars ran alongside the beach. Shanty huts with bare yards, not a blade of grass or flower, not even a hen or two pecking the dust. Lines of closed bars and cafés showed that this had once been a thriving seaside town. The few bars that did open onto the beach with verandas and umbrellas were not busy. I didn’t see a single shop selling anything.

  Our passengers were immediately drawn to the local market close to the quay where the tenders tied up. Steel-band music and colourful stalls worked a small magic. But there was a limit to the hats, ceramics, Tshirts, straw bags and carved wooden objects that anyone could buy.

  Beyond the market stalls was the real San Juan del Sur. It was so sad. There was one hotel, a two-storied Colonial-style building with well-watered lawns. I could not find a bank or telephone office, nor any school as far as I could see.

  ‘You buy?’ said a small entrepreneur. She was clutching some roughly carved wooden ducks. They were hideous. No way could I buy one, however sympathetic I felt. ‘One dollar?’ she added.

  She was about five or six years old, in a ragged pink dress that had once had cheap embroidery along the hem. She was dark-skinned with long, plaited hair and bare feet. One dollar was nothing in today’s exchange rate.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said, feeling absolutely mean and wretched.

  The beachfront road had not been repaired by their council for years. It was the most dismal walk with nothing to enjoy. The broken kerbs were a hazard. Flood drains pitted the roadside, subsiding into holes.

  Guests at the white hotel were not using the beach, but were instead draped round the hotel pool under sunshades and with drinks in hand.

  Some passengers had not left the market. One look at the derelict beachfront, and they were queuing up for the next tender back to the ship. There was little to buy, little to drink, little to see. I felt desperately sorry for the inhabitants. They relied on cruise ships for some income.

  I walked along the beach, slapping on the factor 30. The waves were rolling and gentle over a shallow beach. It would be perfect for swimming. But no one was swimming. No one would catch me as the first to disrobe.

  Many of the tour buses were returning early because of the impassable roads and abandoned tours. Some of the buses had broken down. Thank goodness I was not a tour escort today. They were having a hard time. It was a quagmire of discontent.

  ‘Can I help?’ I asked a harassed escort. She wasn’t trained for this. She was a guest lecturer on modern art who had volunteered in a weak moment and was rapidly regretting it.

  ‘Can you help me keep this queue in some sort of order for getting on a tender? Wheelchairs first. It’s so hot, everyone wants to get back to the ship.’

  ‘Have you any bottles of water?’

  ‘This hamper is full.’

  ‘I’ll dole them out and keep everyone back in the shade of the stalls while you get the wheelchairs on first. The doctor will not want an epidemic of heatstroke.’

  My skin was burning. Thank God for my hat. There were a few red faces and arms. I spotted knees and bald heads that would be painful by the evening.

  ‘One dollar, Missy?’ It was the little girl in pink again with her crudely carved ducks. This time I bought two of them. Perhaps two dollars would put flip-flops on her bare feet. She flashed me a big smile and darted away to catch another passenger.

  I stayed onshore until every passenger was safely aboard a tender taking them back to the ship. Exhaustion moved in faster than my sunburn. Now I was certain why Pierre had given me the morning off. He was on deck, in th
e cool, in the shade, already enjoying his second Pimm’s of the day, chatting up some lonely lady.

  The last tender was crowded and I was the last person on board, sitting on a side seat near the entrance. The spray was cooling and the breeze invigorating. I breathed in the fresh air from the open windows of the tender. It was bliss to go back to air-conditioning, food and running water. Call me a fraud.

  That little girl would think she had gone to heaven if she were with me. What could I do with the ducks? No place for them in my bathroom.

  *

  There was a message on my answer phone from Edmund Morgan, asking me to phone him as soon as I got back.

  ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘The doctor confirms.’

  Confirms what? Edmund didn’t say. Was it a heavy period or a miscarriage? I had to know; it was serious. The stewards might not have taken the search seriously.

  ‘Confirms what?’

  ‘A miscarriage of sorts, I think. Of course, Tracy may still have got off at Acapulco and is recuperating in a small hotel.’

  ‘She is still aboard ship. I checked the bathroom when I found her inhaler and, apart from the chaos, it was not the scene of a miscarriage. The miscarriage has happened since. It’s recent. She must be hiding out somewhere.’

  ‘Perhaps she went back for her inhaler,’ Edmund suggested. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. Got to do my daily round. It’s expected.’

  He did a round? It was archaic. A spontaneous, unexpected appearance would keep the crew on their toes. The passengers barely knew who he was. The khaki uniform confused them.

  I had not met the ship’s doctor. Dr Samuel Mallory on the Georgina was a special friend of mine. He was gorgeous and the toast of all the unattached female passengers. It was a wonder he had any time at all for the medical centre. They besieged him at every corner, every bar, every port of call. Some invented minor ailments just for a few minutes of his bedside manner. I knew the feeling.

  But he was a good doctor and put in a lot of extra hours. I’d seen him when he was almost too tired to speak to me. Almost, but not quite. Somehow I helped him recover some sanity.