A Wide Berth

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘We survived the night, didn’t we? The storm is easing down. We are coming out of it.’

  ‘More quiz games today?’

  ‘A scrabble tournament, I thought. Travel scrabble. Less chance of losing the pieces. And a music quiz. Just sit and listen and hold on to your chair.’

  ‘I like the idea of that.’

  Gina appeared, looking the worse for wear, blue shadows under her eyes. Her shirt was incorrectly buttoned as if she had not been looking. She had certainly had a disturbed night, hardly sleeping, no one to hold on to. She found a wan smile for Ted Sullivan.

  ‘So where were you when I needed you?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘Looking after number one.’

  ‘I should have known.’

  I left them to bicker over a pecan Danish pastry. They looked as if they were enjoying it. Some people have a strange taste for what passes for enjoyment.

  Both Debbie and Gary were in the office, trying to sort papers and pens which had succumbed to the violence of the storm. They both looked pale, uniforms dishevelled. Neither appeared to have had much sleep.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be expecting us to be jolly and hearty all day,’ said Debbie, whose idea of tidying was putting everything jumbled into a filing tray.

  ‘Yes, and there is work to do. Too late to print off a programme, so everything will be announced over the tannoy. The art gallery staff has agreed to do a lecture on modern paintings and Gary, will you put together a music quiz? All different kinds of music, please. Not non-stop pop or heavy rock.’

  ‘There’s a tape somewhere,’ he said. ‘I saw it lurking. Nearly threw it in the bin. A recording of a radio musical quiz.’

  ‘Perfect. Find it and use it,’ I said. ‘No one will sue us in the middle of a hurricane. We’ll plead emotional emergency.’

  ‘Give me something easy to do,’ said Debbie, holding her head in her hands.

  ‘Travel scrabble tournament in the library after coffee time. Set up groups, read the rules and start them off. Bottle of wine for the winner. You should be done in an hour.’

  ‘Wonderful. I can put my head down. I need some sleep.’

  ‘Don’t bank on it,’ I grinned. ‘I’m thinking up new amusements for the afternoon. I’ll have a word with our lecturers and see if they have a spare talk.’

  ‘How about a crochet tournament?’

  ‘Along those lines.’

  At least it made them laugh. I needed my team to laugh. We had all forgotten about Pierre Arbour, but suddenly he was standing in the doorway. He was in well-creased white trousers, white shirt and Conway blazer, his eyes like granite.

  ‘This is no time for fun and games,’ he said. ‘You are supposed to be working. I suppose you have been taking it easy while I’ve been ill.’

  ‘We are still in rough weather,’ I said. ‘Everything closed down last night.’

  ‘The entertainment department never closes down,’ he said, striding round to my side of the desk. ‘Let’s see today’s programme.’

  ‘There isn’t one,’ I said.

  ‘There’s isn’t one?’ He looked about to explode. Debbie got up and hurried over to the copying machine. She pretended to print out the scrabble rules. ‘What absolute nonsense, Casey. Do you mean to say you haven’t produced a programme? What on earth have you been doing?’

  ‘We were riding Hurricane Ricky all last night. Everything had to be cancelled on captain’s orders,’ I added. ‘Half the passengers are not around this morning; they are still in their cabins. We have laid on some fairly safe and sedate games and quizzes for them. I’m about to reschedule the film shows, so that there are different films showing non-stop, all day in the cinema.’

  ‘This is totally unacceptable, Casey, and I shall report your inefficiency to Head Office. What incompetence and lack of motivation. Scrap everything you have arranged, and we’ll redo the programme from scratch.’

  I could feel my patience stretching. The man had no idea of what we had gone through.

  ‘But, Pierre, it’s an excellent programme, given that we are still in rough waters,’ said Gary, who earned a lot of gold stars with his instant support. ‘Lots of sensible and safe activities.’

  ‘Nonsense. You are as lazy as Casey is incompetent. Wait till you hear what I have lined up for you all. And get me some coffee, Casey. Strong and black. It’s all you are fit for.’

  I felt my ears redden. I had never in my life been spoken to in that manner. I could have tipped the coffee over him, but it would hardly have helped my social calendar. I made coffees for all of us and handed them round carefully, not spilling a single drop. Pierre got his last.

  ‘Glad you are feeling so much better,’ I said. I longed for a handy jar of strychnine. Do they sell it in jars? ‘We could do with an extra pair of hands.’

  ‘Is that a snide remark about my illness?’

  I was in no mood for an argument. The perfection of loathing would do instead. ‘No way,’ I barrelled on. ‘We are so relieved to have you back at the helm. It was like a ship without a rudder.’

  I don’t think he liked that comparison, either.

  14. Curaçao

  We reached the Dutch Antilles through the last eddying gusts of the hurricane. The whole ship breathed a sigh of relief. The old inner hull tightened its grip on the new structure. Hurricane Ricky veered off out to sea, to batter new oceans and to terrify different dolphins.

  Passengers came out of hibernation with tales of narrow escapes and miraculous acts of bravery and determination. Appetites returned, along with colourful deck clothes and the prospect of a day on land not far ahead. The aperitif of the day would sell in the hundreds. Curaçao Chaos, it was called. I have no idea what was in it.

  ‘We can’t wait to get on to terra firma,’ passengers said, cruising the breakfast buffet for sustaining food. ‘We’ve had enough of hurricanes to last a lifetime.’

  We were late arriving at Willemstad, Curaçao, but our berth at the new docks had been kept for us. Soon we had all lines fast and passengers could start going ashore. It was partly cloudy with occasional light showers. The right kind of weather for sightseeing.

  The town of Willemstad was a pretty sight in the distance, with all the Dutch gables and pastel colours of the quayside buildings. There were two ways to cross the river, either by the Queen Wilhelmina Bridge or by free ferry. Although the passengers were on a cruise, they nearly all preferred to use the free ferry, to mingle with local people, dogs and babies, baskets of shopping. There was a fish market alongside the river’s edge, produce of all kinds being sold from open boats bobbing on the water, and passengers flocked towards the photo opportunity. Their land legs were working again.

  *

  The previous day at sea had been a procedural nightmare and best submerged to the back of my mind. I had bitten on the bile and kept my composure. Pierre sharpened every warped barb in his repertoire and shot them straight at me. Most of them scored a hit, but I turned the other cheek every time. I would not be wounded or cowed by this monster.

  If it had not been for my friends and colleagues, I might have broken down. But Debbie and Gary were brilliant, quietly supporting me, without causing more aggravation. They had their own work to do. Daniel Webster had some inkling of the situation. Word had spread round the observant crew. He caught me hurrying along a deck at a rate of knots in the worst weather.

  ‘Hold on, Casey. Take it steady,’ he said, taking my arm.

  ‘I can’t. I haven’t time. Pierre expects me to work miracles.’

  ‘Why has this odious man got it in for you?’ he asked.

  ‘It might be because I’m good at my job.’

  ‘You won’t be any good with a broken leg.’

  Even Captain Wellington nodded in my direction on one of his routine deck tours. Nothing escaped him. He had eyes like a hawk.

  Bruce was not slow to notice the inequality of assignments. He was following me through to the Cairo Lounge. I had the port lectu
re to do with slides. The current port lecturer was not well. Understandably not well. He’d taken to his bed with a stiff brandy.

  ‘What’s happened to coffee breaks, lunch breaks, cups of tea, normal sort of routine?’ he asked, as I walked to my place on the stage and picked up the mike. I had an audience of fourteen stalwarts, each sitting in heavy armchairs, holding on to the arms. I was going to do a shortened version.

  ‘I’m not allowed time to eat, drink, even go to the loo,’ I said.

  ‘Funny how I have suddenly discovered that I have to get an official statement from you about the state of Tracy Coleman’s cabin. That’s an order and it’s urgent, if Pierre Arbour asks. You are an important witness. I’ll see you in the Boulevard Café in half an hour. Girl power. And don’t be late.’

  I flashed a quick smile of gratitude. ‘Girl power.’

  It was the only respite or cup of tea I had all day. Bruce had a tray with tea, a fruit scone, jam and cream ready on the table. I felt almost too sick to eat. But the tea was welcome. I drank two cups without stopping.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ I said. ‘I haven’t had a break all day. I’ve had more than everything to do as if it was a normal day at sea. I’m off to bingo next, then I have something else. A chocolate buffet? I don’t remember what. I’d better go back to the office to check.’

  ‘Hold on. You are doing nothing of the sort. You are staying here with me. I don’t want a vital witness passing out on me.’ Bruce sounded concerned. Perhaps he could see something desperate lurking in my eyes. I was trying to hide behind my normal composure. My clothes felt crumpled. I wanted to shower and change. I always put on a clean shirt in the afternoon.

  ‘What about my statement?’ I asked.

  ‘That can wait. You had the foresight to have photos taken, and I’ve seen them. You enjoy your cup of tea and relax. Eat something, please. And tonight you are having supper with me.’

  ‘Supper? You’re joking. I very much doubt it,’ I said, picking at some sultanas. The sweetness went straight to the back of my tongue. I could barely look at Bruce. I didn’t want him to see me shredded like this. ‘I’ll be working non-stop. Pierre will think up something extra for me.’

  And he did. I had both spectaculars to introduce to an audience of a dozen. They were hardly spectacular this evening. The celebrity pop trio did well in the circumstances, but they sat down instead of gyrating about the stage. The dancers did not even appear, on orders of the choreographer. Pierre took to his favourite bar for the evening, not up to anything more strenuous than bar propping.

  One day I would get my moment of revenge. I was not usually a vengeful person, but I could not stop the mounting feeling.

  *

  Curaçao was a friendly place, with lots of culture and architectural heritage. It had also made a mass of money from the oil refineries built by Royal Dutch Shell in 1915, before they were closed in 1985. It was on the UNESCO World Heritage List and home to the oldest synagogue still in daily use. Today it was all tourism, offshore banking and ship repair.

  It was one of my favourite places. The Arawak Indians inhabited it as far back as 6,000 years ago. They spoke a language called Papiamentu. The city had a deep natural harbour and that was worth more than all the gold, silver, spices or lumber being traded. It started trading sugar and salt and that was when the Jewish families from Amsterdam decided to settle.

  The Dutch and Spanish Colonial-style houses lining the waterfront were perfect for strolling along or photographing. I loved the coral brick, the exact replicas of Amsterdam, galleries with a series of arches and columns to extend buildings. It was all to provide shade from the searing Caribbean sun. One of the houses was called the Wedding Cake house. That’s what it looked like, tiers of white arches.

  I wondered if I would get any time off. Even a twenty-minute stroll along the open-air market towards the ferry point would be welcome.

  No one had seen Pierre that morning. I was hoping he had died or been washed overboard. My normal sense of proportion or fairness had been completely lost during the previous day. It was the chain reaction to changes.

  ‘So what shall we do?’ I said to Debbie and Gary, who both looked washed out. ‘Where is the master this morning?’

  ‘Sleeping off a hangover, I expect,’ said Gary wearily. ‘He was drinking into the early hours. Liver damage on the horizon.’

  ‘I’ve checked with tours. Almost everyone is going ashore today. They’ve had enough of the sea. We don’t need any onboard activities. None at all.’

  ‘So do we give ourselves the day off?’ asked Gary.

  ‘I really need a break,’ said Debbie hopefully.

  ‘We’ll take turns,’ I said, in charge again. ‘You can either have the morning off or the afternoon off, but not both. That’s fair, isn’t it? If Pierre appears, then we can all go in front of the firing squad. I shan’t wear a blindfold.’

  So we sorted out shore leave amicably. I took the morning. I had to get away, to recharge my batteries. I had to shake off the shackles, find some even keel, give myself a wide berth from the ship. Daniel Webster had not phoned to have a quayside drink, as he said he would. Debbie and Gary both wanted to sunbathe on deck, then go ashore in the afternoon. It suited all of us. I changed into casual clothes, bringing my hat against the needles of sun.

  I strolled through the new dock area, passed market stalls selling garments that wouldn’t fit and souvenirs that you would hate when you got home. But as I got nearer the ferry point, the real atmosphere of Curaçao began to encroach on my heart. It was a beautiful island. Worth a holiday one day.

  It was a tropical paradise, but one with a nucleus of civilization. It had art and literature, galleries and exhibitions, yet stunning beaches were only a taxi ride away. It had lush tropical gardens with exotic animals. All I wanted was a cool drink with Bruce Everton and a talk to sort out my mind.

  Bruce caught up with me. We hung over the rail of the ferry for the three-minute journey for three minutes of bliss, not talking, listening to the lingo around us. I shrugged off the aggression of yesterday. I forgot Pierre, but I could not forget Tracy or Lorna.

  Bruce helped me step ashore from the rocking ferry, and we went straight to the nearest quayside café. He ordered for me. All I wanted to do was soak in the fresh moments of freedom, the dappled sun on my face and a cooling breeze round my bare shoulders. I had a weakness for quayside cafés.

  ‘I’ve ordered for you, is that all right?’ he asked, leaning towards me over the glass-topped table. It had been wiped clean by a girl in the briefest denim shorts.

  ‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘I could drink anything.’

  ‘You will like this. A speciality of the house.’ Bruce was looking more relaxed this morning, although it’s difficult to know what a relaxed detective looks like.

  My drink arrived, a huge frothy milkshake in a tall glass. OK, a milkshake was fine, a healthy drink. Then I took my first taste. It was laced with the island’s famous blue liqueur. Guaranteed to blow your mind, but delightful in sips. Bruce was drinking a cold beer. A plate of nibbles arrived. Dutch cheese, prune tarts, rum cake and bolo di kashupete, a butter cake covered in cashew frosting. And this was only elevenses.

  ‘You’re determined to fatten me up,’ I said. ‘Did you know that Curaçao liqueur comes from a recipe made by the Senior family in 1886 and it’s still used? It’s made from the Valencia orange which is so bitter when grown here that even the island goats won’t eat it.’

  ‘Goats have no taste.’

  ‘But I think it’s delicious.’

  ‘A woman of beauty is a joy forever.’

  ‘Is that a policeman talking?’ I asked, nearly choking on my second mouthful of alcohol-laced froth. ‘Or a lover-to-be?’

  Bruce didn’t answer straight away. He was disconcerted.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s the alcohol talking.’

  He had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I looked that one up. Someone said something l
ike it. Not Oscar Wilde, but close. Sorry, Casey. You are beautiful, but you don’t know it. And it’s difficult for me to deal with. I’m used to corpses and mutilated bodies.’

  ‘It was Keats, actually. A thing of beauty, etc.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But this is your time off, too,’ I said, trying to bring the atmosphere back to normal and spiking a cube of soft local cheese. ‘So we won’t talk about your cases. We will talk about how to take revenge on Pierre Arbour, the entertainment director from hell. Nothing too damaging to my annual career review, but something essentially humiliating and totally satisfying to all and sundry who will witness said public humiliation.’

  Bruce laughed, his brown eyes full of sympathy. ‘I will give this my most earnest thought and let you know when I have a brilliant idea. Occasionally, I do have a brilliant idea and I assure you, it will be my first priority. But if I am to be honest with you, and I am always honest with you, it will be my third priority.’

  I understood. He had two women in freezers who had priority. Bruce was relaxing in the calming atmosphere of the waterfront beside all the pastel-shaded houses with Dutch gables and pretty facades. He wore light-coloured trousers and an open-necked shirt. I was wearing a navy sundress with thin straps. My bare shoulders were lightly tanned, my hair loose. I spotted many of our passengers wandering around with cameras and videos, soaking up the tranquillity after the hurricane.

  ‘You kissed me,’ I said at last.

  Bruce took a deep breath. ‘I know. How could I ever forget?’

  ‘Did it mean anything?’ It was the liqueur talking again. ‘I have to know.’

  ‘Yes, it meant a lot, Casey. One day, when this is all over, when everything is over, we’ll talk about it. Can you wait?’

  So what did that mean? When what was all over? This case, his marriage, the cruise? I was no wiser. But I was wise enough not to press the matter. I gave him a liqueur-laced, eyelash-fluttering smile.

  ‘I can wait,’ I said. A second milkshake helped a lot. The tenseness went from the air. It was a morning of tangled thoughts.