A Wide Berth

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘Are you sure? OK, I’ll go,’ I said agreeably, foreseeing freedom. ‘Do you want me to go now, or shall I finish putting together tomorrow’s programme?’

  Pierre had not thought through the consequences of one less pair of hands, one less pair of legs to run about. He’d have to do some work for a change. I could see his mind wondering how he could get out of this one.

  ‘You will continue all office duties, under supervision,’ he said, his brain working in lightning flashes. ‘But you will have no further contact with passengers. Do you understand? Finish tomorrow’s programme now, by all means.’ He closed his speech with a hostile grunt.

  As soon as he had stalked out of the office, not having done a stroke of work, I emailed Head Office in London with a resume of events. I was fair. I told them exactly what I had been doing and the current state of events. I also told them that I had a written permit from Captain Wellington which entitled me to go wherever I pleased on the ship.

  They replied almost immediately, probably after holding a quick internal conference in the next room. I blessed my good relations with the office staff.

  ‘Stay cool, Casey,’ they emailed back. ‘Pierre Arbour can’t confine you to your cabin on such flimsy grounds. You would have to have done something really criminal or against company rules. We asked you to make these enquiries about Tracy Coleman. Do what you have to do to keep him quiet, then take the rest of the time off. Enjoy.’

  And I would. I’d always wanted to stroll round a private Caribbean island, no commercialism, somewhere natural and peaceful. I might even get in a swim. With such enticing thoughts in mind, I got through the programme details at a rate of nautical knots.

  I answered all current email enquiries, took some phone calls, solved a few trivial problems, did a quick tidy-up round the office, then left.

  I put a note on Pierre’s desk. ‘Gone to my cabin. Shall lock myself in.’

  Fat chance.

  *

  I went ashore on the next tender, wearing a swimsuit under a sarong and T-shirt. I knew how quickly one could burn under this hot sun. Lashings of factor 30 before and after a swim. But first I wanted to have a quick look round.

  I’d always imagined a private Caribbean island to be flat with curving sandy beaches and dotted with palm trees. This one was a hill, a mound. A very steep hill surrounded by scattered beaches and trees sweeping down to the shore.

  The ship’s tender tied up at a short landing stage that was only wide enough for single file. It had been a rough ride and there were complaints. Someone mentioned an ebb tide.

  Commercialism hit us straight away, but it was only the female villagers who had strung up lines between the trees and were displaying a selection of colourful Tshirts, sarongs and beach towels. Not much else.

  It was a ramshackle place but with a certain charm. The locals were not used to cruise ships the size of an apartment block anchoring out at sea. We were eccentric strangers, an alien breed, something to gawp at. The children kept touching me, wanting to look at my hands, my feet, my clothes. They thought my hair was funny with its blonde streak.

  I walked up the four-in-one unmade road while I still had the strength. The hot sun was sapping my energy. Dennis’s Hideaway looked like a real hideaway place; no one would ever find you there. The seafood bar was called Robert Righteous and de Youths. Every wall was covered in decorations of a hundred different styles, and the food sounded delicious. ‘All fish caught today’, said the chalked menu board. I might well stay.

  The church with the conical wooden roof was coldly dark inside. I sat on a tiny wooden pew and tried to say a prayer to someone about the state of the world. This island was a prayerful place. Outside the church, I tried my mobile phone, but it wouldn’t work. Too far away from any masts to get a signal.

  Children’s voices lured me on still upward towards the school, on to the highest point. A fresh wind cooled me.

  ‘Miss!’

  ‘Miss!’

  Children of all ages swarmed around on the playground, trim in shorts and Tshirts of different colours. The different colours showed which class they were in. There were about forty children aged from four to twelve.

  ‘You from ship?’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘What is name of ship?’

  They wanted to know everything. We were an event in their lives. The ship was an event. The passengers were live entertainment.

  I had thought to arm myself with a stack of picture postcards of the ship, and I handed them out to a sea of eager hands. The children loved them. They were a gift, a souvenir. They were free.

  I had my notebook, as always. The children wanted to sign it. There was Ronessa Hemson, who was nine. She put her age in brackets. Another nine-year-old called Tiffany Farde, and another Tiffany Ralph, who was ten. Tiffany was a popular name, it seemed. There were dozens of Tiffanys.

  The school had three classrooms, all under one roof, the space divided by long blackboards. The children worked in chalk, and their handwriting was perfect, joined up, legible. They were a credit to their headteacher, Julian Ollivierre.

  I could have stayed there. I wanted to live and work here, teach something useful: English, maths, how to run cruise-ship entertainment. It was a wrench to drag myself away. But it would be a disaster to miss the ship. And I desperately wanted that promised swim.

  The children stood waving until I was out of sight. It was easier walking downhill, but not without holding on to any shrub or bush within reach. And to think that the women of the village did this climb several times a day. They must have strong legs.

  ‘Hi there, Miss Jones. Come and have a drink.’

  It was Gina in that fringed gold bikini that left nothing to the imagination. She was propping up the beach bar, a large fruit punch of some kind in her hand. She came swaying over to me, bare feet kicking up sand, her lipstick smudged from too much drinking.

  ‘Did I land you in it?’ she asked.

  I didn’t know what she was talking about and then it clicked. ‘You mean, with Pierre?’ I asked, innocently.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, sucking the lethal brew through a straw. ‘I’m really sorry. It was only a silly remark. I didn’t mean anything by it. He’s such a prick, that man. But it hurt his pride and I suppose he took it out on you.’

  ‘Only a standard reprimand,’ I said. ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘That you were a busy little bee. Flitting here and everywhere with your little notebook. Talking to everyone about Lorna Fletcher and Tracy Coleman.’

  ‘No, he didn’t like it, but I have broad shoulders and a kind heart. Don’t you worry, Gina. My little notebook is bursting with interesting facts. But your secret is safe with us. Whatever you choose to do in your spare time is your business, offering free-range sex, maybe, and as long as it doesn’t break any company rules, then we have to turn a blind eye.’

  She went white under her melting colourfast tan, brushed on out of a bottle. She didn’t know where to look. We were standing under a big-leafed tree where the leaves looked like dinner plates. There were nuts growing on it. The birds loved the nuts. They were swinging on the branches, pecking at their supper. I wished I had brought a camera.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she spluttered. ‘What do you want from me? I’ve already bought Pierre a ring.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I don’t want anything from you. You don’t have to buy me a ring. But don’t tread on my toes.’

  I wanted that swim more than I wanted to watch Gina suffer. The lapping waves were almost at my toe-tips. I shed the sarong and the T-shirt and in moments was swimming in cool crystal clear water, out of Gina’s sight. The seabed was steeply shelving. I took my landline on a yellow hut. Made sure it was always in sight. I could be out of my depth in two strokes.

  I swam for about ten delicious minutes, letting the water lap over me, eyes closed to the sun but always watching the yellow hut and ref
racted sunlight. Always checking the number of tenders ferrying passengers back to the ship. I had to be back on board and locked in my cabin before Pierre found out that I had been ashore.

  I wondered how I would spend the evening. Watching in-cabin television? Replays of Dad’s Army? Pierre would be introducing the show tonight. A winning TV girl pop group had joined the ship at Panama City, but they had been laid low with sea sickness almost from the start. Tonight they were doing their first show. He would not miss the opportunity of going on stage with the bevy of beauties, orchestrating the applause.

  I felt sad leaving the tiny island. But it was only a dream. The tender took us back to our floating village. I was still damp under my sarong.

  I could eat when Pierre was on stage. I’d sneak up to the Boulevard Café, heavily disguised, eat and grab myself as much food as I could carry. I’d be like a tracksuited camel. I’d fill my pockets.

  Once everyone was back on board ship and all the pre-departure checks had been made, I heard the port anchor being heaved up. It was a late departure, as one of the schooners had returned well after its stipulated time due to a heavy swell. It had been an ambitious seven-hour trip to the Grenadine Islands, including a beach lunch and lots of swimming and snorkelling. We were leaving the bay of Mayreau and heading west then north towards St Lucia.

  As soon as I was sure that Pierre was busy introducing the girl group, I hurried up to the Boulevard Café in the lift. My tray looked as if I was stocking up for a siege, as I was. I stockpiled apples, bananas, cheese, packets of biscuits, anything that was easy to carry and unsquashable. But I stopped long enough for a plate of ribbon pasta with a delicious mushroom and feta cheese sauce and some fruit salad. That meal would have to last me a long time.

  I took my tray of spoils down to my cabin. It was not generally allowed to remove food from the café, but the stewards did not seemed to notice. Or they pretended not to. I could be taking the food to a sick friend.

  It was dark now and the sea lapped against my cabin window. I sat down to write up my notes for the day, including my encounter with Gina. My music centre was playing a favourite Gershwin piano concerto.

  A strange noise seemed to be coming from somewhere above, and I could not recognize the sound. It sounded like vague shouting and screams. An object fell past my window and into the sea. It was a deck chair. I could not believe what I had seen. I turned off the music and peered through the glass.

  A second deck chair fell into the sea. Then came a small drinks table. This was ridiculous. Had the passengers rioted on deck? Was the dinner menu below standard?

  As I turned to leave my cabin and investigate, a dark shape loomed against the glass of my cabin window. It was the bow of a small vessel, a speedboat of some sort, rocking on the waves, close to our ship’s hull. It was so near, I could have almost touched it.

  Suddenly, I heard gunshots. The gunfire was exploding into the night air. It was unbelievable. I knew instantly what was happening. Our ship was being boarded by pirates.

  18. At Sea

  I could see that the pirates were armed with Kalashnikovs and wearing fawn camouflage gear and masks. They were trying to board the Countess Aveline with grappling hooks and ladders, but the passengers were not having their idyllic cruise interrupted by a crowd of raiders. They were hurling tables and chairs over the side of the ship and onto the heads of the invaders.

  ‘Get off! Go away!’ they shouted with a variety of olde English oaths. All these nicely mannered people had suddenly become quite ferocious.

  Captain Wellington was making an announcement over the tannoy. I could hear his voice as I hurried on deck. There was chaos everywhere. Passengers were running about, some videoing the incident, others continuing to throw deck furniture overboard. I saw one woman taking aim with her shoes — a real sacrifice if they were Jimmy Choo or Christian Louboutin.

  ‘I advise all passengers to go back to their cabins and to lock themselves in. I can assure you that the crew can deal with this unfortunate incident. Please leave the decks. Please leave the decks immediately. This is for your own safety.’

  He underlined the word immediately with a stern tone.

  ‘They’re shooting at us. We can hear bullets clanging as they hit the ship,’ said a woman, grabbing my arm. ‘It’s awful. What shall I do?’

  ‘Go to your cabin and lock yourself in,’ I said. ‘We have security guards who can deal with this.’

  Brave words. I doubted if our security officer could do anything. But I realized that the captain had emergency measures. Perhaps he had specially trained crew at the ready. There had been other incidents of pirates boarding cruise ships, particularly in the Indian Ocean. Rich pickings could be found among the passengers: jewellery, credit cards, passports, as well as the vast amount of cash and currency carried on board.

  There was little I could do, except reassure passengers and persuade them to go back to their cabins.

  Two of the pirates were climbing over the rail, having evaded the flying deck chairs, tables, and stilettos. They had begun peppering the deck with bullets. Small beads of fear trickled along my spine as I backed off. I didn’t want to get shot.

  Suddenly, the deck was plunged into darkness as the gunfire took out the lights. There was an outcry of confusion as passengers tried to reach the doors to the decks. The cover of darkness was what the raiders wanted. I could hear their voices as they shouted to each other in a language I did not recognize.

  More raiders climbed onto the deck, having apparently fixed a ladder. My eyes quickly became accustomed to the darkness, and I was able to guide passengers to the heavy doors. Many clung to my arm as if I were some sort of safe talisman.

  ‘Help me, help me. I can’t see.’

  Then the emergency lights came on, and the raiders rushed to the doors to block their use. They tried to herd the remaining passengers to the back of the deck so they could go through their handbags and pockets and take their jewellery. The pirates would keep them out of their cabins and then make a search of the cabins for more goods. The key cards weren’t marked, so the pirates would have to batter down the doors. They were carrying axes. One of them ripped a gold necklace from a woman’s throat, and she cried out in pain and indignation.

  Members of the crew appeared out of nowhere, firing into the air with pistols and spraying the attackers with the firehoses. The streams of water were more effective than the pistols, which I guessed were only firing blanks. Commercial ships are not allowed to carry weapons, although I had heard of some Italian lines hiring their own armed security guards.

  Now the decks were slippery with water. Several passengers slipped and fell in their haste to get below.

  ‘My dress is ruined. Look at it,’ said one woman as I helped her to her feet and guided her to a door. ‘I’ll never be able to replace it.’

  ‘Better a ruined dress than losing all those beautiful rings you are wearing,’ I said. I didn’t mention the diamonds flashing in her ears. They would have been torn out in a second.

  One of the raiders bumped right into me, the butt of his gun digging into my ribs. His eyes glinted behind his mask. But the interest was only momentary. I didn’t look much of a catch in my tracksuit and tight head scarf, pockets bulging with apples and biscuits.

  ‘Servant, maid, domestic,’ I gabbled, saying any word I could think of in the lowly status. ‘Domestico. Femme de chambre. Servizio. Donna delle pulizie. Lavanderia. Worker.’ I did a sort of ironing pantomime. He seemed to understand and pushed me away. I drew a deep breath.

  Some of the stranded passengers had not been so lucky. They were being herded in to the pool area and were being searched for jewellery and other valuables. Several women were crying, their partners watching helplessly.

  ‘Down, down, down!’ they shouted, forcing everyone to lay down on the wet decking. Some of the elderly ladies found this too difficult and clung to the rails.

  Gina was hysterical as they ripped off her necklace, earr
ings, bracelet and diamond watch. Her face was quivering with rage. ‘They are not real!’ she screamed. ‘They are all imitation, you fools. Fakes. Artificial. You’re wasting your time.’

  The crew was valiantly trying to dodge the gunfire and aim their hoses at the same time. Everyone was getting wet. The noise was horrendous, with the raiders screaming and shouting in a language that no one understood. Perhaps it was as well that we didn’t.

  There were only a handful of them, maybe six or eight, but it was difficult to tell when they were all over the place. But they had lethal guns, and the last thing anyone wanted were injuries and real casualties.

  One of the heavy doors flung open, and some idiot actually flounced out on the deck, striding into the melee with indignation and wrath.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you know that you are ruining an absolutely brilliant show with all this ridiculous noise?’

  It was Pierre, in his white dinner jacket and trousers, flamboyant red bow tie and cummerbund. His new ring flashed and sparkled as he waved his arms at the raiders.

  I could not believe that the man didn’t see what was going on.

  ‘I demand that you stop this noise at once!’ he shouted, trying to make himself heard. His Rolex caught the eye of a couple of raiders. ‘I am in charge here, and you are asking for trouble.’

  Instantly, they were on him. They dragged him to the side of the deck. The ring and watch were off and tossed into bags.

  I didn’t understand why they did not let him go at that. Instead, they bundled him into a corner and began tying his ankles and his arms behind his back. In moments, he was as trussed as a chicken.

  They must have thought he was the captain. It was the voice of command, the attitude, the posture. The captain’s voice had only been a sound over the tannoy. They had no way of knowing that the real captain was still very much in charge on the bridge.

  I felt sorry for Pierre for all of five seconds. His beautiful white suit was being ruined.

  ‘Hostage man! Man hostage!’ shouted the raider who seemed to be in charge. He was waving his Kalashnikov. ‘You give much money for man. We kill.’