Second Sitting

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘Mrs Foster, I think you should have someone stay with you tonight. I’ll arrange for one of the nurses from the medical centre to keep you company.’

  ‘Oh no, that won’t be necessary. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘I think Dr Mallory will insist. He’s coming to see you as soon as this evening’s surgery is over.’

  ‘That’s nice. He’s such a lovely man,’ she said. ‘So attentive.’

  ‘And such a good doctor,’ I added, crossing my fingers.

  I was beginning to see a glimmer of light. The only missing item was Mr Foster’s briefcase. But Mrs Foster couldn’t give me much of a description of it.

  ‘Black leather, all black,’ she said. ‘An ordinary briefcase, you know. Oh, but it had one of those digital locks with secret numbers. I don’t know what numbers George used. Birthdays, I expect.’

  ‘Let me know if it turns up,’ I said, writing my mobile number on a pad of paper. ‘Or give me a call if you want some company.’

  ‘You’re very kind, Miss Jones. Thank you.’

  I leaned on the door of the suite as I closed it. What had I promised? I was going to have to be in about three places at once this evening. I could see my red snapper slithering down someone else’s throat for supper. I wouldn’t have time to eat. Perhaps the seagulls would throw me some leftovers.

  Eleven - At Sea

  There was a farewell sail-away party in full swing on the Lido deck. Full swing means a lot of noise. It was farewell to Barbados, so a steel band was playing and the calypso dancers were stunning in their colourful costumes.

  The stewardesses were plying the passengers with trays of rum punch. It looked as if they were offered for free but they weren’t. Passengers had to sign for them, but by then the evening breeze was cooling and they were feeling good with the world and what was another fiver anyway?

  I would rather be leaning over a rail and watching the receding shore line and scanning the horizon for the string of tiny islands called the Grenadines. How I would love to go island hopping in a private yacht. One of the tiniest islands, Mayreau, is only two square miles with about a hundred people living on it. There are no roads, a small salt pond and a cluster of buildings that they called a resort. Give me a hut on a beach plus a kettle and a book.

  The five uninhabited islands are the Tobago Cays where enthusiasts go diving and snorkelling, not my favourite pursuits. I would die underwater. There was once an island called Prune Island but the name was unpopular so now it’s called Palm Island. It was a mere speck on my imagination. No big ships have a port of call there, more’s the pity. I’d like to see what happened if we put some of our passengers ashore on an island where there were no shops, no cafés, no bars and if they wanted a drink, they would have to hack open a coconut.

  That would be something to write home about. Pass me a postcard.

  ‘So, how has the rest of your day been?’ Our dishy doctor leaned on the rail beside me, still in his whites. Funny, how he always seemed to find me leaning on a rail, often at this particular spot. It didn’t have my name on it.

  ‘Do you want the full version or bullet points?’

  ‘Bullet points.’

  ‘Stateroom ransacked. Mrs Foster’s suite. Estelle Grayson rearranging the entire entertainment programme to suit herself.’

  ‘I can add another bullet. Susan Brook, your deputy, is down with a raging migraine. I’ve suggested it might be an allergy to a four-lettered word.’

  ‘Which four-lettered word? There are several in use.’

  ‘Food or work.’

  I had to laugh. She could be allergic to both. I felt sorry for her. It was no fun being overweight and not having the willpower to do something about it. Or maybe it was her metabolism. I knew someone once who only needed ninety calories a day to survive. How do you live with lettuce for every meal?

  ‘Did you have freshly caught red snapper for supper?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t had any supper.’

  ‘Nor have I.’

  ‘Then I suggest we meet at eleven at the midnight buffet? They might make us a red snapper pizza.’

  ‘OK. I’ll be wearing my famine face.’

  ‘I’ll try to wear something rather less intimidating.’

  Then he had gone. I was due elsewhere. I had both shows to MC, and the disco to spin. Thank goodness, the trivia quiz was in good hands. And the concert pianist in the Galaxy was reliable. There was just time to change.

  I ran down to my cabin, mentally assessing which outfit to throw on. It had to be very Barbados, nothing too debutante. I went for my long white silk jersey, rope-detailed dress, with matching wrap. The Louboutin heels hurt but I had to wear them. I was already counting down to when I could take them off. If it came to the corn crunch, I’d change into jewelled flip-flops.

  The two deaths receded into the balmy night. How could anything so awful happen on such an idyllic cruise? This was like a floating village, somewhere in the Cotswolds. We were all together. We knew each other. Nothing awful could happen in such contented rural surroundings.

  It was about ten o’clock when I felt the wind freshening. When you work on ships, you get that feeling. The Countess was huge, she had all the right stabilizers, she could outride any storm. And being an older ship, she had a deep draught which usually meant a smooth ride. Sometimes she needed a tug to negotiate a tight berth. But her strong, plated hull could take the weather well.

  The stewards were moving round the decks quickly, securing all the stacks of deckchairs and netting the pools. I could see foam-crested waves hurrying by, the sea darker and more ominous than earlier. Some of the waves were menacing, rearing like wild horses.

  There was an announcement from the bridge. It was Captain Nicolas at his most calming. He spoke as if he were merely announcing a change of port of call.

  ‘Good evening, everyone. I hope you are having a very pleasant evening. We are currently running into some inclement weather and passengers are advised not to go out on deck. We may be able to navigate round this squall. Meanwhile, enjoy your evening.’

  He called it a squall. Anything not tied down was already scuttling along the decks and being blown overboard. I pulled my wrap round my shoulders. Most of the doors leading on to the decks were now secured with ‘Not In Use’ signs slung across the handles or ‘No Admittance’ boards by the ramp or step.

  And still there were passengers trying to get on to the decks with their video cameras to take pictures of the rising seas.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said to one idiot, slung with cameras. ‘It really is too dangerous for you to go out on deck.’

  ‘It’s Hurricane Dora,’ he said, eyes bright with excitement. ‘I’ve got to get some shots of this to take home. They’ll never believe me.’

  ‘You won’t be going home if you go out on deck,’ I said. ‘And Captain Nicolas is not likely to stop the ship to fish you out of the water.’

  A sudden lurch of the ship underlined my words. A wave washed over the deck, drenching everything, spraying the windows. Some of the excitement faded from his eyes.

  ‘I suggest you take your pictures from the safety of a lounge,’ I said.

  I held on to the handrails to negotiate my way round the ship. It was my job now to reassure people that all was well. Hurricane Dora had been on the news that morning but she must have changed course. The Countess was heading straight into her. Stewards were fastening extra roped handrails so that passengers could cross open spaces and the lobbies between corridors.

  A sudden crash of glass announced the closure of one bar area. It was time to bring out the plastic glasses and put the real ones away. Somehow the bands played on in the various dance venues, very Titanic, though the dancers had given up. How to negotiate a lurching floor was not included in the ballroom classes.

  The second showing of this evening’s spectacular theatrical presentation was cancelled. It was a stroll down memory lane, that is, a full-scale Music Hall, but even our best dancers couldn’t s
troll far in this difficult weather.

  Time to take off my shoes. Heels were a hazard in rough weather. I started checking D deck, port and starboard. No one was playing bridge. The art gallery was a mess. A lot of the paintings had fallen off the walls and those on easels had collapsed on to the floor. Tamara was in tears, mascara running, trying to stack up her wares into some order.

  ‘I’ll get some stewards to come and help you,’ I said, on to my mobile immediately. ‘Quite a few won’t have anything to do this evening.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said tearfully. ‘I can’t manage on my own.’

  ‘Where’s your assistant?’

  ‘Gone to her cabin, feeling sick.’

  The Internet Study was awash with paper, instruction books, flying mouse mats and swinging mouses. No one was taking charge. The man who operated the facility seemed to have disappeared. I was not surprised.

  I didn’t have to worry about Bond Street, the retail shop that had entrance doors on both sides of the deck. They had closed for business and the manager and his staff were rushing around putting loose stock into cupboards and drawers. He gave me a brief wave, no time for more.

  Casino Royale had closed its table games, only the fruit machines could keep going in any weather. And dedicated passengers were glued to the fruit machines — in any weather. Fortunately the books in the library were all behind locked glass doors, but the jigsaw on the felt covered table was no more. Its pieces had flown to all points of the compass.

  I phoned the housekeeping department and asked for extra female staff to check the ladies’ loos on each deck. This was often where accidents happened, nothing much to hold on to, tiled floors, wash basins, confined space.

  ‘Don’t forget keys,’ I said. ‘No fun to fall inside a locked cubicle.’

  ‘We’ll see to it, Miss Jones.’

  Even I was decidedly unsteady, weaving instead of walking as if I’d had more than a couple too many. This was one heck of a storm. The noise was horrendous, the wind howling through the ship like a banshee. I think the noise scared people more than the actual movement. There were a lot of scared faces.

  ‘Heavens, I’m not sure that I like this at all,’ said Maria de Leger, the lady who was writing her memoirs. She was sitting, ramrod straight, in an armchair in the Galaxy Lounge, anchoring her half-full tumbler of whisky on the table. Its contents were sloshing from side to side.

  ‘Are you sure you want to stay here?’ I asked. ‘It’s getting pretty rough. Shall I help you back to your cabin?’

  ‘No, there’s a film I want to see. It starts in twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’ll find someone to escort you to the cinema.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’m quite all right. I’ve stayed upright in rougher weather than this.’ In a brief lull she took a quick sip of her drink. The timing was perfect.

  ‘I don’t think I could sit through any film in this,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a very good film,’ she said. ‘Moulin Rouge. It’ll be me and the operator then. I love the music.’

  The American was sitting alone, as always, with a drink and a book. The storm didn’t seem to worry him. Perhaps he came from a coastal town in the States, maybe Virginia, that was used to hurricanes all year round. Or he had a naval background. Yes, that was it. He was ex-US Navy.

  He nodded to me. ‘Wind Force Twelve, ma’am?’

  ‘Maybe. Something like that,’ I said. It was not advisable for passengers to know wind speeds, particularly when it was well over seventy-five miles an hour. A hurricane could reach 150 miles an hour. I didn’t want to know either. I could feel the vibrations of the powerful engines, thrusting through the huge waves. The bridge is manned at all times and I guessed Captain Nicolas and other senior officers would be on watch. I didn’t care if I died.

  ‘You take care,’ he said, returning to his book after a glance at my bare feet. How could he read in this weather? It looked like a pretty hefty tome, maybe legal or War and Peace.

  Many of the passengers were having an early night, watching television in the comfort and safety of their cabins. The lounges and bars were deserted. The lecture theatre was midships and felt less turbulence. A few stalwarts, including Maria de Leger, were waiting for the film to start.

  I caught glimpses of the hurricane through the windows, glad they were reinforced double thickness and good protection from the fury of the wind. The spray was like hailstones battering the glass. No crew were on deck now. If anything broke loose, then it went into the Caribbean Sea, lost forever.

  For once there was nothing for me to do. I made double sure that no one was in agony anywhere, clutching a broken ankle. The lift took me to the Terrace café where the midnight buffet was usually laid out, but it had shut. Very sensible. The pitching was worse here, high up at the top of the ship, near the funnel casing. My pizza with Samuel Mallory was definitely off.

  I was leaving the area when Samuel lurched out of the lift. He grabbed my arm to steady himself. He was still in his whites, a stethoscope slung round his neck on duty.

  ‘Are we the only ones still wide awake?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so. Though I hope those manning the bridge are even wider awake.’

  ‘Pretty rough, isn’t it? Do you still fancy a pizza?’

  ‘It’s too much to ask anyone to do,’ I said. ‘Let’s take a rain check.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said, propelling me back into the waiting lift. ‘The medical centre is fully equipped. We can microwave our own pizza. And as we are overflowing with patients, I’ll be able to keep an eye on them as we eat.’

  ‘Is this ethical, eating while on duty?’

  ‘Do they want their doctor to starve? Both wards and the side rooms are full. I’ve even had to put a patient in the operating theatre as we are so short of space. You could read them bedtime stories while I heat up our supper.’

  ‘I’m sure this is breaking some company rule,’ I said as the lift took us down to the medical centre in the depths of the ship. It was clearly signed for walking wounded and surgery times. I’d been there before but it always surprised me because it was like stepping into another world with consulting rooms. X-ray rooms, an operating theatre, two wards and private side rooms.

  It looked like a very modern private hospital somewhere out in the country, except that there were no windows. No one wanted to watch a shark swimming by.

  Samuel took me into his private office. It looked as if a bomb had hit it. His paperwork was in chaos. But he had anchored most of it to his desk with large conch shells. I wondered which beach they had come from.

  ‘Sit down, if you can find a chair.’ He opened the corner refrigerator and took out a bottle of rose. He opened it with surgical expertise and poured out two glasses. He slid one across to me. It tasted good. Rosé was exceptional.

  ‘I’ll put the pizza in the microwave after I’ve made a quick round. Two of my passengers need to go home as soon as we are in calmer waters. The air ambulance service are sending a helicopter.’

  ‘Breaks?’

  ‘Hips. Very painful. They need hospital treatment as soon as possible. There are a couple of broken wrists, one cut and concussion, and some nasty sprains. I hope you like three cheeses and anchovy?’

  ‘Sounds fine. Are you sure there isn’t something I could do to help?’

  ‘One of the women is anxious about her daughter. I can’t let her wander about the ship with her arm in a sling. She’s safer here. We’ve phoned their cabin several times but the daughter isn’t answering.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s swallowed a couple of stiff brandies and gone to sleep. Would you like me to have a word with her?’

  ‘Please. She’s in the first side room. Her name is Banesto.’

  Samuel was weary, running a hand through his hair. He’d been working non-stop for hours.

  I nodded. ‘I know her, or rather I know the daughter, Amanda.’

  ‘Thanks, Casey. I’ll put the pizza in later …’

  I ha
d a few more sips of rosé and followed Samuel out into the corridor. All was quiet except for the creaking of the internal timbers. I tried not to think of how far down in the water we were now. It was better not to ask how deep. Better not to think about submarines and the crush of water against the hull.

  We never did get that pizza. The night was too busy with accidents. Heaven knows what happened to it in the end. Perhaps Samuel ate it in the middle of the night and finished up the wine. He probably kipped out on a consulting couch, staying near his patients.

  Mrs Banesto had broken her wrist getting out of the shower. She seemed calmer once I said I would go and look for Amanda. I had no idea how I was going to find her. I could hardly knock on the door of every unattached bachelor. There was that blonde young man, whoever he was.

  ‘Do you know of any friends she might be with?’ I asked.

  ‘She has so many friends. She’s such a lovely girl.’

  ‘Absolutely beautiful,’ I agreed. ‘I’m sure she is probably staying with some friends. Much nicer to have company on a night like this. Does she have any special male friends?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Her fiancé was killed, you know. She hasn’t got over losing him yet.’

  ‘I’ll go and find her,’ I said. ‘And ring down to Dr Mallory with any news.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Miss Jones,’ said Mrs Banesto. ‘It would put my mind at rest.’ Her face was wan and her make-up had long worn off. She looked like a mother now, and not a fashion plate. ‘I’ll try to get some sleep and hope this wind dies down soon.’

  ‘We’re getting through it,’ I said hopefully. ‘It’ll be a lovely day tomorrow.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  I spent a useless hour trying to find Amanda Banesto. No one had seen her or who she had been with earlier in the now deserted bars or lounges. We could hardly make a public announcement over the loudspeakers and wake up everyone who had managed to get to sleep.

  Before giving up and going to my cabin, I thought I’d make a last call on Mrs Foster and make sure she was all right. I checked that there were still lights on in her suite and rang the bell.