Second Sitting

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘The stowaway,’ I said. ‘Who is she? Have you found out?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’ Richard said, pursing his lips as if the coffee was too hot. ‘It complicates everything. She’s someone with a scary reason for being aboard. You won’t like it.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Thirteen - At Sea

  The helicopter was landing on the pad at the stern of the ship. Some of the passengers peering out of the hi-tech gym were curious but they were kept at a safe distance. The two patients were brought up in the lift and carried carefully on stretchers to the waiting aircraft. Dr Mallory was in attendance, his white coat flapping.

  I watched from a lower deck as the helicopter took off and wheeled overhead, her rotor blades causing a huge draught. Several straw hats took a dive into the ocean. I hoped a mermaid found them for Sunday wear.

  I’d had a word with the pianist allotted to Estelle Grayson, and he said he didn’t know what she was griping about. Their last rehearsal had been amicable and her songs easy to accompany.

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘The pieces are standard. The show will be great.’

  His name was Joe Dornoch, a regular on cruise ships for his ability to play show standards for hours on end. He had once, several decades ago, been a very good-looking man but even now he spruced up debonair in a dinner jacket and black tie. He could play any request. His mind was an encyclopaedia of tunes, past and present. Hum a few bars to him, and he was there, fingers picking out the tune.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Casey, I’ll make sure that Estelle sounds good.’

  I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. If she hit a dud note, he’d do what? Change key, add a few chords or a jingle?

  ‘Thanks, Joe,’ I said, ‘I was hoping I could rely on you. We need a good show tonight after last night’s cancellation.’

  ‘It’ll be … the tops.’

  ‘The Eiffel Tower?’ I sang.

  ‘You’re the tops,’ he went on.

  ‘Call it Micro Power.’

  ‘You ought to be on that stage,’ said Joe. ‘You sing good.’

  ‘I used to dance.’

  ‘I thought so. You move like a dancer.’

  No good thinking about those halcyon days, those flying-through-the-sky days. I nodded my thanks and moved on. There was a lot to do.

  The two airlifted casualties had left behind travelling companions so there was no need to get their cabins packed up. I’d hate to have some strange stewardess packing my things, tut-tutting about the state of knicker elastic, sniffing out-of-date mascara and free samples of night cream.

  Once on dry land, they would be air-ambulanced to a hospital near their home. They’d be back in the UK by the afternoon. I hoped their insurance covered everything.

  We were on course for the Isla Margarita, off the shore of Venezuela. I’d been there before and liked the informality. I hoped there would be a steel band playing to welcome us and dancing in the cafés. There was always a huge quayside market of local goods for souvenirs, fun to look at on the way to the nearby beaches.

  The curve of beaches were in sight from the ship. No getting lost en route. Head straight for the white sand with a beach towel, suntan lotion and a bottle of water. There were several beach cafés that sold a quenching Margarita, the local drink with a kick, very acceptable on a hot day.

  A huge American cruise ship was ahead of us, twice the size of the Countess. I could barely count the towering decks. She would not be able to berth alongside the quay but had to anchor at sea and disembark all her passengers ashore by tender. It would be an ongoing headache for the crew. It was getting such a large number of people back on board that was the headache. No one wanted to leave the soft white sands and clear blue seas till the last moment.

  ‘So how is my favourite Entertainment Director?’ said Dr Mallory, coming alongside, crisp in tailored white shorts and open-necked white T-shirt. I tried not to look at his long brown legs and the drift of dark hair on his brown arms.

  ‘Frazzled. Are you off duty?’

  ‘Yes, for an hour or so. Decided to get in some much needed tennis practice at the nets. A bit of exercise.’

  ‘Good for you. Wish I had the time.’

  ‘We could fit in a game of deck quoits later?’

  ‘More my style. I can’t wait.’

  I was glad to see him looking rested. Samuel had rapid recuperative powers. No doubt stemming from his days and nights in A & E in Manchester. It must have been horrendous. I’d witnessed a few minor car accidents and they had been bad enough. My stomach was not hardened.

  ‘So your patients were airlifted OK?’

  ‘Both relieved to be going home to the arms of the NHS or BUPA. Conway Blue Line are pretty good in such circumstances. They often make an irresistible offer for another cruise. They don’t want to lose any passengers.’

  ‘So they won’t lose out completely?’

  ‘Their cruise is on hold. There could be another on the way.’

  ‘Have you heard about this stowaway?’ I asked.

  ‘News travels fast.’

  ‘What do you know about her?’

  ‘She is eighteen years old, red haired, a dropout student, and at present resident in the medical centre, with a female guard, suffering multiple cuts and bruises, sunburn and severe malnutrition.’

  I didn’t know what to say. He knew more than me. And I’d been the one trying to get information out of Richard Norton. He’d clammed up on me.

  ‘And who is she?’

  ‘Her name is Rosanna Hawkins. She’s the daughter of Reg Hawkins, at present residing in one of my freezers. She was looking for her father after receiving a threatening phone call at their home in Bermondsey. She caught the train to Southampton and somehow got aboard. Don’t ask me how. These things are a mystery. I thought security was tight.’

  I thought of my bullet list. This was another curious item to add.

  ‘Can I speak to her?’

  ‘Of course. She’s not in prison, merely under security. Come along down.’

  ‘Have you told her about her father?’

  ‘Sorry … no. It didn’t seem the right time.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell her?’

  Samuel looked at me, his grey eyes piercing me like lasers. I couldn’t fathom the expression. Then he leaned forward and put his hand over mine. His skin was warm and firm. It was like a caress. I did not know where to look.

  ‘Could you. Casey? I’m not very good at breaking bad news. Too brusque and unfeeling. We’ve seen it all too often.’

  ‘I’ll go and see her. I’ll tell her. Sorry, but I need a favour in return.’

  He groaned. ‘Oh God, not Estelle Grayson? Please. Casey, have mercy on a poor, lowly medical practitioner. I’m vulnerable and low in stamina. I couldn’t cope with her or her tantrums.’ I had to laugh. ‘No, it’s my deputy, Susan Brook. She needs some fresh air and diet guidance. She might take it from you, being that you are so handsome and drop-dead gorgeous, etc. Say you’ll take her dancing if she loses a stone.’

  ‘How can I resist the way you put it, the way you massage my ego?’ Samuel was laughing at me now and I liked that. It was a nice feeling. He knew I was taking the mickey and he didn’t mind. The doctor went up a few notches on my scale.

  ‘So will you do it, please? For me? Susan needs help before she becomes a large plate of semolina pudding.’

  ‘Anything for you, Miss Casey Jones. But we still haven’t had that last dance on the Lido deck. I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘There’s still time,’ I said, sliding away.

  It was late before I went down to the medical centre. A dancer had sprained her ankle and was limping about the deck on crutches, surrounded by male sympathy. The DJ had gone AWOL again, and I was looking into his credentials. Estelle Grayson’s last piece of luggage was found stacked on the dock at Southampton without a label. I contained my words of wisdom. The luggage could stay there.

  The
red dress had had it. Estelle would have to wear the gold one. It would be diplomatic to keep the whereabouts of her red dress under wraps until after the show. The news might be too much for her delicate temperament.

  On my way I met the Windsor Dining Room head waiter, Graham Ward. ‘How’s the morale of table two, second sitting?’ I asked.

  ‘Very low,’ he said. ‘No one will sit there for long. Word has got round that the table is jinxed. Two deaths is two too many.’

  ‘I could come between shows and join them for a course or two. It might improve things. What do you think?’

  ‘Good idea. Miss Jones. It’s worth a try. Show them that you’re not scared. I’ll make sure that a place is laid for you. And would you like some wine?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’ll need my wits about me at all times.’

  ‘We all do. The rumours are rife.’

  I stopped in my tracks and swung round. ‘Rumours? What rumours, Mr Ward? Am I working in the wrong department?’

  ‘We hear a lot as we go around serving meals. They don’t call us Big Ears for nothing. We say nothing but we listen. You would be fascinated.’ He was teasing me. Was this Casey Jones Tease Day?

  ‘Fascinate me then,’ I suggested, leaning on his desk. ‘I’ve got five minutes.’

  ‘It’ll only take sixty seconds,’ he said with a grin. ‘Both men were murdered apparently. There’s a hit list. Several more are going to be bumped off before the cruise is finished. A gang on board is blackmailing female casino winners. The Countess is going to be hijacked by asylum seekers going through the Panama Canal. There’s a stash of gold bullion hidden on the ship and oh, yes, someone has smuggled a parrot into their cabin and keeps it in the wardrobe.’

  ‘Is that all? Just a routine cruise then. Nothing special happening.’

  ‘Thought you’d like to know. If you’ll excuse me, I have a few kitchen crimes to solve before the first sitting. Someone has been putting garlic in the soup.’

  ‘I thought garlic was a staple of most soups.’

  ‘Not when it’s chocolate soup.’ He grinned.

  He was still teasing. I hurried off. There was time to visit the stowaway before changing into some glad rags before Estelle’s show. I must remember not to outshine her in the gold department. Something restrained was obvious. Dungarees or a sequinned boiler suit might suit the occasion.

  A few passengers were waiting in the medical centre for the evening surgery. Anyone with a serious injury or illness was seen immediately but if it was indigestion or a splinter, they had to wait. I asked the nurse receptionist where I could find Rosanna Hawkins. The nurse was new. I didn’t know her name.

  ‘She’s in the isolation unit with a member of crew. She’s weak and has some bad sunburn on her face and arms. At the end of the corridor, last door on your right.’

  ‘Many thanks. Dr Mallory said I could speak to her for a few minutes.’

  ‘I’m sure the officer will be glad of a ten-minute break. It’s pretty boring sitting in there with someone who won’t talk.’

  It was going to take more than a few minutes to break the news of her father’s death. And there was no easy way. I’d done it before, several times, when there was a death in the family of an entertainer. The news always came through first to the Entertainments Department.

  I was not exactly trained for this aspect of my work but it all came back to what feels right at the moment. I hoped that instinct and bereavement training would come to my rescue now. I paused outside the last door on the right and took a deep breath. She needed all my help and care.

  Inside the small isolation room were two separate beds. One was neatly made with a white cotton coverlet and unoccupied. The coverlet of the other was thrown back, sheet rumpled and the bed unoccupied. A chair lay overturned.

  The room was empty. Call this an escaped stowaway.

  Fourteen - At Sea

  It wasn’t my fault Rosanna Hawkins had escaped. No one could blame me yet I felt responsible. My conscience followed me around like a grey shadow. Perhaps I was the jinx. I escaped from the medical centre as fast as I could take a lift and sped on winged heels to my cabin. I threw myself down in an armchair and took deep, steadying breaths. Time had disappeared.

  My watch told me I had exactly seven minutes in which to shower and change. My dancing days came to my rescue. I knew how to move and do several things at once, like brush my hair and clean my teeth at the same time.

  I threw off my clothes and stood under the cooling shower, letting it flow over my body. My unruly hair was not a problem. Stretch it back, pin it and forget about the blonde streak. But what to wear that would not outshine the diva? My clothes were index-linked in my head. Something understated, no cleavage, no slits.

  I went on stage in the Princess Lounge to introduce Estelle Grayson. The slim silvery-grey hand-printed dress was so understated as to be lost against the scenery. My hair was pulled back into a silver clip as usual. My high-heeled sandals were held on with painful, cutting straps. The only bright thing about me was rosy lipstick and the flush of exertion.

  Estelle Grayson walked on stage, a glittering cantillation of gold lamé. We ought to have supplied sunglasses. She sang a range of standards well, the audience in the palm of her plump hand. The only number which flopped was ‘Big Spender’. A little out of her size or league. Joe Dornoch was the perfect accompanist. I couldn’t understand why she had complained about him.

  Elsewhere the hunt was on. Somewhere on ship was a lost-cannon female stowaway. Every member of the crew was alerted. But the search had to be conducted without panicking the passengers. There was a security meeting held in Richard Norton’s office. It was a squash, not an inch to spare. I perched on a filing cabinet. And this was between shows. Was I ever supposed to eat? I tried to suppress my rumbling stomach for politeness’ sake. Not a peanut in sight.

  ‘Rosanna Hawkins is not in the best of health,’ said Dr Mallory, giving a medical report. ‘She has severe sunburn due, I think, to when there was a lifeboat drill and she had to leave cover and sit in the sun unprotected for several hours. She has red hair and a white skin. Malnutrition, of course. She’s been living on scraps, left on trays on the deck outside the Terrace café. She spent most of Hurricane Dora being thrown about in the lifeboat, hence the cuts and bruises.’

  ‘So this young woman is not very well?’ asked Richard Norton.

  ‘I think she has taken cover, like a wounded animal.’

  ‘Is she dangerous?’

  Samuel Mallory considered his answer. ‘I don’t think so. She is confused and upset, still wearing a hospital nightshirt. The unmistakable Conway Line blue and white. I never managed to find out why she had stowed away on the boat, apart from some garbled story of a mysterious threatening message received at their home in Bermondsey. Her mental state is difficult to assess.’

  ‘What happened to the crew member left in charge of the stowaway?’ someone asked. ‘She was supposed to keep the girl in custody.’

  ‘Unfortunately the female crew member was caught short and took a break. It was enough time for Rosanna Hawkins to disappear,’ said Richard Norton, not looking pleased. What had happened to locking doors, etc? I bet that female crew member was keeping a low profile.

  ‘If anyone finds her, how should we proceed?’ I asked. It was bound to be me. I had that sort of luck. A premonition. She was probably hiding in my cabin, trying on my dresses, using my factor thirty-five.

  ‘Keep her quiet, keep talking to her. Phone Dr Mallory or myself,’ said Richard. ‘Do not involve any passenger, even if you think you are at risk.’

  ‘Risk? What do you mean, at risk?’

  ‘You’ve mentioned risk twice.’

  There was no answer to that question. No one said anything. Richard Norton would not meet my eyes. Samuel Mallory came alongside as the meeting broke up and helped me down from the filing cabinet.

  ‘Some scalpel blades are missing from the medical centre,’ he said. ‘Nor
ton won’t say anything because it could be dangerous. She may have taken them.’

  ‘But you don’t know …’

  ‘No, we don’t really know. By the way, I’m having a drink with your delightfully plump deputy, Susan Brook, this evening in the Lido Bar.’

  ‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘Thank you, doctor. Put her on a diet.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘I’m overjoyed. It’s a step in the right direction. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’

  I didn’t know why I was suddenly so grumpy. I’d asked him to take Susan under his wing to help her confidence, but now it seemed I didn’t like it when he did. The waves went from side to side in my head, sort of uncoordinated and clumsy. I needed some air.

  He caught my arm and made me wheel round. I faced this devastating man, ducking the stare from his laser eyes. ‘Have I done something wrong?’ he asked. ‘Is this a problem?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, struggling. ‘No, you are being very kind and helpful to even get Susan up on deck and out into the fresh air. I’m grateful. I just …’ I didn’t know how to finish my sentence. I didn’t understand myself. ‘I didn’t expect it to happen so soon.’

  He touched my chin. It was a touch of infinite lightness, like a feather. ‘I take that as a good sign, Casey,’ he said and walked away.

  On a ship as big as the Countess there were a thousand places to hide. There were more than a few empty cabins. Stores were kept everywhere. There was a honeycomb of offices. And below decks, there were vast areas. She might have gone back to the lifeboats. I didn’t even know what she looked like, apart from the red hair and sunburn.

  A report came through from the gym area on the top deck within the funnel casing of the ship. A bag had been stolen. It contained clothes and a cruise card. Ah, if Rosanna Hawkins had managed to get hold of a cruise card, then she could function on board ship for a short time. The cruise card was immediately cancelled by the purser’s office, but even before then it was used twice in a bar and once in Bond Street shop on clothes. She’d treated herself to the day’s cocktail, a Margarita Special, and bought jeans, T-shirt and a Countess sweatshirt at the shop. Everyone wore Countess sweatshirts.