Second Sitting

by Stella Whitelaw

  The dinghy had reached the man despite the choppy waves and he was being hauled aboard. He looked unconscious. He lay inert, his clothes like a bundle of wet washing. He was being put in the recovery position so that water could run out of his mouth. His hair was plastered against his head. It was a colour I recognized.

  The dinghy was brought rapidly on board and the man lifted on deck. The area had already been cordoned off. He didn’t need an audience.

  I found I was trembling. This couldn’t be happening. I’d never seen anyone go overboard before. Death was not unknown on cruise ships because of the higher proportion of elderly passengers. We seemed to have had more than the normal number of fatalities this cruise, but then I didn’t think they had been normal.

  *

  It was too late. The man, Nigel Garten, the happy-go-lucky party-goer, never regained consciousness. Dr Mallory spent twenty minutes trying to resuscitate him, using the defibrillator before he gave up and noted time of death. He was examining his head. There was no apparent reason for Mr Garten to have gone overboard. No one had seen him being pushed or climbing the rails. There didn’t seem to be witnesses anywhere. The deck had been deserted.

  The fall could hardly have been accidental. Unless he had climbed up to get a better view of something, or someone. Dolphins? It didn’t seem right to die for dolphins.

  ‘He was such a nice man,’ passengers were saying. ‘Life and soul of the party. Always had a ready joke. Great company at the table.’

  I didn’t dare ask.

  I didn’t have to ask. My spine chilled. The word went round. Mr Garten had recently been sitting at table two, second sitting. He was the third to die.

  *

  Samuel Mallory was quiet that evening. He was depressed because he had not been able to save the man. There was nothing I could do or say to lift the atmosphere. We sat in a quiet bar, drinking white wine. A band was playing somewhere but few were dancing.

  One of the trips tomorrow was an island tour and it meant an early start on the coaches. A special early breakfast was being laid on.

  ‘That new receptionist of yours,’ I began. ‘Didn’t she see Rosanna Hawkins leave the isolation unit? She would have had to pass the desk on her way out. There’s only one way out, isn’t there?’

  ‘What new receptionist?’ Samuel was preoccupied, putting his thoughts on hold. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  ‘When I came down to see Rosanna. There was a new nurse at the reception desk. She was working on some reports.’

  Samuel looked straight at me, eyes as usual boring into mine.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ he asked.

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘About a new receptionist.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was important. You may recall that a lot was happening. Rosanna Hawkins had escaped and a crew member was locked in the loo.’

  ‘I don’t have a new nurse,’ he said coldly. ‘My team is the same as the last cruise. That was probably Rosanna Hawkins sitting at the desk and you walked right past her.’

  Sixteen - Isla Margarita

  By now we knew that Rosanna had gathered a minimal wardrobe. A nurse’s uniform, sweatshirt, jeans and hospital nightie. We needed to make an inch by inch search of the entire ship to find her. By we, I did not mean me. It was every other member of the crew.

  They were not looking for the missing DJ. Cruise card records showed he had gone ashore early at Barbados and returned before the ship sailed. But he had not been seen since nor was his cabin occupied. It was probable that he had found a way to slip ashore again during one of the frequent deliveries of fresh produce that arrived via a door in the hull, quayside level. Perhaps he had been working himself a free passage to the Caribbean, without doing any work. It has been known, only too often.

  Perhaps the two might have been linked. Brother/sister. Husband/wife. Another theory down the plughole? Darin and Rosanna? It was doubtful.

  Early morning was fresh and bright. The fittest of us were doing a quick circuit of the Promenade Deck to get the blood circulating. The Countess was already berthed at the deep water port of El Guamache on the western part of the island. The frantic activity ashore was riveting to watch. Dozens of thatch-roofed stalls were being set up and stretched as far as the beach cafés, selling souvenirs that were locally made and a lot that weren’t. The Isla Margarita, only twenty-five miles off the coast of Venezuela, was once well known for its pearl fishing, but the oyster beds had been overexploited. So no genuine pearl bargains around.

  It was one of the best places for shopping because practically everything was duty-free. It didn’t have the chic and sophisticated shops of Palma, but villagers from miles around converged when a cruise ship was due in port, laden with home-made jewellery and clothes and ornaments.

  A group of musicians were playing Spanish music and a couple of lithe youngsters were twirling and whirling about in rhythm to the beat. Pretty early in the day for a dance band. The coaches were beginning to arrive, parking along the front, their Conway Blue Line labels prominent in the driver’s windows. The tours would take in the national park with lagoons, mangroves and flamingos, the large town of Porlamar, the castle at Pampatar, lunch out at a fish restaurant and finally a fine beach for swimming.

  They would return exhausted. I didn’t know what the interior roads would be like. Many of these all day tours sounded fine in the tours brochure but the poor roads were often killing. Margarita had 3,000-feet twin hills rising on the horizon and any hairpin roads might be scary. I was glad I hadn’t volunteered to guide. I wanted to crash out on a beach and forget everything. Especially Dr Samuel Mallory. I wanted to forget him totally before he became imprinted on my mind.

  Tony and Janet, the ballroom dancing teachers, had volunteered to guide and were waiting by their coaches. I don’t know where they got the energy. I waved my amazement and they fanned back, miming ‘hot’ and ‘exhausted’. Already the temperature was rising. The stones on the quayside were beginning to bake. The distant blue of the water lapping the white sand was enticing.

  The work of the Entertainment Director’s office still had to go on and we dispatched it in double quick time. I ignored Estelle Grayson’s complaint that her cabin was too hot and sent an air-conditioning engineer round to see her. She had probably turned the dial the wrong way. She sat up half the night inventing complaints. Conway ought to offer an inter-departmental prize for her most outrageous complaint.

  I went back to my cabin to change into a swimsuit and beach clothes. Ahmed was outside with his laden trolley of towels and sheets, still working, the never-ending cleaning and housekeeping of his allotted cabins.

  ‘Are you getting some time ashore today?’ I asked.

  ‘No, Miss Jones. Not this today. But next port, yes. We are going ashore at Willemstad. They say it is very nice.’

  ‘Very Dutch and very colourful. There’s a floating market, selling fish from boats.’ Did he know about the stowaway? Such items of news would fly round the crew and the stewards. ‘Tell me, Ahmed. Would you say there were plenty of hiding places on the Countess for a stowaway?’

  ‘Oh yes, Miss Jones. Many, many curious hiding places. Many cupboards and storage units. Some of the panelled walls have doors in them that no one notices.’

  ‘I bet they don’t, Ahmed. Thank you. Sorry to have delayed you.’

  ‘That is no problem, Miss Jones. Have a nice day.’

  I changed into a cerise swimsuit, flowered sarong and long-sleeved shirt. The five minute walk to La Caracola beach took twenty minutes. The vendors were persistent and their goods a mass of colourful bargains. I bought two stretchy bracelets made of painted seeds for less than a dollar. It made me feel mean to give them so little but the woman and her daughter seemed pleased.

  A drink of local Margarita went down well despite the plastic glass. I think it was made with a dark rum topped with loads of juice then decorated with sliced fruit. The open air bar
was doing fantastic trade. The American cruise ship was anchored out at sea and the passengers had come ashore in droves on launches. It was a huge white ship. She made the Countess look like a midget. Her name was Princess of the Ocean or something similarly vast.

  ‘Hi,’ I said to several Americans. ‘Are you having a good time?’

  ‘Sure, fantastic island. The best.’

  Already the always spruce American crew were trying to persuade their unruly and widespread pack of passengers to start returning to ship in good time. They were patrolling the beaches with loudspeakers.

  ‘Each launch only holds forty passengers, so start making your way back now, folks,’ they bellowed.

  Folk had no intention of making their way back when there was all this lovely white sand to sunbathe on. They probably had minimal space on the ship. They turned a deaf ear to the announcements, rolled over and applied lashings more suntan lotion.

  I walked along the first beach and passed the second smaller one. There were tiny beaches further on, only big enough for two or three people. I might get one to myself. The problem with walking too far was timing the return. It would be easy to fall asleep on the beach and then have to race back. Calamity Casey. Again?

  One small bay had another cruise couple staking their pitch.

  I vaguely knew them by sight but recognized the cabin issue Conway Blue beach towels. They smiled, recognizing me.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if I join you on this beach?’

  ‘No, not all. Feel free. Glad you are having a few hours off.’

  ‘And please give me a nudge if I fall asleep.’

  ‘Likewise. We certainly don’t want to miss the ship sailing. It would be too awful.’

  Reassured that I had back-up, I stripped off and waded through the shallow water. The water was cool as I pushed against the wavelets, splashing against my knees, then thighs. It was clear and I could see the sand on the sea bed. The couple were specks on the beach before it was deep enough to swim. I swam a few yards, then turned on my back to enjoy the sensation of floating, my eyes closed against the dazzling sparkle of the sun.

  This was bliss. This was why I worked on the Countess.

  It was heavenly. All the shipboard problems vanished. People had died in largely unexplained circumstances. We had a roaming stowaway. Something funny was going on even if no one believed me. But now, I felt as if I was a million miles away and it was a delicious feeling. Hardly real at all.

  I swam for some distance. There was never any pain in water. The ankle discomfort disappeared as if the accident had never happened. But it had happened. A sudden searing pain that sent me hopping into career oblivion.

  The show had stopped, but only long enough for stage hands to cart me off on an improvised stretcher. My understudy was in the wings. She went on smoothly, taking up the routine as if nothing had happened.

  Those first few weeks had been traumatic. No one at the hospital seemed to understand that dancing was my life, my career. They thought I’d get over it, get a job in Top Shop. Thank you, folks.

  ‘Pretty girl like you,’ said one doctor. ‘Soon get another job.’

  ‘I appreciate your concern,’ I’d said, barely able to hide my frustration.

  No one had been sympathetic. Even my parents had thought it par for the course. Dancing had been a ridiculous choice with all those A levels under my belt.

  ‘Get a proper job now,’ said my dad.

  ‘Penny for them,’ said a voice I recognized but could not see against the bright sun. ‘You’re miles away.’

  ‘I was wondering if all doctors are insensitive, boorish and sometimes downright cruel.’ I flipped over on to my front and swam around a bit.

  Samuel was treading water. He seemed to have swum along from one of the large, closer beaches. ‘It goes with the territory,’ he said, flicking wet hair out of his eyes. ‘We have to be caked in shellac. Several layers.’

  ‘It shows.’ I made sure I didn’t look at his glistening brown shoulders, but it wasn’t easy. He was only a few feet away from me and I was acutely aware of his naked skin, so close. My cerise swimsuit was a sleek and modest affair, not a couple or three of strategic triangles and some string. ‘I was remembering when I injured my ankle and had to give up dancing. The medical profession were so unsympathetic.’

  ‘Some of us are immune to personal trauma. Sorry.’

  His watch was waterproof. Droplets fell off his arm as he squinted at the dial. He had dark hairs on his forearm. They were so near and touchable.

  ‘Time to get back,’ he said. He fell into the water and began a fast crawl towards the quayside, his arms slicing through the waves. Show-off. He’d be on board before I was. I had miles of heavy shallows to wade through. The couple on the beach were waving at me. I waved back to show that I understood. As I neared, I could see that they were packing up their goods, moving around quite quickly. I didn’t like the look of that. I must have floated for longer than I thought.

  Time for minor panic. I began to splash hurriedly through the shallows. The couple were leaving the tiny bay, waving good bye. I still had a way to go. I ran through the last gobbling wavelets, grabbed my sarong, sandals and shirt. It was hard going, trying to run on soft sand. The beaches were almost deserted. Everyone had gone. The bars were closing.

  Time for major panic. I didn’t have a watch. I flew across the sand, glad to be able to see the Countess in the distance, still berthed. She was waiting for me, I felt sure. There must still be time. I’d only be a few minutes late. One of the last on board. Someone had to be last.

  The steps up from the beach were formed out of rocks. Normally this was OK. But some idiot had decided to wash their feet at the top of the steps and throw the rest of the water down the steps. Thank you, buster.

  I fell on the slippery rock. I felt my bad ankle go under. The strap to my sandal broke. I heard the snap although my head was full of birdsong and waves.

  It seemed like a replay of that other occasion although now I had only myself to rely on. No commiserating troupe of dancers, no choreographer wailing, no producer tearing his hair.

  Somehow I crawled up the steps. There was no way of repairing my sandal. I would have to go barefooted. And the pain. It hurt like hell. I grabbed a floating plastic bag and wrapped it tightly round my ankle, knotting the ends together. Good-bye glamour.

  The vendors were all packing up and the market area was a throng of carts and cars. It was painful walking on hot stones but I hobbled as fast as I could, shutting my mind to the heat. There was no clear passage. The Countess was still at her berth but I could hear the band playing ‘Sailing, we are sailing.’ A bad sign. And the flag-wavers were out. A group of nationals on front of the dock, waving their flags. Very friendly and all that, but as far as I was concerned, an even worse sign. They only waved at the last moment.

  Sweat was pouring off my forehead. As I broke through the last of the busy vendors, my worst fears were tossed back in my face. They were throwing down the lines. The gangways had all been hoisted and the ship was leaving. The Countess was barely a foot of water away from the quayside and I could have jumped it. But to where? There was no convenient open doorway or rope.

  I stood riveted, heart thumping.

  The ship’s hull was closed shut and made fast. I could hardly jump to nowhere. I stood on the quayside, beside the flag wavers, in despair as my beautiful white lady left without me. Just that extra swim, that extra float, those moments talking with Samuel. They were my downfall. I could blame him.

  My career was in shatters. No one would employ me again. How would I get home? All my documents were on board in my grab bag. I was doomed to months of fruitless embassy enquiries, moneyless, living like a bum. Maybe get a job washing up in a bar. And my ankle was really painful.

  They were real tears. Casey Jones, this was a monumental cock-up. How are you going to get yourself out of this one?

  Samuel was leaning over a rail on the Promenade Dec
k, mid-deck. I could always recognize that head, that dark hair, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Maybe just goodbye, goodbye. He’d be glad to see the back of me.

  I couldn’t wave. I stood like a dejected beanpole with nothing to lean on. The ship was inching away from me, the gap widening, water swirling round her bows.

  The music was driving me crazy. I couldn’t hear what Samuel was saying. I hurried, limping along the quayside as the ship began to ease out to sea.

  ‘Pilot,’ Samuel was yelling. ‘Pi-lot’s boat.’

  ‘What?’ I yelled back.

  ‘Pi-lot.’

  Then I understood. There was a pilot on board, who would have to be taken off by a small launch coming alongside. My own monumental stupidity came home to thump me squarely between the eyes. Most departure times are six p.m. sharp. Isla Margarita had been scheduled for five p.m., something to do with tides or another ship coming in.

  The Countess was backing off the berth before swinging into the Canal de Margarita and heading easterly along the southern shores of the island. The canal was a narrow stretch of water between Isla Margarita and another island, called Coche, to starboard. There were a lot of fishing boats in this canal.

  I ran to the harbour master’s office in the dockside buildings. Since I had no identification on me, apart from my crew cruise card, the official in charge was dubious of my story.

  ‘But who are you?’ he asked, viewing my card as if it was contaminated. ‘How do I know if you not passenger?’

  ‘I’m not a passenger. I’m a member of the crew.’

  He could not believe that a crew member could be so stupid as to miss the ship. ‘You do not look like crew.’

  My damp swimsuit and sarong were far from a slick uniform. And the plastic bag wrapped round my foot. ‘I came ashore for a swim,’ I said. ‘Please put me on the pilot’s launch to get back to the ship.’

  ‘Impossible. Not allowed, unauthorized person.’

  ‘Por favor, ring the medical centre on the ship and ask for Dr Samuel Mallory, the ship’s doctor.’ I gave him the direct line number.