“You know you’re desperate to lose even more, you daft old bat,” I lectured her, making passing passengers smile. “Never change the habit of a lifetime.”
“I don’t want to gamble tonight, Lovejoy!” she was giving it, but I drew out a fortune on my plastic, and told her to get going.
She was into it instantly with hardly a glance. That’s the trouble with gamblers; their addiction ousts all others. I watched her slam into roulette. She lost steadily, hunched forward in her wheelchair and staring across at Victor Lustig, Billy the Kid – his Ivy standing behind him, without a glance my way; she must have forgotten – and sundry others. Jim and Millicent Akehurst were playing the slot machines, calling out to each other how they were doing.
“If they only had better decor, luvvie!” I heard Kevin say loudly, making a glittering entrance with Holly in tow. He had tinsel on his eyelashes so his face sparkled when he blinked, and each fingernail was differently coloured.
“The casinos are quite tasteful, darling,” Holly was giving back.
“Which,” Kevin shrilled over the din, “is a perfect hoot from someone who thinks sap green is a perfect co-ordinate for magenta and opal!”
Billy the Kid grinned and beckoned the odd couple. Kevin glided past us, head in the air. I often wonder if it’s just an act. Do they need to perform constantly? I mean, do they act even to a mirror? Attention is their addiction. Kevin changed his mind and swept out with, “I can’t stand mandarin orange against chrome!” or some such. Once departed, there wasn’t even a fragment of him anywhere in the memory. Was that simply his trick, though, to make himself forgettable? Holly remained.
“Money, Lovejoy.”
More, and so soon? I drew more money from the cashier behind her grille. The croupier exchanged it for coloured discs. I dropped two together on a square, and to my surprise won. Money actually coming in, from a bet? I dropped another two on a different square, and it came up. Lady Vee grew really excited.
She made me choose a third, which lost, then a fourth which won an even bigger stack of coloured discs. I was bored sick. Lady Vee was delirious with excitement.
“Keep on, Lovejoy!” she shrilled when I turned to go. I noticed Ivy had left. Time for me to join her outside in secret. I suppose I was in for another ballocking, God knows what about.
“No, love. Give us a shout when you’re done. I’ll be in the bar.”
“You can’t stop now! You’re on a roll!” Several people yelled the same thing, frantic.
“You have to gamble, Lovejoy!” Billy the Kid said earnestly across the roulette table. “You’ve discovered you’re lucky!”
“Billy, I’d sooner watch fog.” I looked round at them. They’d gone quiet, like I’d ridiculed patriotism, motherhood and the Holy Grail. “Just look at the lot of you madmen. You put a coin in a slot and you either win or you don’t. Big deal. Or you put a token on a card and either win or you don’t… See what I mean? It’s stupid. I just don’t get it.”
Apart from the racket of the lines of one-arm bandits, the place was silent.
“He’s mental,” Billy told the others.
Holly spoke for them all, harsh and determined. “Everybody must gamble, Lovejoy! Look at Grudon.” They all nodded, looking at me. I felt on trial.
“Grudon? What’s that?”
“Grand National winner in 1901, Lovejoy.” They looked so earnest, in prayer. Lady Vee even bowed her head in reverence.
“A horse is a horse is a horse, love.”
“Grudon proves why everybody has to gamble.” And spoke over their chorus of agreement. “Arthur Nightingall rode it in a terrible snowstorm. First of March. You know what he did? He smeared pounds of butter on Grudon’s hooves, so the snow couldn’t ball and weigh its legs down.”
“And won?” I saw how deadly serious they all were. I got the odd feeling I was arguing against robbery in St Petersburg.
“By four lengths, Lovejoy. Don’t you see?” Holly was in anguish at my blasphemy.
“No, love, I don’t. You lunatics would bet Elvis is still alive.”
“She already has!” Lady Vee said with admiration. “Thousand to one!”
“You silly cow.” I honestly think gamblers are insane. “Last month Elvis was seen directing traffic. And in a hurry-curry nosh caff in Palmers Green – he ordered chicken masala, with onion bhaji for starters. And at a Cumbria sheep-dog trial; his collie came second. All true sightings! Now.” I stared round at them. “How many bets got paid off? None!”
“Nobody had a camera!” Lady Vee cried with anguish. “The proof is out there!”
“If Elvis came back nobody would believe him. Didn’t he enter an Elvis lookalike competition in real life? And he lost!”
A few passengers were strolling and chatting on the Promenade Deck in the slight evening breeze, having a smoke. No sign of Ivy. Well, it couldn’t have been important, just another telling off for something I’d done, nearly done, not done, ought to have done. My spirits quailed at being here without Margaret. I wondered about Amy. She might prove the safest. Then I remembered her eyes, so manic and hard with that electric prod thing…
“Lovejoy?” Ivy was at the rail. She shivered. “Can we go in? It’s chilly.”
“Okay.” Women and chills. I thought it was really pleasant, the Baltic calm and the night warm. “Look, love,” I started, as we strolled towards an entrance, “if I’ve been a bit offhand, it’s just I’ve a lot on my mind, see?”
“I know, Lovejoy,” she said. We walked like strangers, at arm’s length so we wouldn’t bump. “It must be hard.”
“Hard?”
“For you. Being the only one not in the camarilla.”
“What’s a camarilla?” I already knew. Plotters everywhere, politicians included, have them. The Junkers had been one, and the Inquisition. They are the elites, cliques in control. They’re always evil. The Olympic Committee, the World Bank and the UN are full of camarillas. Q.E.D.
“People in the game.” Bitterness is a woman’s art, and all the more alarming. Did she mean gambling, or something worse?
We went into the bright lights. The Atrium combo was playing. The shops were still open and the library across the intervening balcony was on the go. The chocolate bar had a cluster laughing and comparing tastes. “Don’t give me sympathy. I’m never in the know. It’s just the way I am.”
“It’s not sympathy, Lovejoy.”
Then what? I was more or less letting her lead the way. I’d assumed she would pause in some lounge, I’d procure her a drink and it would be back to the casino or maybe listening to a bar piano in the Horizon. Instead, she had us in a lift, then along a corridor I’d never been down. Canberra Deck?
“I get lost,” I told her lamely. “We okay here?”
We said hello to an elderly couple emerging from their cabin, togged up for some late entertainment. She paused at a cabin door and did the plastic key. More spacious than mine, but then Billy the Kid was an affluent copper, with hard-earned money to burn. You can tell the grade of cabin from the space and the window sizes. Not as grand as Lady Vee’s, but not a cupboard.
She stood by the window looking out. I felt a lemon, wondering what I’d been brought here for.
“I’m sorry, Lovejoy, for the plight you’re in.”
What did she know? I wasn’t in any plight, as far as the rest of the world was concerned. I said so.
“It’s safe to talk here,” she said, head turned slightly like they do when they’re all attention and supposedly looking elsewhere. “One of the few places on this ship.”
Safe? Why weren’t other places safe? I remembered Margaret and me making smiles, my sketch, and Margaret’s departure, which made Ivy seem more important than a minute ago.
“Billy isn’t often here. And I’m too much of a mouse to do anything rash like inviting a friend in. Don’t you see?”
She was in tears. I never know what to do when a woman cries. Some blokes say it’s a trick to make you a
gree, but to what?
“No.”
“We’re all in it, Lovejoy. I mean them, not me. I’m only the pathetic mask Billy brings along for appearance’s sake. They’re the backers.”
She moved away from the window. I could see into the dark, a light flashing ever few seconds, probably some headland. I didn’t really like watching the sea. Some passengers stared at it endlessly when there was nothing in sight, like a fascination.
I was surprised to find her walk into me, not bumping, just coming against me, her head almost under my chin.
We stood there like bookends with no books between. I felt daft, trying to find foothold behind me so I wouldn’t stumble back.
“It’s been so long.”
I recognised quiet desperation, but what was I expected to do? We stood there, me slowly overbalancing because she’d pressed me back so there was nowhere to put my feet. I toppled slowly onto a chair. She took my hands and pulled me to my feet.
“Look,” I said, more desperate than she could ever be. “If your bloke comes in…”
“Another beating, like from Les and Amy?” She did that bitter smile and suddenly sounded so tired. “I don’t think so, Lovejoy. I’ve locked the door.”
Sometimes I’ve made smiles in less ideal places, in less of a party mood, and at times which were definitely lacking in rejoicing. I’m not proud of the episode with Ivy, who seemed readier to mourn than frolic with a bloke like me who was no more than a shabby stranger.
One odd thing. When you think oh dear, this is a real mistake, a force takes over. Before you know it you’re in heaven with paradisical choirs and waves on the seashore and you wonder how on earth you could be so wrong. I’ve heard it’s different for women. I’ve no way of knowing, because with us making smiles is always bliss and ecstasy and mind-blowing wonderment.
Only later, rousing from that terrible semi-dying limbo in a tussle of limbs, did realisation come. How the hell did Ivy, meek quiet little Ivy, wife of the rumbustious Billy who’d bossed the Wirral’s tough cops, know I’d been beaten senseless by the odious pair? I tried not to move, and stared at her. She was asleep. Women are all awake after making smiles, wanting a fag and talk about emotions. We want to slumber and slowly climb out of that sombre pit into wakefulness. She must have understood. My respect for her soared. Less than one in a hundred women know this. If one actually understands, makes allowances and gives you time, she’s the one in a million. I wondered if I should apply my Ten Word Game, get Ivy straight in my mind.
The time, though? I looked. Ivy stirred, came to. She said was I all right.
“Fine, ta.” Please, not the litany again, was she as good as others, was I disappointed. “Look at the time.”
We agreed on time passing and other platitudes. Better get back because folk would notice.
“It’s been so long,” she said again.
“Thanks, love.” A lucky interlude, probably no more. “How did you know about Amy and Les doing me over?”
“They’re Billy’s people. It was to make you conform.”
“Who’re the others?”
“Everybody, Lovejoy. Except you.”
“Millicent and Jim? Kevin and Holly too?
“Especially Kevin.” She almost spat the name. I stood up, and looked down as she started to find her clothes.
“Kevin?” Why was she mad at Kevin? The image came of Billy beckoning Kevin in the casino. I used to believe I could always tell, but sometimes I’m too bone-headed.
“Billy and Kevin – what is it people say? – catch a different tram.”
“Oh. Thank you, love,” I added lamely, not knowing what to say.
“Thank you, Lovejoy.” She wept, doing that complicated wrist movement to fasten her bra. “You just don’t know how tormenting it has been, or how degrading. I was afraid you’d run a mile from me.”
Narked, I almost exploded at that. I was the one going to get topped in Russia the day after tomorrow, and I didn’t know torment?
I left first, going the wrong way down the corridor and emerging near a laundrette where passengers can do their own laundry. I went up in the lift and found a score of people eating ice-creams.
“Come to the midnight buffet!” one or two urged. “We’re just going. It’s the chocolate evening!”
“Right!” I told them. “See you there!”
And went to the casino where Lady Vee had lost a fortune, all on my card. Her friends were holding an autopsy on the vagaries of Lady Luck and blaming me. If only I’d heeded the signs/portents/runes/astrological fluxes, or none or all of the above, she’d have won a king’s ransom.
“Time for the midnight buffet, Vee.” I commandeered her wheelchair. “Chocaholic night.”
“If you’d only stayed, Lovejoy,” she said over her shoulder as we barreled down the corridor, “we’d be up a fortune.”
“The bookie always wins, you daft old sod.”
She cackled a laugh at that and said slyly, “Who was she, Lovejoy? Don’t tell me you’ve just been having a quiet drink. A woman can always tell.”
“I watched the contract bridge lesson,” I lied. “A lady there had an infallible betting system.”
“What is it? What?”
“Not telling you.” I pressed the button for the lift. “I don’t deal with losers.”
She said nothing after that, just eyed me calculatingly as we went to assimilate yet more kilo-joules in chocolate. I maintained my grins for the rest of the evening. I thought of Ivy, and whether she, like June Milestone, had accepted me on orders of the camarilla. If not, the odds were narrowing. If yes, I was in it worse than ever.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Very late, somebody knocked at my cabin door. I’d just got in, well knackered. Lady Vee’s hairstyle was burned in my brain, my only view when pushing the old goat. I liked her.
“Yes?” I called. The laundry delivered at all odd hours.
The ship’s laundry was terrific. Put any clothes in their big paper bag, list what you were sending, and next day suits, shirts, linen all arrived back pristine. Fantastic. I’d not had service like that since Mazie, who came one winter and showed her husband what’s what by hibernating at my cottage. Came the first thaw, she left rejoicing in the harmony of marital reunion. I was heartbroken, because she took the two suits, eight pairs of socks, nine shirts (with ties), and even singlets and underpants she’d bought for me as a Yuletide gift. I saw her husband around town the week after, wearing my (that’s my, note) best worsted salt-and-pepper suit. I’d only worn it once. I was glad in a way because he looked a prat in it. But then so had I. Easy come, as they say. Mazie was blonde and had a gold toothpick, as far as I remember. I truly loved her, and was heartbroken for almost a whole afternoon. Women are fickle. They manipulate.
Nobody there when I opened the cabin door. No plastic-covered shirts hanging on the door, no parcels of wrapped linen. To the side of each cabin door there is a slot for notices, ship’s newspapers, messages, purser’s bills from indefatigable accountants and the like. Mechanically I looked, saw a small note and picked it up. I glanced down the corridor, and saw somebody – stewardess, maybe? – slip from sight, as if she’d been peering round to make sure I’d taken the message.
It was a scribble: L, Please. Hospital, 1-30 am, ward 3. Quiet.
Hospital? On board? I’d heard dinner talk about people going to see the doctor. I’d seen signs. All passengers carried a ship’s plan with their plastic card, though that didn’t stop us from getting lost. I checked. Deck Four at the front, a lot lower down than the passenger cabins. The time now was an hour after midnight. Five minutes at the most to get down there. I sat on the bed. Why does it always seem worthwhile to read notes twice, three times? The words don’t grow another sentence or sprout extra adjectives full of meaningful import. Yet I do it every time. If the thing had been an epistle from some lovely lady and was packed with hints of assignations and coloured with enticing promises, sure, another perusal and a longer t
hink would be wise. But this scrap? Come to the hospital at an impossible hour, with no reason or identifiable sender? Not likely. I shelled my jacket. Whoever it was could hang on until morning, and I might not even go then.
Don’t go judging me. I still fumed from being mauled by smiling Amy and chuckling Les. I didn’t want more. Basically, I’m scared of hospitals. Doctors and nurses are armed with syringes and phlebotomes, and you’re naked as a grape. Think of those odds. I go queasy visiting pals in clinics. I just know that every nurse is eyeing me up, working out how she’s going to inflict maximum pain. There’s no future in hospitals.
It wasn’t a woman’s writing, smooth and looped where the letter a and t are hard to read. It looked like a bloke’s hand. Henry Semper? Purser Mangot or one of his ghouls?
I donned my jacket and went.
This late, there was nothing audible except the distant hum of the ship’s engines. Corridors were empty. I heard a lift creak as I went downstairs. Somebody came out on a higher floor, a lady explaining how she’d misunderstood somebody in the Conservatory about the next whist club match. Fading laughter.
The medical centre sign indicated a waiting room, chairs laid out, Riviera pictures on the walls, notices about clinics and who to ring if you were taken poorly. It was surprisingly large, three corridors leading off the waiting area. A hatch saying Pharmacy was closed. I went in and stood, wondering if I should PRESS FOR ATTENTION. The note could have told me to phone if somebody wanted a chat, right? The late hour was a clue, and the warning to be quiet.
Which wasn’t odd. Hospitals always have signs asking for quiet, though they make incredible rackets with trolleys, bleeps, doors slamming. No din here. One corridor was signed for doctors’ consulting rooms. Another, unlabelled, led to paired operating theatres.
I heard voices, a nurse with a smile in her voice, a man answering, “If one more passenger demands chlordiazepoxide, I’ll resign back into the NHS.”
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