Cold Play - First Two Chapters
CHAPTER
ONE
FRIDAY, AT SEA
It’s
two in the morning, and I’m wandering the decks.
I
do this sometimes, late at night, after I’ve finished my gig
in the
TopDeck Lounge. Guitars locked away. Samuel, mopping up the bar,
loading the dishwasher with empty glasses. Carla totting up receipts
in the alcove off to the side.
It’s
lovely, having the ship to myself.
We’re
four hours out of Vancouver, meandering along the darkened, forested
shorelines of Georgia Strait, our propellers barely lapping in the
water. Killing time, really. We could be there in an hour if the
captain so wished.
It’s
our last night out. The end of a week’s sailing to Alaska and
back.
We’ve
had our final Bingo and Win-a-Cruise Lottery. And our Farewell
Variety Extravaganza in the Showcase Lounge. DJ Pedro’s still
hosting his Welcome Back to Canada Party in the Disco, but
that’ll
soon be winding down, the last of the diehards straggling back to
their cabins, drunk and in no shape to disembark in a few
hours’
time.
Downstairs,
on the crew decks, it’s brightly-lit mayhem. All of the
passengers’
bags and cases have been collected and they’re being loaded
into
wheeled cages for quick offload as soon as we dock at six.
Just
ahead, if I lean out over the railing, I can see our sister ship, the
Star
Amethyst.
92,600 luxury tons, a five star hotel on
top of a barge, lights ablaze in the night, heading on the same
course. She’ll berth opposite us at Vancouver’s
Cruise Ship
Terminal.
We’re
tiny. Only 28,000 tons. And old. But rather unusual. A refurbished
ocean liner. One of the last steamships, in fact, still at sea.
Passengers pay a premium to sail on the Star
Sapphire.
I
run my hand along her teak railing. It’s old, an original
fitting,
lovingly maintained, polished weekly. Underneath the modern sealant
you can still see the weathering from her years on the North
Atlantic.
This
is her last season. And I’ll be sad to see her go.
I’ve worked on
board for nearly three years, divided up into six month contracts.
It’s not quite the end of her life. But it will be a change.
When
our last run to Alaska’s done in September, she’ll
be retired and
sent over to Europe. She’s being bought by a consortium of
business
partners, renovated yet again, and set up as a hotel and casino.
StarSea Corporate’s been negotiating the terms for the past
year.
None of us will lose our jobs. We’ll be absorbed back into
the
system. Assignments aboard other StarSea ships. And my lady will live
on, with a new lease on life.
With so many other passenger liners sent to the knacker’s yard, obsolete, unable to meet safety standards and unappreciated by a demanding market, it’s the best possible outcome. And I’m certain she knows it.
I’ve
done my once-around the Outside Promenade. I’m going inside
now. I
give my favourite place on the railing an affectionate rub.
I’m
sure that thumb-sized indentation’s the result of thousands
of
others saying goodnight to her, just like me.
Downstairs,
in the foyer outside the Atrium Room, I walk past a little display
with photos of all the ship’s headline entertainers. There's
me -
Jason Davey - TopDeck Lounge, performing all your vocal and
instrumental favourites, 8 til Late. It’s a terrible picture.
Makes
me look like the second last act in a 50’s variety show
featuring
dancing elephants and fire-eating hoop jugglers.
I'll
forgive you for thinking you might be reminded of The
Love Boat,
that American sitcom from about 30 years ago, where passengers and
crew weekly embarked upon romantic adventures and humorous
storylines. We have DVD's in the Officers' Club, largely unwatched.
And I really hate the theme song. Though if you ask me to sing it
this week in TopDeck, I will.
Once.
I
take one of the forward passenger lifts down. It’s nicer than
the
crew lifts, which are tiny white boxes with open cage doors, so you
can see the cut-away steel plates of each of the ship’s decks
going
up as you go down. Passenger lifts have mirrors on their walls, and
plush blue carpeting on the floor, and disembodied female voices
telling you what deck you’re on and please mind the doors.
The
lift stops on Deck 5, Baja, and the door slides open. For no apparent
reason, as there’s no one waiting to get on. But then... I
smell
something. It’s only a tiny whiff. Electrical. Scorched
wires. That
smell you can taste in the back of your throat.
This
is not good.
I’m
off the lift and hunting for the source. Tracking it forward....
There.
Showcase Lounge. There’s a haze in front of me, and
it’s being fed by little tendrils, wisps of smoke snaking out
from
underneath the closed doors.
It
takes a second or two to hit home. And then - panic.
Fire
Alarm. Where? Where?
Found
it. Pull down hard on the bar. Silent alarm. But there’s an
audible
up on the Bridge and a red flashing light on the Fire Panel. Next
- next - next -
I’m
not good at this. I’m the last person this should be
happening to.
I’m trying to remember the drill.
Small
fire: make one attempt to put it out with an extinguisher.
I
don’t think it’s a small fire. And I’m
not going to check.
If
smoke's coming from under a door...leave it alone.
Close the
Fire Door.
I
disengage the locks that keep the heavy Fire Doors open on both sides
of the Lounge. Slam them shut, isolating the bow from the rest of the
ship.
Evacuate
the area.
There's
no one to evacuate. It’s two in the morning. Our passengers
are all
in bed. Asleep.
Wait
for the Evaluation Team.
I
wait. Coughing. Heart beating. Cold sweat, fighting the need, the
absolute primordial fight-or-flight need, to run away and be as far
away as possible. Finally, the Bridge responds. It’s only 20
or 30
seconds since I turned in the alarm. It feels like half an hour.
I
hear four Big Ben bongs over the PA, and then the matter-of-fact
voice of the Watch Officer with the coded announcement that means
Emergency: “Your attention please. This is the Bridge.
Evaluation
Team to Baja Deck, Deck 5, Showcase Lounge, port side. I’ll
repeat,
Evaluation Team, please, to Baja Deck, Deck 5, Showcase Lounge, port
side. Thank you.”
We
invent dire disasters each week for Crew Drills. We go through our
paces. We practise responses til they’re automatic. But
drills are
one thing. Real fires don't follow handbooks. I want to be anywhere
but here.
Wait
for the Evaluation Team.
They’ve
got security cameras in Showcase. They can see what’s behind
those
doors. I have to stay to tell them what I know. I’m counting
the
seconds.
Stay
calm. You are in no immediate danger.
There’s
a fire raging out of control ten feet away from me and I'm meant to
believe I'm in no immediate danger.
Two
minutes. Here they come, arriving from three directions at once.
Chief Purser, Safety, Security, Engineers, Bridge Officers. All with
radios. A ten second assessment and the Safety Officer’s
relaying
orders and Chief Purser's on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
“Forget
about Crew Alert,” he says, to me. “This is a
GES.”
A
full-scale GES is what we practise with the passengers at each week
before Sailaway. It involves lifejackets and serious thought. It's
not the signal to abandon ship. But it might as well be. Bells are
ringing. Seven short, one long. Passengers are coming out in their
pyjamas. There’s panic. Confusion. They can see the smoke.
They can
smell it. They know it’s not a drill.
Chief
Purser’s shouting at them to go to their muster stations. He
wishes
he was already there himself.
“Upstairs!
Everybody upstairs. Muster Stations on Promenade Deck. Now!”
In
a well-planned paper emergency, passengers are organised, by
location, in the public rooms. From there, they can be led out in an
orderly fashion to the lifeboats. In a well-planned paper emergency,
there is no chaos. There is no panic. But the area around the forward
stairwell’s rapidly deteriorating into chaos. Passengers are
crowding onto the stairs, clutching their lifejackets. Passengers are
pushing forward, trying to run.
I’m
paralysed. My legs won’t move. Chief Purser gives me a push.
“Off
to your Muster Duties. Go!”
Every
member of the ship’s company has a function to perform in an
emergency. Contract musicians are Crew. No different from cabin
stewards and bartenders. I’m away at last. Relieved. Afraid.
My
throat and lungs are beginning to hurt. I’m fighting that
fight-or-flight panic again. And the bells have stopped.
“Your
attention, please, this is the Bridge. Fire party and boundary
cooling party to the Showcase Lounge, Baja Deck, Deck 5, port side,
forward stairway.”
Fuck.
It’s spreading.
“Your
attention, please, this is the Captain. This is an announcement to
all passengers and crew. What you’ve just heard is the
General
Emergency Signal. Would all passengers and crew please collect their
lifejackets, dress warmly, take all necessities, and proceed now to
your muster stations. I apologise for the lateness of the hour and
the inconvenience. This is a precautionary measure only, at this
time. Again, I’ll repeat, this is Captain
Callico....”
I’m
trying to get down the Crew stairs to my cabin, which is on A Deck,
one below the last passenger deck, Caribe. They’ve shut down
the
ship’s ventilators. It’s hot and airless in this
stairwell and
I’m battling other crewmembers who’re desperate to
get topside
with their lifejackets.
Finally.
A Deck. My cabin. My home. I run cold water in the sink and splash it
into my mouth and eyes and over my face. I grab my lifejacket and
pull on my CREW baseball cap. I hook my laminated picture ID and
safety instruction card off the magnet clip beside my bed.
“Your
attention, please. This is the Bridge.”
I
lean my head against my open cabin door, heart pounding.
“Zone
parties to Fire Zone #1, Baja Deck, Deck 5. Zone Commander, Zone 1,
evacuate Deck 5.”
Jesus
fucking Christ. I'm out of here. I’m in the corridor. Nearly
colliding with Chris, from the Engine Room, in his white boilersuit,
and DJ Pedro from the Disco.
“They’ll
be handing out free cruise certificates from now until next Christmas
over this one,” Pedro says, cynically. “See you on
Twitter.”
“That’s
not funny,” I tell him, slinging my lifejacket over my
shoulder.
#
My
assigned post is Deck 7, Promenade, aft Atrium Room entrance.
I’m
there to help look after the passengers who use it as their Muster
Station. I’m not happy being above the fire, even though
it’s at
the forward end of the ship. I’m trying not to let my fear
show.
But at least they’re there, fighting it. And we’ve
had reassuring
announcements from the Captain, keeping us all informed about
what’s
apparently happening. And we’re close to civilisation. Not
out in
open water. The shoreline is near. I could swim there if I had to.
“Don’t
let your lifejacket belts trail on the floor,” I tell a
passenger,
who’s become a one-man tripping hazard.
One
of the Pursers is here with me. His name’s Quentin and
he’s new
to the ship. He came aboard last month. Before that, he was on the
Amethyst.
Which has a spotless safety record.
“I
suppose now is not the time to inquire whether you’ve had
prior
experience at this sort of thing?”
I
cinch the belts of my lifejacket tight around my chest and waist. My
adrenaline’s still surging, and my throat and lungs are
aching from
the smoke I've breathed in. I cough it up. Tastes awful. Passengers
are looking at me. I smell of the fire.
“Not
with a real fire on a ship, no.”
“I
suspect I’ll be relying heavily upon your expertise in the
fine art
of abandoning a vessel at sea, as I’ve never actually
bothered to
learn how to swim.”
He
makes me smile.
“Where
do I go? Help me - where do I go?”
She's
appeared from nowhere, woken from sleep, lifejacket on, tapes
trailing. Elderly, unsure. She clutches my arm, her confused eyes
filled with panic.
“You’re
here,” I say, gently. “This is Muster Station
Number Two.”
But
she’s frozen, incapable of moving or thinking clearly.
“Are we
sinking? Did we hit something?”
“It’s
just a small fire,” Quentin says, trying to be reassuring.
“Nothing
to worry about.”
Wrong,
wrong words.
“A
fire? Oh God. Oh my God.”
I
take her hand. It’s clammy and shaky. I help her inside, and
to a
chair which is occupied by an 11 year old boy I’ve grown to
dislike
all week.
“If
you wouldn’t mind giving up your seat....” I
suggest, after he
proves to be immobile as well as unobservant, his nose buried, as it
is, in Nintendo.
He
looks to his dad - who’s more concerned with keeping Twitter
updated - and then to his mum - who responds begrudgingly.
“Move.”
“Sure,”
the kid says. “Here you go, Granny.”
He
kicks the chair at us, and sits on the floor, engrossed once more by
Pokemon.
“You
need to wait here until you’re given further
instructions,” I
tell the frightened lady, wishing I didn’t have to leave her
at the
mercy of this family in particular. But Joannie, one of the other
Pursers, will be around soon to keep an eye on her. I go back to my
post at the door, and Quentin.
“They
warned me this ship was an accident waiting to happen,” he
says,
nervously.
“Who
did?”
“My
colleagues aboard the Amethyst.
She’s an antique, they said. Things happen. Fires.
Breakdowns. Her
fuel lines pack up in the middle of the night and her generators go
dark. She was in drydock for a week four months ago - one of her
boilers exploded. Killed three engineers.”
"I
know,” I tell him.
It
happened while I was on my break. Sally - the Captain’s
Secretary -
emailed me all the details. It was horrific.
“Hi,
guys.” It’s Jemima Vickers. Our Cruise Director. My
boss.
“Deck
7, Promenade, aft starboard pax stairway, clear,” she says,
into
her radio.
“Is
it within your powers to tell us what’s actually
happening?”
Quentin asks.
“There’s
a lot of smoke, but it’s mostly just on Baja. The
fire’s out.”
Jemima’s
from Melbourne. I love her accent. And the fact that she lets me call
her Vicks. With utter affection. And my stress levels just went down
about 200%.
“It’s
out?”
“It’s
out. They had to hack away part of the ceiling. And it smells pretty
foul down there. At least this happened at the end of the bloody
cruise. There’d be hell to pay if we’d cancelled La
Gran Stupenda
and Her Unfailing Knives.”
She
has me smiling again.
“So
we won’t be abandoning ship,” Quentin says. He
seems almost
disappointed.
“No,
love. Not this time.”
I
can feel my legs beginning to shake. All of me, actually.
Jemima
gives me a hug. “You did all right here.”
“Thanks,
Vicks.”
And
she goes inside.
#
The
worst of it’s the smoke, which has crept insidiously into
everything aft of the fire on Baja. Passengers will be issued
apologies and credit vouchers. On the whole, we seem to have come out
of it OK.
I’m
reading Twitter now, before I try to get a few hours’ sleep.
Crew were lovely, so professional. No panic. Just like Lifeboat Drill.
I thought we’d have to abandon ship. Engines stopped. We were very very frightened.
OH
forgot his meds but officer wouldn’t let him go back to
cabin. Was
most annoyed. Will definitely complain to cruise line.
We’re
underway, at full speed, towards Vancouver. I never want to go
through anything like this again. Ever. There's nowhere to run if
your ship's on fire. And it's not the flames that’ll kill you.
It's
the smoke.
CHAPTER
TWO
SATURDAY, VANCOUVER
I’m
dreaming.
She's
disguised, masked head to foot in layers of transparent white gauze,
gliding towards me, silent. I'm expecting emptiness when her arms
embrace me, the weightlessness of eternity. But there's warmth. And
gentleness. And an unexpected sense of touch. And her scent.
She
draws me into the folds of gauze. I part the layers, searching for
her face. But I never see it...she never lets me. Her lips touch
mine, the tip of her tongue. I will myself motionless, wanting her
but not daring to move. If I do, I will find only emptiness.
She’ll
disappear.
She's
making love to me, slowly, tantalisingly. Teasing me. Her fingers
tracing pathways down my chest, lingering....
“Jason!
Morning! Turnaround!”
It's
Quentin, on a break, banging on my cabin door.
“Fuck.”
My
dream vanishes in a flutter of scented white netting.
“What
time is it?”
“Eight
fifteen,” Quentin says, helpfully, through the door.
“Rise and
shine.”
“Fuck.
Thanks.”
“You're
entirely welcome,” Quentin says, and I can hear the humour in
his
voice.
Bastard.
#
The
Purser’s Desk is on Deck 6, Aloha, Forward, and the Entrance
Hall
is full of passengers anxious to get off. This, in spite of the fact
they've been told to wait in their cabins. Or the public rooms. Or
anywhere except the Entrance Hall on Deck 6, Aloha, Forward.
But
they’ve got tours to join and flights to catch. And after
last
night’s events, they’re hyped up and tense.
They’re standing
around in restless little groups, wearing the same clothes they came
aboard in last Saturday, talking, texting, tweeting.
Out
of the corner of my eye, I spot the young gentleman from the Atrium
Room, in baggy shorts and a backwards baseball cap, conducting a sly
reconnaissance. Looking for trouble, something to pilfer. Last
Saturday, after Sailaway, in what now seems an ironic turn, he pulled
a fire alarm, thinking he'd have some fun. But no bells sounded, no
sirens. Because the alarm was silent, he assumed his attempt had
failed, and so he did a tour of the decks to satisfy his craving for
anarchy. And on his fifth try he was caught - by me - nabbed in the
act. His principal reaction was to laugh. I don't suppose he expected
me to collar him and march him off. Not generally within my remit,
really, to act as Law Enforcement.
But
collared he was, and hand-delivered to Kevin, Chief of Security, who
subsequently informed Laughing Boy’s parents that if they
weren’t
prepared to exercise control over their maleficent progeny, the
entire family would be escorted off at our next port of call, and
left to find their own way home. No wonder, really, that he
wasn’t
best pleased to see me again last night.
Here
comes Laughing Boy’s mum, to harass Quentin.
“Listen,
I don't understand why it was so necessary for us to have our bags
packed and outside our cabin so early last night.”
“Yes,
we’re terribly sorry about the inconvenience.”
Quentin has it
down to a fine art. He's Scottish. A practised touch of empathy, at
the same time maintaining a distant tone of absolute authority. I
could never be a Purser. “But we do ask for your patience and
understanding. We have 800 passengers on board, which does mean
around 1,500 pieces of luggage we needed to move, sort, store, and
offload first thing this morning. I'm sure you can appreciate the
situation.”
Laughing
Boy’s mum is wearing a white baseball cap and too-tight yoga
togs.
I've watched her on deck all week, complaining about everything from
the meal times to the absence of Oprah on her cabin TV. Not our
typical Sapphire
passenger. Down market,
downscale. She should stick to theme
parks and hotels that are just like home.
“You
know what? We had no hot water in our cabin for two days. Then the
air conditioning didn’t work. My husband threw up after lunch
yesterday. And to top it all off, that fire. This boat is a piece of
junk. I'll be blogging about this.”
Quentin
is unmoved. He blogs too. Under a pseudonym.
“If
you’d care to put your comments in writing for
us...” He checks
her name. “...Mrs. Brinkman - as opposed to online -
we’d be
quite happy to pass them along to our Head Office for you.”
He
hands her a Passenger Questionnaire. “Your husband has my
sympathies.”
Laughing
Boy’s mum balls it up and leaves it on the counter as she
marches
off.
“It’ll
be a cold day in hell before we cruise with you again,” she
adds,
over her shoulder, as her evil progeny joins her, with a dozen
ship’s
maps stuffed under his shirt.
“Promise?”
Quentin remarks, pleasantly, under his breath.
“May
I have your attention please.” One of the other Pursers is
doing
the disembarkation calls from the back office. “This is the
first
announcement for all passengers holding Number 14 Blue baggage tags.
Would you please now proceed to the gangway located forward on Aloha
Deck, Deck 6, starboard side. Thank you and we wish you all a safe
onward journey and thank you for choosing StarSea Cruises.”
My
turn at the Desk. “How do I disembark, Quent?”
Quentin’s
looking at me. “As in... getting off and not getting back on
again?”
“Yes.
That.”
“Three
years aboard - you should be telling me.”
“It’s
never come up before.”
“I
imagine you’d have to take it up with your next-in-charge...
but if
it’s anything like us, there’s forms to fill out
and notice to be
given. I don’t think it’s at all instant. Plus
you’d need your
Passport, and Crew Purser’s not likely to surrender that
without a
struggle.”
He
can see I’m not happy.
“Is
it to do with last night’s events?”
“A
lot, yes.”
“Well,
I wish you luck. Though I’m fairly certain you’ll
have all this
week to change your mind.”
#
Lido
Deck’s deserted, all the wooden replica steamer chairs
stacked on
top of one another along the side, a few reluctant passengers
lingering for a few moments more, taking pictures, unwilling to
abandon the Sapphire’s
quiet, pampered world for the downtown busy-ness of Vancouver on a
Saturday morning.
I
help myself to two mugs of coffee from the always-on machine, add
cream and sugar, and carry on up the exterior stairs to Sun Deck. I
walk past a painter touching up rust spots at the base of our massive
navy blue funnel, and along the narrow open companionway, where
another crewman’s working on the davits holding one of the
tarp-covered lifeboats aloft. Through the door marked CREW ONLY.
The
Captain's Secretary's office is tucked in behind the Bridge, at the
forward end of Sun Deck. I suspect it began life as a large storage
cupboard. It now houses a desk, a chair, a PC and printer, and,
jammed into the corner, a tall metal cabinet which holds a good deal
of the ship’s files and spare stationery. The walls are
papered
with notices and bulletins. I'm not generally meant to be here, but I
have an honest face, and the Captain likes my musical arrangements.
Sally's
kneeling on the floor, sorting Passenger Questionnaires, her shoes
off and kicked out of the way against the wall. Otherwise, she's all
business in her black uniform skirt and white regulation shirt with
its Officer shoulder tabs.
"Hello,
you. I’m dying for that coffee. Fabulous timing."
I
place one of the mugs, and three Green & Black’s from
my
fridge, on her desk.
She
gets up to inspect my offering of chocolate.
“Ginger.
Lovely. You know me so well, Jayse. What do you want?”
“Honestly?
To go home.”
“What,
seriously?” She’s looking at me. She can tell
I’m not joking.
“Twenty-four hours advance notice required for crew
disembarkations, Jayse. Plus you'd be breaking your contract, and I
think Jemima would have something to say about that.”
“What
about in Juneau?”
“You’d
be a British subject on American soil. US Immigration’s
involved...
and flights connecting back to London. It’s complicated. But
not
impossible. Do you want me to start the paperwork?”
I’m
perched on the edge of her desk, staring at her stack of Passenger
Questionnaires. Last night was beyond terrifying. Last night was my
worst nightmare come true.
"They
think it was faulty wiring in the sound booth that caused the
fire,”
Sal tells me. Trying to make me feel better. Inside knowledge.
“Old,”
I say, absently, still looking at the stack of papers.
“Nothing
at all to do with old. Everything was installed new during her last
refit, two years ago. Faulty.”
“Even
worse.”
“Are
you going to speak to Jemima?”
I
look at Sally. “I love this ship. I love this life.”
“Go
ashore and have some breakfast,” Sal suggests.
“I’ll have your
file on my desk if you still want to pursue it when you get
back.”
#
Breakfast
done. And provisions bought for the upcoming week. I’m
walking back
to Vancouver’s Cruise Ship Terminal, earbuds in, iPod on. You
can
see us on the east side of the pier, a perfect jewel, her livery
gleaming white and polished navy blue. Dwarfed by the Amethyst,
on the west side, rising up like a multi-storey condo development.
I
can’t leave the Sapphire.
I won’t.
The
minute we docked this morning, a team of fire investigators came
aboard, along with decorators, electricians and refitters.
They’re
spending the day ripping out fixtures, replacing ceilings and
carpets, eliminating every trace of the fire, including the smell. If
all goes well, we’ll sail out on time, at five this afternoon.
I
trudge down to the underground part of the Terminal, where the
taxi’s
drop off their fares and the buses unload their tourists. The
gentleman I've just walked past is angry and loud and incredibly
annoying. He's arrived in a cab, and he's issuing edicts to the
driver, a patient little Indian of advanced years who's struggling to
unload his numerous bags. I can see the man’s colour-coded
luggage
tags. He's coming aboard my ship. I'll have the pleasure of his
company for the next seven days.
He's
English. On the grey side of 70, and to his credit, he's still got
most of his hair. He's also got a lady, half his age. She's taller
than him, too much makeup, hair an exorbitant cut and colour that
couldn't possibly have come from anywhere except one of those top-end
London salons where they have black capes and serve you expensive
coffee in very small cups.
"Come
on, mate - we ain't got all day!"
The
little taxi driver's smile never wavers as he accidentally lets a
Duty Free bag from Heathrow slip through his fingers. It crashes to
the curb, and after the smash, there's a satisfyingly predictable
puddle.
Angry
Man is incandescent. Expensive Lady wisely removes herself. "I'll
just go and find a porter, darling."
#
Inside
the Terminal, hundreds of passengers have already begun to queue in a
snaky line defined by velvet ropes, though they won't be allowed to
board for another two hours. Meanwhile, over at the far end, the
lineup at Crew Embarkation consists of three Indonesian cabin
stewards (their earthly possessions jammed into bursting cardboard
boxes tied together with tape and string), two female dancers
(neither of them will speak to me, therefore not on radar), and the
ship's Chaplain (smells strongly of gin). It's usually a short wait.
In the meantime, Angry Man and Expensive Lady have made their way
inside, and heads are beginning to turn.
"Oi!
You, mate - where's the VIP entrance?"
He's
buttonholed Doris, one of the nicest red-jacketed volunteers I know,
72 years old, bursting with the energy of someone half her age.
"If
you'd just like to join the end of this line..."
"Bollocks!
Who else can I talk to?"
"I'm
afraid I don't -"
"Listen,
I know the bloody CEO! He was at my wedding!"
I
can see one of the StarSea Reps, coming back from her break.
"You
might want to have a quiet word with that one," I suggest,
helpfully. "He and Mr. StarSea are like that." I waggle two
of my fingers together, side by side.
Earbuds
back in, iPod back on. Kiss
Me, Sailor, by Susan Maughan.
Love
it.
#
I
wasn’t wrong. Ten minutes, and we’re through.
Shopping bags on
the conveyor at Security, body through the scanner. We pre-clear U.S.
Customs and Immigration here in Vancouver. My picture ID matches my
Crew Card. The authorities have no further use for me. Up the crew
gangway... and I'm back aboard.
This
is the part of the cruise our passengers never see - empty cabins
with their doors wide open, stewards cleaning, hoovering, new soaps,
new towels and sheets, lifejackets laid out on beds. Up an aft Crew
stairway... and out into the public areas again, past secret nooks
and empty bars, through the Atrium Room, where someone's tuning the
grand piano, and someone else is replacing all the flower
arrangements with fresh extravaganzas from tropical greenhouses.
Through the Shopping Arcade, all the glittery fripples and expensive
pong locked up til we're at sea. Outside again, and up, and once
around the Outside Prom, stopping here, and there, to touch the
familiar places on the railing, to reassure my lady that I
haven’t
abandoned her. I won’t abandon her. I’ll stay with
her til the
end, when she proudly sails out of Vancouver for the last time, to
reposition for her refit, and her new life.
They’re
doing regular port maintenance while we’re docked. Scrubbing
her
down. Painting over the age spots. Beside us, in the water, a barge
is pumping fuel into our storage tanks. Below, on the pier, drinking
water’s being piped on and sewage is coming off.
I
can see boxes of provisions being loaded onto the conveyor -
pineapples and heads of lettuce, garlic and apples and oranges, milk
and eggs, enough to feed 1200 people three times a day for a week. It
would be positively biblical, if it weren’t for the scene
over on
the other side of the pier, where they’re loading enough
groceries
to feed three times our number.
The
Deck Attendants on Lido are setting up the wooden steamer chairs in
neat rows. They’re not actually all that comfortable unless
you’ve
got a nice padded cushion underneath. But our passengers love them.
It’s part of the ambience, the packaged experience. Capturing
the
leisurely, exclusive essence of a time long past.
Up
the stairs... and along to Sally’s office.
The
Passenger Questionnaires are now sorted into neat piles on her desk.
Overwhelmingly positive. Overwhelmingly negative. Neutral. The
positive stack’s always the biggest.
“I
take it you’ve decided to stay?” she says.
I
hand over six pairs of black stockings and three jars of large brown
pickled onions. Sal prefers stockings over tights, and English
pickled onions are a delicacy sorely missed in the Officers’
Mess.
“Something
must be done about the noise,” I say, reading off one of the
negative Questionnaires. “There is too much vibration in the
walls.
I could not cope and my wife found it necessary to take sleeping
tablets, fearing the ship would capsize in the night.”
Sally
slaps my hand and whisks the form away. “Good thing they
filled it
out before the fire. And passenger comments are confidential, Mr.
Davey.”
“Can
I have a look at this week’s pax manifest?”
“Over
there.”
It's
still on the printer, under end-of-cruise reports from the ship's
doctors and engineers, hotel correspondence and confidential memos
from the Bridge. And rather a lot of extra paperwork having to do
with the fire.
“Any
VIP's?” I ask, as I flip through the pages.
Last
week we entertained a forgettable D-list tv actress and her
overly-blinged BFF. They drank themselves silly in the TopDeck Lounge
before walking out in the middle of my set, arguing with each other
in loud voices about colonic cleanses. The week before that, it was
an American singer who'd topped the charts in the 1970's. A beautiful
soul, dying of cancer. The cruise was her final wish. My last memory
of her is the two of us, sitting together on deck at dawn, my guitar
and her still exquisite voice. She was able to walk off the ship when
we docked in Vancouver the next morning, but three days later the
interweb buzzed with news of her passing.
Three
days after that, in Skagway, I received a package. Inside were five
G&B Maya Gold's, a thank-you card, and beautiful book of
poetry,
inscribed to me in her hand.
“Diana
Wyndham,” Sal says.
Diana
Wyndham. The name stops me cold.
“You
must be joking.”
Sally’s
looking at me. “No. Why? Do you know her?”
“I
may ask you to start that paperwork after all.”
Sal
opens a folder on her desk. There’s a flattering headshot of
Diana
and a brief biography. “ ‘Diana prides herself on
her amazing
collection of stuffed toy monkeys, and keeps 200 plaster gnomes in
her garden, all of them birthday gifts from adoring fans.’
She’s
a bit eccentric, then.”
“Just
a bit.”
“Do
you know her?” Sal asks again.
“Yes.
Unfortunately.”
“Well,
try and be nice to her. Or stay out of her way.”
“Easier
said than done, Sal. In both cases.”
“There’s
a
second VIP. Can't remember his name but he's already been on to
Passenger Services demanding a private audience with the Captain and
a guided tour of the Engine Room.”
"Rick
Redding," I say, as my eyes confirm his name, and his cabin
number, on the manifest.
“That's
him. Is he a real VIP or someone who only thinks he is?"
"He's
a musician."
"Ah,"
Sally says. “Nothing further to explain, then.”
She
gives my forehead a kiss.
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