S.O.S. (9 page)

I check the icebox: we're outta Jack and we're outta beer.

And now with the bell. You hear that? The bell? I'm thinking, you don't hear that mother, then I'm telling you, boy: like, you're dead. The bell means I gotta half-hour. Then I put on some dumb kid's water-wings and we all go troop up to the restaurant and then we get to stand around like a buncha jerks and they tell us what to do if one of the biggest goddam ships in the world starts to sink in the middle of the goddam sea. You know what you do? Tell you what you do: you toot on a whistle. Yup. More'n two thousand of us up to our fuckin' eyeballs in the Atlantic Ocean like a loada rubber ducks and every goddam one of us, we're all like, blowing on
whistles
. Maybe to the toon of The Flintstones.

Again I check the icebox (why I do that?). Yeah and guess what? We're still outta Jack and we're still outta beer.

*

David was sitting on the bed (his side – nearest the door and away from the portholes, as Nicole had decreed) – and was doing so as unobtrusively, he would quite humbly assure you, as he possibly could manage (because you always knew, with Nicole – there was never even the shadow of a doubt – when you were very much meant to feel in the
way:
she'd cross and recross you with a pile of whatever, destined, she rather thought, for this upper drawer just here, and then a couple of suit carriers for hanging over there, behind the curtain affair, and each and every time she'd stop dead for maybe even less than a millisecond and glance down and tut just once at the sight of David's feet just, oh God – sticking out like that, and very annoyingly attached to not just his ankles and then those protruding knees of his, but all the bloody rest of him too, and then she would make quite a fair miming show of circumventing this truly irksome obstacle – not easy, simply increases my workload – before she turned and Christ, had to suffer it again).

‘Look, I'll …' volunteered David – trying to catch just one of Nicole's busy busy eyes, while at the same time jerking away both of his in the direction of the door, as if to make clear that his fundamental intention, here, was – for the good of all – to sling his hook.

‘The champagne,' said Nicole, ‘I thought was a very nice gesture. And the fruit: the fruit looks lovely. Do you know which shirt you'll be wearing tonight?'

The short answer to that would of course have to be, um – no, very much no; an extended version (though here was hardly the moment – on this day of all days) would involve the eyes in a good deal of startle, while the voice would be
called on to assure Nicole in a heavy tone as flat as a bat (and rubbed in well with nose-twitching oil) that in fact No, hadn't if you want the whole truth of it, actually subjected the bulk of his mind to wrestling with that one – hadn't, you know, actually got so far down the road as to have earmarked with pinpoint precision the one and only shirt that was to be plucked from the colour-coded ranks of its chums to proudly be on display tonight (though if you press me, sweet Nicole, I should have to confess to feeling myself strongly inclining to opt in the direction of this one I'm already bloody well wearing).

‘Maybe the blue …? You decide, Nicole. Look – why don't I just …?'

‘We can
order
a drink, if you want a drink. Open the champagne. And there's all sorts of – here, did you see this? Menu thing? Order all sorts of sandwiches and tea and so on. What do you mean – the
blue
? You've got loads of
blue
, haven't you? Anyway. Wasn't it odd, David, when we were leaving? You know – actually setting sail, or whatever they say.'

Well yes – David just had to concur on that one. It
had
been odd, very – and not just because by this time of day all the terrible and separate both crushing and pinprick hurts and winces booting and scurrying their way around him generally tended to congregate somewhere between the base of his skull and the tip of his spine to maybe join hands for yet one more raucous end-of-term get-together till we all meet again the next time for a rousing dressing down and knees-up (which won't be long in coming). At such moments, any sort of behaviour and the majority of perceptions appear distorted, in that they are at once both dulled and heightened – and certainly in a state of flagrant agitation. But if you add to this the very singular sensation of standing on the deck of this truly extraordinarily vast liner (you don't get it, really, till you're on it) with many hundreds of eager and wind-whipped strangers to the left
and right of you while almost imperceptibly this mighty thing with little you inside it inches at first and then coolly slips away from the dockside, as even more hundreds of nearly hysterical and very rum sods on shore wave at you flags and scarves as if you're going to war (and we're not, are we? Doing that?) and then when you lob on top of this the thought that from now on in it is to be the sea, the sea, the sea and then more sea – until in about a whole week's time, this gives way as dawn comes up to the looming mass and sparkle of New York City, then I think it is fair to say that
Yes
, on the whole – yes: leaving (actually setting sail, or whatever they say) was, if you like – as Nicole would anyway have it – odd, decidedly odd (not to say outright astonishing – as well as, and I'm thinking this now, just a little bit scary, in a way I have yet to nail down).

‘Was,' said David. ‘Was.'

‘One good thing,' said Nicole, quite absently – her mind gone from setting sail by now (she'd long ago departed from that) – ‘there's certainly plenty of drawerspace …'

And David knew (of course he knew) that you just didn't comment on that sort of comment – a low and indecipherable murmur, maybe (for what other sort of noise, in the face of such an observation, could actually and with profit be made?).

‘Look,' said David, by way of a stab at direction – and standing up now, maybe, would add to the general air of shifting, here. ‘I think I'll – I'll maybe just go and have a
wander
, yes? Check out the lie of the … well, not
land
, obviously, but you know what I … And then I'll, what – meet you somewhere, will I? Or shall I just come back and change and – ?'

‘
Two
things,' said Nicole with emphasis; and then she was dreaming again: ‘I think I'm OK for
shoes
… but I'm not sure I've brought enough tights, now … Still, I expect they've – you can probably get, I should think.' But soon she's back: ‘
Two
things, David, we have to do tonight –
‘Cruise Director', whatever that means, wants to welcome us, which is sweet, and then we're having a quite little sort of private-ish partyette with the Captain – rather exciting. His main thing for everyone else is
tomorrow
night, apparently.'

‘Really?' put in David, edging across to the door. The Cruise Director.
And
a quite little sort of private-ish partyette with the Captain: oh what joy. Probably need about four shirts in total, for that little lot.

‘Which is,' continued Nicole, ‘a bit more like it. I mean I'd
heard
that competition winners get treated like, you know – film stars and things, but so far I haven't seen very much sign of it, I must say.'

There was a knock on the door when David was just about on this side of it – and that made him jump, while at the same time it served to encourage one or two venomous membranes that lurked just above his left eye to nip in and give him a swift kicking and remind him who's boss. David opened the door and there was a very small and smiling brown and broad-faced young woman, peering gamely through the basketed drama of exotic flowers she was holding out before her.

‘Captain and crew – he say welcome,' she said.

Nicole was at once enchanted.

‘Oh how perfectly – ! David – aren't they – ?'

David nodded (would've tipped the woman, but she'd scuttled away). ‘So – later then, yes? Hour? Bit less?'

‘Orchids – and
lilies
, I think these are – oh and
freesias
, they'll make the room smell lovely. Not too sure about the maidenhair
fern
, though – spoils it, I think. What do you think, David? I might just remove that, I reckon. What do you think, David? Oh God – no good asking you anything, is it? Oh God
go
, if you're going, David – why do you always keep on hanging
about
?'

David nodded, once and shortly, and left the cabin. The corridor was hushed and maybe a bit too warm and so
incredibly long and unchanging that David was again feeling this slight but salty prick of fear. It was a bit like, maybe … but then anything big, anything on this huge sort of scale would
always
seem, wouldn't it, a bit like a film set? But David felt sure that there could in truth be maybe four or six cabin doors to either side of him, and if he tried to venture further in either direction he'd be sure to slam face first into flush-fitting mirrors cunningly mounted to perpetuate the illusion.

He was barely aware of the undersides of his feet softly trudging the eternal length of the rich and royal blue carpet (he had an arm out in front of him, but no mirrors so far). From time to time, a young man in a neat white jacket and bits of gold about his shoulders would appear and grin at him really quite manically and then disappear, David wasn't sure where. A very old lady then hove into view – everything about her face and unwisely bare arms was yearning to be allowed to slump on down to the ground, and rest there; her head was bowed so low that her sole view of life, David was surprised to find himself thinking, would have to be limited to the slow and deliberate placing of her trainer-clad feet, as each of them in turn moved inexorably towards whatever was coming to her. Earrings alone must have weighed a ton. In fact, looking at her again – and now she and David were practically crossing, her softly white and crinolined face had set up a great slash of a smile that in any other context would have scared you half to death – if she could only bear to part company with even half of all that jewellery, she might well find people saying to her Oh
my
how you've
grown
(and by way of a bonus, she could then raise her sights and get a broader perspective on life).

Now then. Let's have a look at these signs … (And another thing – I'm not actually aware of any real
movement
, you know, although we've been at sea now for what must it be? Couple of hours? Couple of hours at least, I should say: there's a sort of booming other-worldliness about me, yes, there is that – that slightly airless and pressurized atmosphere, but no more so than you get in the bowels of those sorts of hotels that do functions, and so on – when you emerge slain and parched from some bloody conference or workshop or Christ knows, and those cups and plates and beakers are all lined up for you on grey-topped limed-oak tables).

Black Horse Pub. Upper Deck. That's, where is it …? Two floors up. Right. That sounds favourite. Hm. Wonder what Rollo and Marianne are up to? They each got a cabin to themselves, you know. Because they are both young single people of opposing gender. My wife Nicole and me – we're of opposing gender too (well let's face it: opposing bloody everything, really) but we got lumped in together. Which is cosy. Not young, you see: and nor are we single.

And no, since you ask, Nicole: I don't
know
why it is (honestly couldn't tell you) that I always keep on hanging
about
. I get asked this too by Trish – but with her, I think, this means Why don't you ever just
come
to me. Think so, yes. Could be wrong. But with you, Nicole – it's different.

*

‘It's not, is it …?' enquired Marianne doubtfully, as if not wishing to
offend
, or anything, but at the same time earnestly seeking some big reassurance, here. ‘I mean – very
grand
, is it? Do you know what I mean, Rollo? Is it what you –? I don't think it's quite what I
expected
, I think I mean. I mean – it's very sort of big and impressive and all the rest of it … it's just that I don't think it's – '

‘What in Christ's name are you
on
about?' zapped in Rollo.

He had been swiveling this way and that on his bar stool, glancing from time to time at the massed ranks of bottles, lit up and set against a mosaic of coloured mirrors (thinking
Mmm – Southern Comfort: like that. And mmm – Bacardi: can quite go for that with cranberry). But you couldn't really blank out Marianne for all that long; like a lot of girls, Rollo supposed (don't have much, do I? To go on) she'd only maunder on in that dorky wet girly dweeb little way of hers – not actually
saying
anything, you will of course observe: never actually concluding a
thought
, oh Christ no. Just rambling on and on and on about sod bugger all until you're just forced to bloody ask her what in Christ's name she's
on
about – and then she'd have some half-arsed and interminable go at actually starting it all up again and
telling
you (as if I gave a shit).

‘The
ship
, of course,' snapped back Marianne – trying again to wriggle herself into a degree more comfort on the too-high stool (I keep on feeling it's going to tip right over). ‘What on earth do you
think
I'm talking about?
Transylvania
, yes? We're on it? You've noticed?'

‘OK, mm, yes – very bloody amusing.
Transylvania
 – yes: we're on it – so bloody what? Stupid bloody way of getting anywhere, I think. Christ – we could be in New York by dinner time if only we'd done what
normal
people do and taken a bloody
plane
. Check out the club scene – rave till dawn: yeh! Instead of that we're stuck in this bloody stupid so-called ‘pub' with phony pumps and phony glass and phony bloody everything else – and Christ, look around you, Mar – it's bloody
empty
: where the hell
is
everybody? Do you think they all saw sense and got off at the last moment? Bloody wish
I
had …'