by Winona Kent
And here comes Sal.
“Hello, you,” she says, her arms full of paperwork. “I’ve just got to drop these off with Chief Purser, then we can go ashore.”
Passenger lift down to Aloha, shared with the man who, on Saturday, was complaining about the cupboards in his cabin. Is he about to waylay poor Quentin with more deficiencies? No, thankfully, he’s going ashore. His cruise card’s scanned at the gangway, and he’s off and away. Presumably to buy more hangers.
“Did you move him into the suite next door to Diana’s?” I ask Quentin, as Sal delivers her reports to Chief Purser in the back office.
“I offered him the upgrade but he balked at the additional cost,” Quentin answers. “I’m quite certain he’ll be back this evening, though, with complaints about the relatively small size of Juneau. And the inconvenience of rain. Which of course we ought to have known about in advance. Perhaps we can arrange for a Force 9 on Wednesday. Give him his money’s worth.”
On Wednesday night, after we leave Glacier Bay, we’re in open water again, Gulf of Alaska. It’s a bit of a sprint south, till we reach Cape Decision and turn into calmer seas on the way to Ketchikan. It’s usually rough. The bigger ships, like the Amethyst, ride the crests of several waves at once, so the effect is minimal. Sapphire’s tiny, and pitches and rolls in the troughs, in spite of her stabilizers. It’s the only time the doctors are run off their feet, and the shops do a roaring trade in seasick cures.
I’m usually in the middle of my gig when it happens, and that’s when I bring out the sea shanties and jokes about rock and roll.
“Today’s disaster,” Quentin continues, conversationally and confidentially, showing me a handwritten complaint. “One Mr. Harper, aged eighty-six, toppled out of his shower as the ship came about last night, and journeyed to the floor by way of the sink—which tore away from its moorings and landed beside him in four distinct pieces. The company lawyers will shortly be looking into that one. While Mr. Harper nurses a broken hip in the ship’s hospital.”
Paperwork done. Sal and I go down the crew stairs to A Deck. On the way, I tell her about my lost phone.
“And you didn’t have it passworded?” she says. “That’ll teach you.”
“Hindsight,” I agree. Passwords on Twitter, Facebook, email. Not on the phone itself. Never actually thought I needed one. Much like the lock on my cabin door. That will indeed teach me.
Sal’s cabin is two down from mine, and is mostly the same as mine, though because of her rank in the Purser’s Department, it’s slightly larger—and she has a bath, which makes her the envy of everyone, including myself. I sit on Sal’s bed while she goes into the loo and changes out of her uniform.
Sal’s cabin walls are covered with art posters of French Impressionists—Monet and Manet and Renoir. She’s surprisingly cultured. Her musical tastes favour Tchaikovsky, Mozart and Grieg. She couldn’t name a popular tune after 1974 if her life depended on it. Though she’s a demon when it comes to top hits of the late 1950s and 1960s.
Her cupboard is stacked with shoes. I’ve seen them all. Haven’t tried any of them on, though.
Ship regulations require Sal to stay in uniform the entire time she’s in sight of passengers. I know she relishes the opportunity to switch to jeans and a t-shirt when we’re going ashore. And she does fill them out nicely.
“I’m gasping for a decent hamburger,” she says, coming out of the loo to hang up her uniform. “Your turn to buy.”
There’s a very underrated—and understated—café in the jumble of buildings across from where we berth. Most passengers overlook it completely, as they hurry away from the parade of cruise ships and head off down Franklin Street, into town. Robbie grills up absolutely the best burgers in Juneau—and the best chips, too—and it’s a favourite among Officers because hamburgers are never on the menu in the Mess. And they only do them in the Lido Café on Thursdays. And they’re nasty.
Robbie himself is a transplant from Southern California, an old hippie with a paunch and wavy grey hair and an earring. He knows us well, and always saves us a table by the window. “The usual?” he checks.
“The usual,” Sal confirms. “Please. Thank you.”
We sit opposite one another in our window seats, observing our world from a distance. There’s our ship. If you look closely, you can just make out her old name in raised letters above her navy blue hull, underneath all the successive layers of white paint. Royal Sapphire.
There’s an important looking man standing on the pier with a black umbrella and a brown briefcase. He’s staring up at the Bridge.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“StarSea Corporate. Come to chat with Captain Callico about the overseas buyer.”
Also on the pier, a forklift’s delivering a large piece of machinery. On our long old-fashioned bow, some crewmen haul it aboard with one of the small permanent winches.
“Engine Room,” Sal says. “Fuel line caught fire last night and took out one of the boilers.”
So. The Evaluation Party announcement wasn’t as insignificant as I thought. There was some real damage done.
We continue to study our little Sapphire, still smart-looking with her classical lines and clean white and navy blue livery. She’ll make a lovely boutique hotel.
I’m on intimate terms with every sound my lady makes in the night, every vibration, from the annoying little squeak-creak up in the corner near the ceiling, to the metallic rattle of the two empty hangers in my cupboard, to the sudden and unexplainable CRACK! I regularly hear when she’s riding rough seas.
I know when she’s steaming full out at twenty-one knots, and when she’s slowed to a crawl, and when she’s executing one of her long, slow course corrections, turning lazily about in the water.
“I wonder what she thinks about retiring,” I muse. “I wonder if she’ll miss the sea.”
“The sea won’t be far away. She’ll be floating, not dry-docked. It’ll be a lovely retirement for her. And the buyers have promised to be kind when they renovate.”
I’m watching a lone female passenger come down the gangway. A large, pale woman with short straight hair, trying to disguise her weight with baggy, nondescript clothing. She looks unhappy. If I was making a film, she’d be cast as SaylerGurl.
“You were out early this morning.”
Sal’s ears are as reliable as Manuel’s.
“Sorry. I tried to close the door quietly.”
“Not sleeping again?”
“Recurring nightmare.”
“I have recurring nightmares,” Sal says. “They usually involve you.”
I laugh. I do love Sal.
“Here comes trouble.”
It’s Des King, the reporter. Coming down the passenger gangway after she-who-might-be-SaylerGurl and heading straight for our café. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’d been watching us.
I’m not wrong. He’s in, and making a bee-line for our table.
“Afternoon,” he says, jovially. “Mind if I join you?”
“Des King, isn’t it,” Sal replies.
“Des King it is,” Des King says, sitting down beside Sal.
He looks at me.
“I’ve met you before. Before the Medevac.”
“Have you?”
I think. And come up empty.
“Three years ago. Your wife’s funeral.”
He knows a lot more than I gave him credit for. But I still don’t remember him.
“My editor sent me along to cover it because of the showbiz angle. Diana Wyndham. Your wife did her makeup on that TV series.”
I wait. Sal waits. She knows all about my past life. And as a loyal friend, is saying nothing.
Des King’s got a canvas travel bag with him. He unzips it. I imagine snakes slithering out. But all that’s in there are papers and photos.
“You may have overheard what I told Diana the other night. Why I’m aboard. It’s not the total truth. We’re hoping to persuade the coppers to re-open t
he investigation into the fire that killed your wife. You’re not the easiest person in the world to track down.”
I now want the earth to crack apart and swallow me up. Failing that, I want the earth to crack apart and swallow Des King up.
“I had to ring your mum and pretend I was one of your old schoolmates. Once she told me where you were, I had to ask her to keep it a surprise from you that I was coming aboard. She’s nice, your mum.”
He’s arranging the papers and photos on the table.
“We don’t think you’re responsible for that fire, by the way.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bear with me.”
Robbie brings our hamburger and chips, two Cokes, a bottle of ketchup and a bottle of vinegar. Sal applies the vinegar, salting and peppering, tucking in.
I’ve lost my appetite.
Des King leafs through the papers. “Found it,” he says.
It’s a printout of a front page from the Chronicle. Back in the days when it was a respectable morning broadsheet reporting real news.
The headline: FATAL FIRE ABOARD OCEAN LINER. SHIP’S CAPTAIN: FIRE EXISTINGUISHED QUICKLY, TOO LATE TO SAVE PASSENGER.
There’s a picture of the dead passenger. A man in his fifties.
“Forty years ago, crossing the Atlantic. Married with three kids. Wife waiting for him back in London. He was deathly afraid of flying. That’s why he went by sea.”
I glance over the story.
“The fire was caused by a smouldering cigarette. The only trouble was, the bloke in question didn’t smoke. Drank a lot. That’s why he was passed out in his cabin. Quite a mystery, though, how the fire could have started. They interviewed the passengers and crew. Nobody owned up. The mystery was never solved.”
I’m still reading. Sal’s reading it too, upside down, in between her chips.
“A funny thing, Jason, what people will take to the grave with them. That passenger’s wife—Pansy—died six months ago. Emphysema. Very common in the elderly. Her kids were going through her stuff. At the bottom of her knicker drawer they found a letter.”
He’s back rummaging around in the canvas bag. I’m still expecting snakes. Poisonous ones, with deadly venom. In spite of Des King’s somewhat sympathetic tone. I don’t know where he’s going with it.
“Seems Alec—that was his name, Alec Heaton—was having a bit of a fling forty years ago. And Pansy found out. Alec wrote to her from Southampton, telling her he was ending it. Said he’d see Pansy and the kids soon. All my love. XXX. Et cetera.”
Des places an envelope on the table. It’s a Royal Sapphire envelope.
“How do you know all this?”
Stupid question. He’s a reporter. And I’m still hearing muffled hisses from the depths of the canvas bag.
“I’m one of the kids who went through the knicker drawer. Alec Heaton was my dad.”
He gives the envelope a small shove in my direction. Inviting me to look inside.
“As I was reading that letter, I remembered something. I was ten, and I was in town with my dad the week before he sailed to New York. He was a music producer. We were in HMV Oxford Street, and I was hunting through the record bins. My dad went outside and met a gorgeous-looking bird. Long hair, mini-skirt and boots. I thought she was a pop singer.”
I’m reading the note. It’s hand-written on Royal Sapphire letterhead, posted from the pier just before the ship sailed.
“My mum—Pansy—never told us about our dad’s affair. The only thing we knew about him, as we grew up, was that he’d died in a fire aboard a ship bound for New York from Southampton. But I’m sure she must have mentioned it to the authorities at the time. As part of the investigation.”
Des has something else for me. It’s a Royal Sapphire passenger list, stained with smoke and water, preserved in a plastic bag.
“It didn’t click. Until I found that letter, six months ago. And saw the passenger list.”
He’s paging through the booklet.
“They published that list for all the people who were on board. A keepsake. It was in the personal effects sent back to my mum. The stuff that survived the fire.”
He pauses on one of the pages, and shows me the name.
WYNDHAM, DIANA MISS
“I’ve collected some old photos of Diana. To see what she looked like forty years ago.”
Another picture comes out of the bag. It’s a publicity shot from one of her early films. One of the arty ones Kev’s quite fond of. Long, straight blonde hair. A pop star’s fringe. Wide eyes, outlined and smudged in lavish black. A pouting mouth and bright pink lipstick.
“It was her with my dad outside the record shop. I’m positive.”
I’m still reading the letter. “Your dad’s note doesn’t mention her name. It doesn’t mention any names.”
“Diana Wyndham was one of the passengers on the ship. She gave a statement to the investigators. She said she vaguely recalled seeing my dad in the dining room and on deck. She stated she’d never met him before the crossing.”
He waits.
“But that wasn’t the truth. I’d seen them together the week before. Outside HMV.”
“You were ten,” Sal says. “How can you be so certain that was Diana? It was forty years ago.”
“It was her,” Des King replies. “I don’t forget faces. Especially that one.”
“How do you know what she said to the investigators?” I ask.
“I had a chat with a mate of mine. A copper. The ship was registered in Southampton, so the UK had legal jurisdiction. He sent me the detectives’ notes.”
I glance at the Chronicle story again.
“I started to look into Diana’s career. Her last dance worth any kind of attention was that series on the telly. And then I remembered your fire. The celebrity connection, as it were. And the circumstances. Which struck me as coincidentally similar.”
“It all seems rather circumstantial,” Sal offers, carefully.
“It was my cigarette,” I tell him. “There was never any question.”
“Had she been at your home that evening?”
“No.”
“How do you know, Jason? You weren’t even there. Did anybody bother asking her?”
I shake my head. Too many memories. It was different with Katey. We had an understanding. Something shared.
Des King’s digging. And he’s unpleasant. He can’t help it. Even when he’s trying to be sympathetic, he’s annoying.
It’s true, though. There was never any criminal investigation. The only person ever interviewed was me. A quick assessment, an opinion handed down. A tragic accident. People shouldn’t smoke. Case closed.
“So that’s the thing that’s got me intrigued, Jason. Why would she want your lovely wife dead? I’m still working on that. But I’ll crack it.”
He’s looking at me. Sal’s looking at me.
“That passenger’s name was Alec Heaton,” I say. “Your last name’s King.”
“My mum remarried. Joe King. Couldn’t have asked for a better step-dad. Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s used a name they weren’t born with, would it?”
He’s gathering up his research and his souvenirs, putting everything back in his canvas bag. I wasn’t wrong about the snakes. He’s on his feet.
“If you can think of anything that might help us re-open the investigation,” he says, to me, “you know where I am.”
And he’s gone. Along with my appetite.
Sal’s going back to work. I need a walk. A very long walk. On my own. We stop at the bottom of the crew ramp.
“Do you think there’s anything in what Des King’s suggesting?” Sal asks, carefully.
“Meaning…?”
“How well do you—did you—actually know Diana Wyndham?”
I know what Sal’s thinking. I’m going to try not to be angry with her. “Emma did her makeup. I went to a couple of wrap parties. That’s all.”
“The absol
ute truth?”
“The absolute truth.”
“Because if there’s anything in what he’s saying…if she has a history of setting fires…then I need to notify Kev immediately.”
“He’s a reporter, Sal. Connecting random dots. Looking for a story that’ll sell papers.”
She can see I’m upset. She gives me a hug. And a kiss. There are times when I wish we were lovers. But she’s too good a friend for that.
“Later,” she says, and she’s gone.
As I turn away, I see Diana. Watching me from the bottom of the passenger gangway. Kev’s matinee idol, in winter white. She pretends she hasn’t seen me. And carries on to a minivan which will take her to a helicopter, for a private tour of the local icefields.
16
Monday, Juneau
I’m back from my walk. And I’ve promised to meet Rick. It’s past four o’clock.
I’ve checked—and I’m still locked out of my Cold_Fingers account. But I can see SaylerGurl’s music on Blip. While I’ve been gone, she’s sent me a song. The Crying Game. Boy George. She’s quoted some lyrics and added a message: You didn’t mean it. You don’t want to say goodbye.
We’ll see about that.
I’m aboard, and waiting at the Photo Gallery on Promenade for Rick. The pictures don’t really change from week to week. Row after row of passengers posed in front of a moonlit backdrop or a mottled blue screen in their formal finery. And the obligatory Just-About-to-Embark’s from Saturday, pierside. The StarSea logo on a cardboard stand-up, and a fake red and white life preserver ring with Star Sapphire stencilled on it. Passengers’ faces expectant and excited. Travelling clothes.
They’ve just added a fresh batch from the Dining Room. And later on tonight we’ll have Pier Shots from Juneau with the gangway and the ship in the background.
Further along are the best-sellers—fabulous 8 x 10s of Sapphire navigating Glacier Bay at the beginning of the season, some taken from the air, some from the water from one of our tenders. She looks majestic in her navy blue livery, captured against the turquoise blue and white ice towers of Margerie Glacier. They sell dozens of those, every cruise.