Cold Play

by Winona Kent

  Also a couple of photos taken from the Bridge last fall when Sapphire was repositioning to the Caribbean for the winter. After we’d sailed through the Panama Canal, we hit the edge of a hurricane. It was an amazing experience, outside decks roped off, everything indoors crashing and smashing. Some of it was on YouTube. My lady loved it. She was built for that kind of weather, and rode the troughs and crests and spuming foam like a pedigree horse let loose from the gate, the race wind billowing in her mane.

  The Bridge shots show the tip of her long bow plunged underwater, the sea fuming and roiling into grey-green chasms around her, erupting into an explosion of white spray as she rises up to meet the next huge towering wave.

  We won’t be encountering anything like that on this voyage. The odd squall perhaps. The odd low pressure system. This coastal journey’s placid—except for the places where we navigate open water—and that’s just the North Pacific being ordinary.

  You can buy a DVD of your experience. The basic stuff’s already digitally created. They edit in footage from your cruise to personalize it. You’ll see them wandering around the bow on Wednesday, when we’re in Glacier Bay. Don, Judy and Jasmina. Hard-working ship’s photographers.

  There’s Rick, toting a fresh bottle of Glenfiddich, inspecting a picture of himself and Carly, toasting the camera with glasses of champagne at last night’s Welcome Aboard.

  “All right?” I check.

  “Bloody rain,” Rick says, with a grin.

  I lead him back to one of the Crew Only doors, and hold it open for him.

  “Carly hasn’t stopped moaning about the weather,” Rick says, on the stairs. “I’ve sent her off to the jewellery shops.”

  “Lladro parrots,” I tell him. “Consider yourself warned.”

  At the bottom of the stairs on A Deck, someone’s propped the door open. I kick out the wedge and shut it securely. That’s the third time I’ve done that in the past month. And if I find out who keeps leaving it open I’ll give them such a lecture. It’s a fire door. It’s meant to stop smoke as well as flames.

  And…home.

  “Drinking glasses,” Rick hints, helpfully, as I shut the cabin door behind him.

  I’ve got three. Snaffled from TopDeck. And two Sapphire mugs from a Trivia Quiz where nobody had a clue where Ouagadougou was located. (Capital of Burkina Faso in Africa, formerly the Republic of Upper Volta, if you’re keeping score.)

  “I’ve got melon juice,” I tell him, removing the jug from my little fridge. “It’s nice.”

  “Not a drinker, then?”

  “Not a drinker,” I confirm.

  “Not a drinker. Not a smoker. You’d better not be hawking bloody Watchtower.”

  “Gave up God three years ago,” I assure him. “Water? Ice?”

  “I’ll have it neat,” Rick says, pouring the golden liquid into his glass. “Let’s have a look at those guitars, then.”

  Rick’s impressed. Which impresses me. They’re all good instruments and he knows his way around them. I shouldn’t have expected anything less.

  “This one,” he says, handling the Strat with what might almost be reverence. “It’s old. Original issue, not a replica.”

  “Not a replica,” I confirm.

  “A thing of beauty,” he judges, checking the tuning.

  “You play it. I’ll take the Gretsch.”

  I’ve got a couple of small amps. Plugged in, we could test the limits today, as most of my neighbours are ashore, shopping or sightseeing.

  But Rick has other ideas. “Let’s have some Django,” he says. “Acoustic.”

  He’s daring me.

  “You’re on.”

  I pick up the Gibson, and hand him the Martin. I only know one of Django’s pieces off by heart. Minor Swing. The one everybody does.

  I play rhythm. Rick’s on lead. He’s good. Bloody good, even now, approaching seventy. Runs circles round me.

  There’s something about the making of music together that guarantees friendship. Brain chemicals come alive and percolate and dance. It’s the best feelgood drug there is. We finish with a whoop and a laugh—just like Django and Stephane.

  “Let’s have another,” he says.

  Time to consult YouTube.

  “That one.”

  I’ll See You in My Dreams—another by Django, jaunty and worthy of a Quickstep round the Disco when Pedro’s not looking. We play along to my laptop. Rick’s got a perfect ear. I don’t have to struggle to keep up, but it’s not the doddle it is for Rick.

  We’re done and Rick’s reaching for the Glenfiddich. I know he wishes he could light a ciggie. But smoking’s not allowed in crew cabins unless he blows it down the sink, and even then, the detector in the ceiling would probably sniff him out.

  “What about Figgis Green?” he says, setting his half-drunk glass on my dressing table, surprising me.

  Easily found, on YouTube.

  “There you are,” I tell him. And it’s the truth. There he is.

  Lanky and tall, with a thatch of wild blond hair, a waistcoat, a Shakespearian shirt, jeans and boots. He was easily the buccaneer of the group, the romantic hero, rough in reputation and demeanour, commanding the left side of the stage with his trademark black Tele.

  In the middle, Mandy Green, long haired, long skirted, in purple crushed velvet. A beautiful gypsy with a voice that could shake the angels.

  On the right, Tony Figgis, a dark-haired minstrel with a shaggy moustache and a fondness for bright shirts. Lead guitar plugged in.

  And behind them, the lesser-knowns, a bass player—Mandy’s brother—and a drummer—Tony’s cousin—and a personable fiddler—not related to any of them, but responsible for a fairly unique sound that topped the British charts for nearly a decade.

  Rick’s getting misty-eyed. “I haven’t seen this in years,” he says, as Mandy sings their best known song, a catchy, folky pop thing involving a faithless suitor and his careworn lady, tormented hearts, lessons learned and a really fortunate ending. “Top of the Pops, isn’t it?”

  “I think so.” I wasn’t even born then. I’m guessing.

  “That was just before the bust-up. You watch anything after 1968, and they’ve got a new lad in my place.” He drains his glass. “And Figgis has a scar on his chin.”

  “He grew a beard, didn’t he. To hide the damage.”

  “Fucking bastard,” Rick says, pouring himself another. “She didn’t deserve him, Jason. It was me she was in love with. He forced her to have me nicked. She didn’t want to call the coppers. She told me. Years later.”

  “Years later?”

  “We met up. For old time’s sake. After the old man died. She was still my gorgeous lady. My first real love. But you know, mate…too much water under the bridge. Too many years in between. It all could have been so bloody different. I’d have been a better man for it.”

  I’m a little shocked. More than a little shocked. I know Mandy. I knew Tony. They never married. Though they lived together until the day he died. Bloody hell. I’m not saying a word. I don’t dare.

  “Come on, then, mate, let’s do Roving Minstrel. For old time’s sake. Here’s to Tony Fucking Figgis.”

  He’s launched into it before I can say no. Or even yes. It’s his song. He wrote it.

  He belts it out, with anger and passion. The way a gypsy ballad should be sung. I’m playing Tony’s notes. Lead. Rick’s doing rhythm.

  “You know this one!” he shouts, quite pleased that I actually do.

  I know their second-biggest hit, too. The one about the madwoman living in the forest by the sea. Who finds true love with a mutinous sailor. Tony wrote that one. We’ll do it next.

  But before we can begin, there’s a knock on my cabin door. For a moment I’m frozen. And tempted to throw Rick into my cupboard. Failing that, the shower.

  I put my finger to my lips and answer the knock, holding the door open just a crack.

  It’s Sal. I’ve rarely seen her look shaken. She’s definitely upset.<
br />
  “Someone’s been in my cabin,” she says.

  I’ve smuggled Rick back upstairs. I’m standing in the doorway, looking in at the devastation which is Sally’s cabin. Drawers are yanked open, their insides thrown out. Sheets and blankets stripped from the bed. Books and CDs and DVDs tossed across the floor. Monet and Manet torn off the wall. In shreds.

  Sal’s in shock.

  Here comes Security. “Anything missing?”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin looking, Kev.”

  “You’re too trusting,” Kev tells her. “Lock your door. I’ve told you before.”

  Sally looks at me. I’m not sure I even know where the key to my door is.

  “You all right?” I ask her.

  “Not really. No.”

  Kev wants to give her a hug. He won’t. He can’t.

  I supply one instead. Heartfelt. She’s shaking and cold.

  “Tidy up, see what’s been taken, let me know and I’ll file a report.”

  “Thanks, Kev.”

  “Castaways,” I say, to Sal. “Now.”

  17

  Monday, Juneau

  Sally’s considered opinion is that brandy’s the best antidote for shock. And she’s just downed her third.

  “One more,” she says, “and then I really must get back to work.”

  I’ve never actually seen her drunk before. And I’m not altogether certain if she is now. But I really hope she doesn’t have anything absolutely vital to the safe operation of the vessel on her computer. We may end up trying to navigate the Mendenhall Glacier.

  Up at the bar, the two officers we were watching last night are keeping seats empty for their ladies. Will they, or won’t they? Sometimes we place bets. Odds currently run slightly in favour of the officers, and have done since the start of the season. Though it’s by no means a sure thing.

  Here come the ladies. Sparkly laughter and new jewellery. They slide onto the bar stools and ignite their evening with pre-dinner cocktails. We don’t leave Juneau till late, and time’s always allotted for an expensive meal ashore, away from familiar eyes. The officers will be pitching for further expeditionary excursions tonight. Sometimes they’re made to wait till tomorrow. Either is acceptable. House rules.

  Here come the travel agents, fresh from their whalewatching. I recognize Katey’s two table-mates from TopDeck. Though Katey’s noticeably absent. I’m trying not to let my disappointment show. I don’t know who’s watching.

  And here comes Leo with Sally’s fourth brandy.

  “You didn’t happen to notice who found my phone the other night, did you?”

  “Didn’t even know it was missing, Jason.”

  “I forgot it when we went outside to watch the Medevac.”

  “Wasn’t there when I cleared your table. I’d have seen it.”

  Leo departs.

  Down the hatch.

  “It’s the sense of violation, Jase. I feel like I’ve been invaded.”

  “At least she didn’t set fire to your bed.”

  Sally’s looking at me. “You can’t believe it’s Diana.”

  “Who else?”

  Who else, indeed? I suppose it could just as easily have been SaylerGurl. The two seem not so distantly related in my mind.

  We have security cameras all over the ship. But they’re outside, on the passenger decks. A modern retrofit. There are none on the crew decks.

  “And why me?”

  “Jealousy. Resentment.”

  “Jealous of what? Us being friends? And what about the other one? Your stalker? She could have seen us together.”

  “And jumped to all the wrong conclusions?”

  “I couldn’t ever have sex with you, Jase. It would be…”

  “If you’re about to say ridiculous, Sal, I should warn you…you’ll be inflicting some serious emotional damage here.”

  She smiles, with great fondness. And plants a wet, brandy-infused kiss on my cheek. “I wasn’t going to say ridiculous. I was going to say it would be the ruin of me. So there.”

  She’s well and truly intoxicated. A first. I may end up taking her to bed, literally, and taping a Sally is Unwell sign to the outside of her cabin door.

  “Jase—be honest. The truth. What went on between you and Diana?”

  This again. “Nothing. The honest truth.”

  “Then why does Des King think she would want to set fire to your house?”

  Here comes Katey. And a few more faces from my nightly audience. Bill, still discussing Patterdale Terriers with Julie. Harald, in a jaunty hat, carrying a guidebook to Alaska.

  Helene, a beautiful widow with gently greying hair, whose possible romance with a gentleman of similar vintage I’ve been watching play out for two nights in a row. He has the most unlikely first name: Bass. And the most unlikely personality for someone bearing such a name…quiet and sweet and deferentially polite.

  Annie. And her book bag. Always everywhere that I am. She smiles at me.

  “I must return to my duties,” Sal says, getting up, a little unsteadily. “Captain Callico wishes to consult with me about the future of this vessel.”

  And as she wobbles past Katey, she stops, and whispers a very detailed something in her ear. They both look over at me. I wave. Hello.

  Sally’s laughing, all trauma from the devastation of her cabin temporarily forgotten. And she’s gone.

  Katey sits in the chair Sal has just vacated, managing, in the process, to knock a little glass dish of party mix bar snacks off the table and onto the floor.

  “What did she say to you?” I’m genuinely curious.

  Katey’s under the table with the empty dish, picking up the pieces. “You like to be gently woken with a freshly brewed pot of English Breakfast Tea,” she says, from somewhere around my left foot. “Milk and two sugars.”

  The glass dish surfaces. Katey doesn’t.

  “And I’m to ignore your professed fondness for Egyptian Licorice Mint,” she adds, reappearing at last to deposit a final handful of spilled cereal and nuts back into the bowl. She sits down. “You’re just showing off.”

  “She’s assuming a lot.”

  “Well, it does get us past that awkward stage where we risk complete embarrassment and utter rejection while we try to decide what comes next.”

  “You tied my shoelaces together while you were down there, didn’t you?”

  “Didn’t,” she says, innocently.

  I’ve got my shoes off and I’m retrieving them from under the table. “Did,” I say, holding them up.

  “Wasn’t me.”

  We’ve got Annie’s attention. She’s got her hand over her mouth. Trying not to laugh? Or hiding a frown.

  “Did you see whales today?”

  “Oh yes. A whole collection of humpbacks, bubble-feeding. And a show-off orca who nearly capsized us.”

  “Told you.”

  “And I’ve got pictures.”

  Katey digs her camera out of her bag, and shows me one after another. Water. More water. A partial whale. A whole whale. A whale tail. A splash where the whale tail was, half a second earlier. Water.

  Over at the table in the corner, Annie’s making copious notes, her face bent over her notepad, her nose screwed up with intense concentration. I wonder what she’s keeping track of. Katey’s humpbacks? Or my shoelaces.

  “So…what does come next…?” I venture, unknotting my laces.

  “Well,” Katey muses. “I could hang one of those nice Room Service Breakfast Order thingies outside my cabin door…You should probably hide in the loo when it’s delivered.”

  My shoes are back on. Laces not tied. “Are we talking about possible Room Service for tomorrow morning…?”

  “We might very well be,” Katey says.

  I glance over at Annie. Who is staring at me intently. Is she SaylerGurl? I honestly don’t think so. And she can’t be my Guardian Angel. Can’t be. She’s looks nothing like my Jilly. Yet, I realize, I have no real idea what my Jilly actually
looks like. She’s mostly just a product of my imagination. And an easily upset one, at that.

  “Did you commune with the spirit of the Great Orca?” I inquire. “Did he pass on any potential advice about life…love…?”

  “If he did, it was completely lost on me. I think I’ll just stay in bed tomorrow and contemplate writing my letter of resignation.”

  “Before or after Room Service?”

  That’s got her smiling. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

  Here comes Leo to take our drink orders. And to bring a replacement dish of bar snacks.

  “Can I have a Mendenhall Margarita? I’m feeling adventurous.”

  “And another Coke for you?” Leo checks, looking at me.

  “Yes. Please.”

  He’s gone, along with the old dish of bar snacks from the floor.

  “We’re booked on the White Pass Rail thing tomorrow afternoon,” Katey says. “Any good?”

  “It’s fabulous,” I tell her. “One of the best things about Skagway. Follows the trail of the Gold Rush miners. Breathtaking vistas. Plunging gorges. Waterfalls. Trestles.”

  “Three hours with my colleagues talking about their aborted takeoffs and nightmare landings. Almost-missed connections. Luggage sent to Tasmania. Hideous diseases they’ve contracted in tropical rainforests.”

  She investigates the contents of the glass bowl.

  “At least today we had the distraction of large fish.”

  “Would you like me to come along? I’ve got a whale tail…”

  It’s true. In my pocket. I’m never without it. White gold, a sort of good luck charm. Though I don’t believe in those things, really. I take it out and show it to her.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says. “Would you?”

  “Sure. There’s a Crew Drill tomorrow morning but I’m free after that.”

  Shorex is on Aloha, next door to the Purser’s Desk, a cubbyhole office with art nouveau ship posters on the walls and sea colours on the floor.

  I’m not often here when we do Alaska. I’ve taken a few of the tours, but the popular ones are usually sold out, and I’m not big on kayaking. Or dog-sledding.

  Last winter when we were in the Caribbean I fed stingrays in the shallow waters off Grand Cayman and rambled over ancient Mayan fortresses in Tulum. There’s nothing quite like that in Alaska. No breathtaking ruins, unless you count the sad commemoration of the place where emaciated and overburdened pack horses met their deaths during the Gold Rush…or the now-disused steel cantilever bridge that used to cross over Dead Horse Gulch.