Pieces of Justice

by Margaret Yorke

  ‘Greedy lot,’ muttered Carmen under her breath, and heard a woman remark that some people were overdressed as it was not customary to change on the first night at sea.

  ‘Stuff you.’ Carmen tossed her head, scarcely shifting the crisp cap of her new perm. You could carry anything off if you had the nerve, and how was she to know that? Far worse if she’d just worn her old jersey slacks and sweater and everyone else had been in satin.

  She was shown to a round table for eight where her companions were two couples whom she at once labelled as stuffed shirts, one pair from Ealing and the other from Tunbridge Wells; a lone man with a hearing-aid; and two elderly widows who were sisters and lived in Bath. They all hid their faces behind the long menus handed to them by a waiter and Carmen, studying her copy, was at a loss. How could you choose? It was all written in French. However, it seemed to be for information only, for without consulting anyone, the meal was served. When a plate of soup was placed before her, Carmen began to behave as she always did when insecure, by complaining that it was too cold. She found the pasta which followed it too sticky and the beef too rare. Used to small, snacky meals, she soon felt full and messed her plate about, pushing the vegetables around with her knife and fork and grumbling. One of the widows raised a pained brow during these displays and exchanged a sad glance with her sister. You found all sorts on cruises: they knew that, having travelled in other ships before this one. The deaf man bought two bottles of claret for the table, and one of the other men, thanking him, declared that it would be his turn tomorrow. Carmen accepted her share; no one would expect her, a widow, to stand treat.

  Their table waiter, a Greek, who wore his name, Giorgio, on a badge pinned to the lapel of his green monkey jacket, bore no resemblance to Stavros but Carmen had remembered a little of the language and the pale, thickset, tired man, who had finished clearing ship of the last lot of passengers only hours before the embarkation of the present company, was moved. He forgave her crude complaints and wished her Kalynikta when everyone left the restaurant.

  Carmen laid a hand on his arm and, as one of the sisters later commented, positively leered at him.

  ‘Agapo,’ she stated. ‘Agapo all Greeks.’

  Giorgio patted her hand.

  ‘Oraia,’ he replied, and she took it to mean that he thought she was beautiful for that was what Stavros had told her many years ago.

  Some of the passengers went on deck to watch the lights of shore fade away as the SS Aphrodite put to sea but Carmen went to the lounge where bingo was on the programme.

  She enjoyed herself, though she won nothing. A friendly couple at her table bought her a drink. She had dipped heavily into her savings for the trip, buying not only the suitcase but a purple kaftan on which she’d stitched several packets of sequins, her lamé blouse and satin pants, a purple taffeta skirt and a low-necked velvet top, and she had very little spare cash. Moving about, attaching herself to different people, should make it possible for her to accept drinks from others most nights, she decided. The second couple at her table bought another round before the cabaret and Carmen made sure that hers was a double. People were generous, she’d always found, if you were lively company and hadn’t let yourself go to pieces.

  The lounge filled up when the second sitting of diners arrived in time for the show. Carmen, in a good seat, enjoyed it all, especially the comics, and stayed on to watch the dancing. Maybe someone would ask her to dance.

  But nobody did.

  Afterwards there was supper in an upper lounge. Carmen felt quite hungry by this time and was able to put away a hearty snack. When she teetered on her high heels back to the cabin, Frances was asleep, neat under the duvet, her face to the wall.

  She woke up as Carmen clattered round, bumping into the furniture, tittering drunkenly, making noises in the tiny bathroom, and sighed, drawing the covers tight round her ears. Quiet came at last, broken only by Carmen’s light snores. Frances inserted ear plugs; she never travelled without them.

  In the morning, she had gone to breakfast by the time Carmen woke up, and that was the pattern of the days that followed. Breakfast was a serve-yourself affair and quite a scramble, with a splendid buffet laid out to tempt the greedy. After that, it was up on deck and into a deckchair to pass the morning until coffee and biscuits were served.

  Carmen took her crochet with her to a chair on the main deck. She crocheted beautifully and was making a shawl which later she would sell. It was a skill she had learned in hospital after Billy was born; a girl in the next bed had taught her. There was a boutique owner who would buy anything she made and it was something to do in winter, watching television.

  People kept themselves to themselves, Carmen found. No one seemed to want to talk. Passengers were reading or sleeping. A brisk man in a pork pie hat walked round the deck. Ping-pong was played by some energetic younger people and deck-quoits was available, as she learned when she tried to start a conversation with a woman sitting next to her.

  Her neighbour had an appointment to play on an upper deck and left after a minimal exchange.

  Luncheon could be taken either in the restaurant or from a buffet on deck. Carmen decided not to face the prim people from her table again until she must, at dinner, and went to the buffet where she loaded two plates with every morsel that took her fancy. After that, she went below for a nap.

  Frances, immersed in the latest Catherine Cookson, saw her go and resigned herself to snoozing on deck, well tucked up in the blanket she had had the foresight to bring from the cabin. It was cold in the fresh westerly wind but soon it should get warmer as they proceeded southwards.

  That night the Captain’s welcome aboard party was held and Carmen, in her purple skirt and low top, was photographed shaking the hand of the handsome dark-haired man with the neat beard. She’d have to buy a print of that as a souvenir.

  She managed to lower quite a few free drinks during the party.

  At dinner, she and Giorgio exchanged witticisms in Greek. Giorgio assumed she knew more of the language than was the case, and he wanted to please her. Many women passengers required all sorts of services from the stewards or crew, and, used to reading signals that were seldom subtle, Giorgio took to resting his hand heavily on Carmen’s shoulder as he took away her plate, hiding his weary revulsion at the messed-up food she always left. She flirted with him, archly, in the manner that had been effective when she was young but now disgusted her table companions.

  The two sisters asked to be moved to another table but were told it was not possible. The deaf man, one of nature’s victims, found himself sitting next to Carmen every night, but the place on her other side always remained vacant for the last comer. Sometimes one of the sisters was her neighbour, and whoever drew her made no effort so that she sat in an island of neglect as they spoke across her.

  People soon discovered that Frances was Carmen’s cabin-mate, and her restrained accounts of washing hung from every corner of the cabin, half-eaten oranges left about, steamy use of the shower, snoring and other anti-social practices earned her sympathy from her own table companions and anyone else who heard her soft comments, which were never forceful enough to be complaints.

  ‘You run risks, sharing with someone you don’t know,’ was the general opinion, and those other passengers who had chanced the same thing counted their blessings if they had been luckier.

  Carmen came to bed later and later – or rather, earlier and earlier in the small hours.

  Frances mentioned this, ashore in Lisbon, to the Major and his wife from Surrey at whose table she sat.

  ‘I wonder where she goes?’ she said. ‘Is the bar open all night?’

  ‘Hardly,’ opined the Major’s wife.

  ‘She’s got very little money,’ Frances said. ‘She won the cruise in a raffle.’

  ‘Bully for her,’ said the Major, the man who, in his pork pie hat, walked a mile on deck every day. ‘Probably running a line on the side,’ he added, and earned a reproving frown from his w
ife.

  ‘What, at her age?’ Frances was shocked. ‘She must be nearly seventy.’

  ‘It’s never too late for some,’ was the Major’s sage reply.

  Carmen went on none of the organised shore excursions. She had been sent vouchers for several with her ticket, but she had discovered that she could surrender them and receive a refund. This helped finance her gambling in the casino where once or twice she won small sums, and her bingo, and the drinks she was forced to buy for herself.

  At Agadir she walked round the town until her arthritic joints ached. Recognising some people from the ship, including the Major and his wife, she followed behind them and entered a carpet factory where they all sat on the rolled-up rugs and were given mint tea while a handsome young man in robes and a fez described how the carpets were made. Afterwards, they were encouraged to buy not only rugs but handbags and leather coats. Carmen tried on several jackets, causing a good deal of commotion while she searched for her size and demanded different colours, but as she could not afford to buy anything, she left empty-handed. The Major and his wife took a taxi back to the ship, leaving her standing on the pavement.

  It was the deaf man from her table who took pity on Carmen. He was escorting the widowed sisters, and they saw her limping along towards the harbour.

  ‘She’ll never make it,’ he murmured. ‘We must stop for her.’

  ‘You’re a nice man,’ said the elder sister, truthfully, but he did not hear her as he alighted from the cab to rescue Carmen. He put her in the front seat beside the driver and she was noisily grateful.

  On her wrist she wore a gold bracelet which the sisters had not noticed before. Had she bought it, or had she managed to steal it when no one was looking? They could believe anything of Carmen.

  Approaching Gibraltar, the cruise two-thirds over and the voyage homewards about to begin, Carmen stared at the steep grey rock and thought how forbidding it looked. Tom had been there during the war, and so a tear came to her eye as the ship berthed.

  She’d mentioned him to no one. No one had wanted to know her history, though she’d told plenty of people whom she found herself sitting next to on deck while she crocheted about her diplomat father and her sons in important overseas posts. It was strange how restless people were: no one stayed sitting next to her long, moving off on some mission without a word of apology.

  She saw the deaf man and the sisters going down the gangway and went ashore after them, tagging along, aiming to scrounge a lift into town in their taxi. They were doing a tour of the island which did not interest her. Who wanted to gaze at Barbary apes? The passengers themselves were apes enough.

  She knew there were pubs in the town and she wanted to visit one, for she was homesick for what was familiar.

  ‘Drop me off in the main street,’ she instructed, and was soon pushing her way along the crowded pavement.

  Inside a pub, which could have been one in any town in England, she had several gins and began to feel better, though she couldn’t get the thought of Tom quite out of her mind, which was silly. He’d been dead more than forty-five years, after all. Maybe food was what she needed. If she returned to the ship there would be lunch provided; ashore, she would have to pay.

  She began the trudge back to the harbour and met Frances coming out of Marks and Spencer’s, carrying one of their green bags.

  ‘You can go to Marks at home,’ she remarked. ‘Why bother here?’

  ‘I needed a nightie and a few other things,’ said Frances. ‘There’s so little space in the cabin, I can’t get my washing dry.’

  ‘Shall we share a cab back to the ship?’ Carmen suggested airily, not rising to this taunt. She’d been lucky to run into someone she knew; it was a fair walk back to the quayside.

  Frances accepted the inevitable, and was not surprised when Carmen sprang out of the cab with remarkable speed, leaving her to pay the driver.

  ‘Ta,’ Carmen said, heading up the gangplank. ‘That was ever so kind.’ A nice thank-you went a long way in life.

  Africa lay to the south as they sailed through the Straits of Gibraltar, land visible only a few miles distant on either side. The Germans had strung nets under the water across this narrow space to trap submarines during the war, the Major told his table companions, and Frances listened as he went on to talk about his days as a Desert Rat. Earlier at her table, Carmen had staged diversions while the others discussed their day ashore. She dropped a roll on the floor, asked for more butter, put the skeleton of her trout on the side plate of her neighbour, the deaf man. In only a few days now they would be steaming up the Channel, bidding one another farewell, exchanging addresses and promises to keep in touch that would remain unfulfilled. Carmen dreaded her return to solitude.

  The weather grew colder every day. Thick jerseys and trousers replaced sundresses and shorts, and red sunburned skin was shrouded. Passengers with peeling faces paced the deck while oily fumes from the funnel streamed out like a pennant behind the ship as she sailed northwards with no land in sight. Funny how you missed it after a day or so, thought Carmen. Once they saw whales, spouting; another time, a school of porpoises followed the ship. An occasional cargo vessel would be left astern as the Captain hurried on, anxious to beat bad weather heading in from the west before he made landfall and held his farewell parties.

  Carmen knew the drill now. You could go to both and have two lots of free drinks, slipping into the lounge by a side door to dodge the reception line the second time.

  On the last evening, the deaf man bought three bottles of wine to celebrate the end of the cruise and Carmen remarked that he’d been too quick for her when it should have been her treat.

  ‘You can say that again,’ said the elder widow, and her sister nodded in agreement. They’d insisted on standing their turns.

  The lights dimmed and the waiters bore in trays of flaming Baked Alaska. Carmen received a generous helping from Giorgio, whose manner towards her had become aloof and correct since the deaf man, not expecting much response from her, had begun talking to her at dinner. When she spoke, he had difficulty in hearing what she said, so he adopted the tactic which he found worked well in any social circumstance: he did the talking. He spoke to her of his golf club and his grandchildren, his garden and his Vauxhall car, of his past career as a tax inspector and of the china he mended as a hobby. Carmen let his words wash over her as she tried to picture him before age and deafness took their toll. Maybe she’d have fancied him then, but now his neck was wrinkled and his cheeks were gaunt. His thin old hands had brown spots on their backs but were steady as he poured the wine.

  He bade her good night very formally after the final cabaret, to which he escorted her, not wanting her to sit alone on the last night. He felt pity for her, out of her depth in every way as she was and, like a child, craving attention. He had seen her smile and had realised that she had once been a very pretty girl. Together, now, they watched the lively young dancers who by day ran the library and the bingo, and the comedian who supervised trap shooting on deck.

  ‘It’s been lovely,’ Carmen said. ‘A real treat to remember in the winter.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the deaf man, who was returning to his lonely retirement bungalow in Essex.

  Overnight, the ship berthed, and in the morning the crew dashed ashore as soon as the baggage had been unloaded. In groups, the passengers disembarked to claim their luggage.

  Carmen had bought only her duty-free allowance of spirits and cigarettes – she didn’t smoke but she could sell those at a profit – and the gold bracelet, her one souvenir. She went through the green channel and was asked to stop.

  The Major and his wife, passing blamelessly by, saw Carmen’s possessions disposed about the table, her shabby underwear displayed, her lame blouse and her shiny kaftan, and, among them, little mounds of the sealed butter and jam cartons put out for breakfast. She had secreted dozens of them, and packs of cracker biscuits, too, even cheese, anything that could be hoarded for the weeks ahead.
>
  There was another packet: a small one wrapped in brown paper which, undone, proved to contain a thick plastic bag filled with white powder. Carmen stared at it. Where had that come from? It looked like sugar.

  Protesting loudly, not understanding, she was led away by two customs officers.

  Frances went through the red channel and declared her purchase of a small oriental carpet. No one looked inside her jacket, where some much bigger packs of cocaine were stitched into the lining. It had been simple to plant the decoy in Carmen’s suitcase, where, in the baggage hall, a trained dog had sniffed it out, just as she had planned when Micky, whom she’d got to know when he began handling stolen cars for her brother, had mentioned his aunt. It had been easy to set the old woman up, go to his place when he was at work and sell Carmen the raffle tickets. She’d worn a wig and tinted glasses, and a wool cap pulled low over her forehead, an adequate disguise.

  She’d collected the stuff from her contact in Gib, exchanging carrier bags in Marks and Spencer’s without a word passing between them. The cost of Carmen’s cruise ticket scarcely dented the huge profit she would make when she passed it on, and after all, what was a year or two in gaol to Carmen? She’d have her travels to remember.

  And it might have been missed altogether: it was just the luck of the draw.

  Means to Murder

  In my brown Jaeger dressing-gown and striped viyella pyjamas, I knelt on the landing, watching between the banisters as, below, the guests arrived. I recognised Dr Pitt, who often came to see Mother. The small plump lady with him must be Mrs Pitt. She took off her fur coat and handed it to Trotter, the parlourmaid, who was helping Fitch admit them. Outside, John was in charge of parking the cars, directing them into position with the aid of a torch. Each lady was dropped at the door before the car drove on to its space.

  Lady White had a chauffeur and her car was a Daimler. I knew this because I had discussed the arrangements with John earlier in the day while he was polishing my father’s Invicta. Among his duties was that of maintaining the car and even, sometimes, driving it, if Mother, who did not drive, had to be fetched from the station after a day in town, or wanted to pay a call on a neighbour.