“We wanted to.”
A pregnant pause followed, all three knowing there was something important that could be said, but none of them quite sure what it was or how to say it.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t feel I could mention Freddie by name…” Jones eventually apologised, aware that, having excused himself to Samantha for bringing her up at all, he was now feeling guilty for the brevity of his reference to Justine, in what had otherwise turned out to be quite a lengthy speech.
“We were so touched Jones, thank you.” Sylvie brushed his cheek with the back of her hand and gave him a kiss.
“I love Samantha, but I will never ever forget Freddie… I promise.”
“We know,” Fergus answered, “you’ve told us before: on the plane, at the house, even in your wedding speech! We believe you, you don’t need to say it anymore. Be happy that we are happy for you, and that Justine would be too.”
“Thank you, I will.” He smiled, and a few moments later, seeing an opportunity, introduced them to his nearby parents, whom they had twice met many years previously, when he and Justine had been together.
“You remember Fergus and Sylvie, Freddie’s parents?”
“Of course we do…”
Their conversation seemed to take off easily and Jones let their words melt away as he surveyed his wedding scene once again. Many of the men had done away with their ties by now, a few of the women had even discarded their shoes, and everyone looked rather less pristine than they had in the church a few hours earlier – this was a good sign.
While some guests still sat at tables with their drinks, others stood around the room chatting, many were on the dance floor. Through the crowd he spotted Samantha with Gabriel: they were facing each other and holding hands, she seeking, only with limited success, to teach him to step from side to side in time with the music. He was shrieking with laughter and occasionally jumped with the excitement of it all, whereupon he would immediately lose the rhythm and they would have to start over again. She looked serene and relaxed. All had gone perfectly and Jones felt the relief sweep through him: he was happy.
Later in the evening, the celebrations still in full swing, Jones again looked for Fergus and Sylvie, but they had already slipped away.
31
Southampton – Saturday 10th December 2016
Fergus and Sylvie returned to their cabin shortly after midnight. She had already finished packing, but he, on account of his mini-breakdown, had barely begun. However, he was feeling light and relaxed: a few hours ago it had been as though his world were caving in, but all his anxieties one by one had been addressed, until now he was finally at peace.
The process was for everyone to pack and then leave their bags and cases outside their cabins. These would be picked up during the small hours and, on arrival in Southampton, transported to the baggage hall of the terminal, leaving passengers to walk off the ship with just the hand luggage they had needed for the night. Fergus threw everything into his case and put it out in the corridor with Sylvie’s, then he washed, undressed and fell into bed. Within moments he was asleep and, for once, he was to slumber soundly through the night.
Sylvie was also exhausted and desperate for bed. She was mildly irritated therefore, with her husband already snoring softly, to see he had forgotten to pack some clothes he had left slung over a chair. She took them out into the corridor, stuffed them into his suitcase, without making a pretence of folding them, and then collapsed into bed herself, and into a sleep to rival that of her husband.
And so, with its human cargo dreaming contentedly, the Magdalena made its final journey up the English Channel, around the Isle of Wight and into the Solent, docking back in the same Southampton berth it had left three weeks previously.
Despite the occasional annoyance, the cruise company had treated them well throughout the holiday, but there was little doubting that their sole aim on disembarkation day was to get everyone off as quickly and efficiently as possible, so they could prepare to board the next passengers that afternoon. Breakfast was ninety minutes earlier than usual, between half six and half eight. Sylvie had set the alarm for seven, but she allowed Fergus to sleep on while she washed and dressed. Eventually, she drew the curtains: after so much open ocean and fresh air, it was depressing to see concrete structures, cranes and piers through the ill-lit gloom of an English early December morning. Southampton dock was quite the least inspiring of their whole itinerary, but maybe she was biased.
“Wakey wakey!” she said softly to her husband, ruffling his hair again. Slowly, like a child not wanting to get up to go to school, he came to and reluctantly heaved himself out of bed and into the bathroom, while she surveyed the cabin making sure nothing was forgotten. Fergus emerged and, looking around, appeared confused.
“Where are my clothes?”
“Probably where you left them,” Sylvie retorted rather unhelpfully.
“I thought I left them on the chair,” he scratched his head, opening an empty wardrobe. Suddenly it dawned on Sylvie what she had done. She rushed across to the cabin door but on opening it, whereas last night it had been lined with dozens upon dozens of bags, the corridor was completely empty.
“I think I just might have packed them last night!”
“What do you mean?”
“I was so tired, I wasn’t thinking. I saw you hadn’t packed some clothes and so I put them in your case before going to bed… I’m sorry.”
“What am I going to do? I’ve got my pyjamas and…” he opened a drawer “… a pair of socks, underpants and shoes… I even packed my dressing gown. I can’t leave the ship in my pyjamas!”
“It’s quite a predicament…” Sylvie conceded. There were a few seconds’ silence while they looked at each other wondering what to do, then she continued: “Now I’m certain this must happen all the time… I’ll just go to Reception and see what they suggest. Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll laugh about this.” Funnily enough, Fergus did laugh and when he laughed she felt free to do so too.
“I’ll be back,” she said as she slipped out of the door.
Fergus sat on the bed and looked out through the picture window at the murky British morning, realising he didn’t much care about his clothes: he’d happily disembark dressed like this, except for the fact it looked cold out there. Overall, it had been a good holiday, especially the sea days and the less frequented islands they had visited before the Canaries. Thereafter things had deteriorated rather, but most of the bad stuff had been, despite all his meditations, things going on only in his head. All the problems he had had the previous day had evaporated, all except for the most painful one:
“I miss you so much Justine,” he said to the empty cabin.
After a moment, another guilt came upon him: Justine had died young, at twenty-four, but what an idyllic life she had led! Unbelievable though it seemed, there were greater, more recent, sometimes less mourned tragedies: drowned infants pulled out of the Mediterranean; blameless children killed in adult wars; photos of innocent, cheeky little faces staring out of newspapers, taken before some wickedness befell them. How many billions of personal tragedies had there ever been in the world, most of them untold, but all of them felt deeply by someone, somewhere, sometime? Where amongst this pantheon of disasters did Justine’s accident lie? She had lived and she had lived well: happily, beautifully, surrounded by love and doing things she loved doing. She had lived: sometimes that was almost enough for Fergus, nobody could ever take that away – she had lived. And as for him and Sylvie? Well, their lives would go on, diminished yes and not the lives they had planned or hoped for, but precious none the less, and together. Walking off the ship in his pyjamas suddenly felt unimportant and he had an overpowering urge to do so, to get back to the place where, if she were anywhere, Justine was waiting for him, even if only in haunting but welcome memories.
Sylvie, meanwhile, was at Reception, havi
ng spent the short walk there considering her strategy, see-sawing between the attempted humorous “You’re never going to believe this, but…” approach and the more direct “My husband needs some clothes” tactic. She found a middle way:
“I’m afraid I packed all my husband’s clothes, is it possible to retrieve his bag or to lend him something, he’s only got his pyjamas you see?” Even as she said it, she realised she was speaking to the sarcastic man who had tried to sell Fergus videos the previous afternoon.
“It’s not a problem,” he said.
“Oh, thank goodness!” Sylvie sighed with relief.
“As long as he is wearing his pyjamas, it is not a problem…” Sylvie wasn’t quite sure what he meant.
“But you can get his clothes back, or lend him something, yes?”
“That is a problem madam, I am sorry, but leaving the ship in his pyjamas isn’t.”
He didn’t appear sorry at all and Sylvie was wondering how to tone her answer when a female receptionist rushed across, sounding much more genuine and helpful.
“I’m so sorry madam, we can’t retrieve the luggage now, it is already in the port. What I can do is arrange for you to have priority disembarkation and for you both to be escorted to your bags.” Sylvie could tell that she was trying to assist and so thanked her, and they agreed that someone would come to their cabin in twenty minutes. She wondered how Fergus would take this news and was surprised to find him philosophical:
“Hey, we get to disembark first! Perhaps we should try this if we come again!”
In time, the receptionist herself knocked on their door. Carrying their hand luggage, they both took one last look at their cabin, before mentally wishing both it and its future occupants well and leaving for good. The receptionist was already heading down the corridor, but Fergus noticed as he turned to follow her that, further up towards the bow behind him, there were some paramedics assisting Mrs Huffington, who was strapped into a wheelchair. He wanted to go back and check she was alright, but he couldn’t as the receptionist was by now disappearing round the next corner. He felt a real concern for this old lady with whom he had held such eccentric conversations throughout the cruise, an old lady of whom he had grown fond. Was she unwell? He concluded that he couldn’t worry about everything – some things you just had to let go – and so, touching the St Jude hanging round his neck, he said a quick silent prayer for her and then rushed to catch up with his wife.
They reached Reception, where the receptionist herself briefly left them. The area was crowded with passengers, waiting their turn to disembark. Despite the hubbub, Richard and Cressida relaxed on a sofa reading their books, oblivious to the chaos around them. Fergus hoped they wouldn’t look up. Replenishing her lipstick in the unlit window of a closed boutique was the lady who had worn the lurid blue dress to the Captain’s Party and been so upset when he had not remembered her. For whom she was fixing her make-up now they did not know, perhaps just for herself, but Fergus wanted there to be someone, musing how alone she looked dispossessed of her finery, as she prepared to re-enter the outside world. The three Caballeros, meanwhile, were waiting grimly around a small circular table, nursing their sunburn. It was reminiscent to Fergus of how they had so often sat in the spa bath, only now they were fully dressed and without their colourful cocktails, their red faces the only brightness in the otherwise cheerless scene.
Fergus looked round for Holly or Nicole, but neither was there, he suspected they kept well out of the way on disembarkation mornings and he wouldn’t have wanted them to see him like this anyway. He did, though, spot Gentle Henry and Tabitha through the crowd and they seemed to be the only ones to notice him. Completely unbothered by his attire, they smiled and waved and he and Sylvie smiled and waved back. They hadn’t even taken each other’s contact details and Fergus briefly wondered whether there was time still to do so; however, at that very moment, the receptionist returned. She was now accompanied by two burly port security officials, both wearing bright yellow tabards, which did little to leave Fergus feeling less conspicuous. She wished them an efficient rather than a friendly goodbye, and then the two men took over, leading him, with Sylvie in tow a few feet behind, down two flights of stairs, along a seemingly endless corridor (the length of which extra crew were on hand busily stripping bedding from cabins) and finally out on to the gangway.
So this is how it all ended, with Fergus in his pyjamas being escorted off the ship with a port security official either side, but how had it begun? It seemed both an age and but the blinking of an eye since he and his wife had left their Chiltern home, in fact it was just a few hours short of three weeks. On and on the security officials marched, with Fergus not caring who was watching, but beginning to worry about the cold which was rushing through his pyjamas, into his skin and towards his bones, welcoming him back to Britain and reminding him that he was a very long way from Cape Verde now.
Finally, they reached the baggage hall and, amongst the hundreds of other cases and bags, they quickly found their own. The security officials, who had said nothing throughout, suddenly became talkative and revealed a surprisingly warm side:
“You’ll be OK from here, you know how to get back to your car?”
“Perhaps you should put a coat on first?”
“Yes, yes, thank you both. I’m so sorry to put you to this trouble…”
“No trouble at all, but do you mind if we dine out on this one for a while?”
“Not at all, feel free!” Fergus replied jovially.
With a “Safe journey home!”, as if a double act in perfect unison, they were gone and Fergus scrambled to pull his coat out of his case, to fight off the unfamiliar temperature.
Fifteen minutes later they were driving through the port gates, Sylvie at the wheel, heading through Southampton, towards the M3. She took her hand off the controls, just for a couple of seconds, to squeeze Fergus’ and he looked across at her and smiled.
“Quite an adventure!” he said.
“Quite an adventure!” she echoed.
He settled back into his seat, looking forward to seeing home again, laughing quietly to himself as he reflected back over their holiday. Sylvie heard him chuckling and she felt warm to know her husband was relaxed, happy even. There was no rewinding life, Justine was gone, that hadn’t changed and it never would, but she too now felt that something else finally had, something that didn’t make everything right but would make it easier to cope, bearable… better even than bearable. Or maybe it was simply the fact that they were both home birds after all, feeling as high as the kites circling above their house, to know that they would soon be back there, in the place where they most belonged.
As they accelerated on to the motorway, Fergus leaned forward and switched on the radio:
“It’s just a lifetime ago since you first held her hand,
When you helped her to walk, helped her to stand,
Since you travelled with her across sea and land,
Will you join her where she’s gone away?
You cling to that hope as you breathe in and out
Through the long years, but there’s never a doubt
That her absence in life is what life’s all about.
Will you see her? You long for that day.
In the mountains she’s absent
And she’s not out at sea,
She’s not lost in a forest,
Nor in the city,
And you know that you may as well roam,
’cos she’s not coming home.”
32
Post Script – Hertfordshire – early September 2017
The church was similar to the one in which Jones and Samantha had married just two years earlier – Norman and in a pretty English village – this time though, Fergus and Sylvie were there for the christening of Jones’ son, Daniel. Specifically they were there because Jones had asked Fergus
to be the godfather, neither he nor his wife having brothers. Ben would have been a good alternative choice, but Jones felt an important history and bond with Justine’s parents and he knew Fergus had a quiet but mature faith, along with the wisdom that comes from being older.
The offer had come as a big surprise to Fergus, but he had been delighted, driving up a few days before the service to attend a meeting with the local priest, together with Jones, Samantha and the godmother-to-be, Samantha’s older sister. Fergus had been impressed by the vicar, a young man who struck an easy and natural balance between the importance of the occasion and a sense of fun. They studied the healing of Blind Bartimaeus in St Mark’s Gospel and to Fergus (much as he had so often experienced on his retreat) it seemed rich with imagery, not least he felt that he had only just emerged from a dark period himself, perhaps a blindness of sorts. He had arrived at the gathering with a feeling of responsibility, he left with that sense even more deeply embedded. He was determined to do a good job for little Daniel, both on the day of his baptism and throughout his childhood. Afterwards, as Jones and Samantha walked with him back to his car, she had said:
“… and we have a small surprise for you on the day. Jones persuaded me, though it didn’t take much… we hope you’ll like it.” Fergus had briefly wondered what this might be, but then had thought no more about it and now, walking up to the church on this bright Sunday morning, he had completely forgotten the enigmatic reference.
All in all, it hadn’t been a normal weekend because the previous day, after a gap of more than three years, Katie had paid them a visit. She had phoned a week or so earlier, asking to meet, but forewarning them it was not because she had any news of the accident. They had been intrigued by her call, as well as excited to meet an old friend, and so of course they had agreed.
She had been late arriving and, for a few minutes, an old foe revisited Fergus, suggesting various misfortunes that might have befallen her, as he grew increasingly anxious as to where she could be. This reminded him of the accident they had witnessed on the drive down to Southampton and he felt a sudden urge to know if it had been as bad as had appeared. He searched the internet and quickly found a local news headline referencing 19th November 2016: “Freak Crash Closes Motorway”… he read on apprehensively until he came to the sentence “… miraculously, only light injuries were sustained…”
Times and Places Page 27