“I’m back!”
I hear Mum at the front door. I go to her to see if she needs help.
“Hi, Mom. Everything all right?”
“Fine, love. I bought some wine and a bottle of Cinzano to take to the party tonight.”
Of course. The party. I had forgotten about it, or perhaps deliberately pushed it to the back of my mind, uncertain that going to a party at this time would be a good idea for Mum, for any of us. But my cousins, Karen and Andrew, are known partiers, and they wanted to get the family all together while Mark and I are still here in England.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Mum says matter-of-factly, no strain in her voice. “It’ll be good to be with the family and do something fun.”
I study Mum for signs of forced bravado but see none. I conclude that perhaps Mum is right. A party is just what we all need.
At my cousins’ house, the clan gathers en masse. The furniture is pushed to the sides of the room, leaving a space for everyone to dance. The lights are dimmed, the food is prepared, and the drinks flow. The music plays and the dancing begins. The family all sing along to party favorites, both young and old stomping their feet on the floor to a raucous performance of such favorites as Slade and Mama Weer All Crazee Now. Everyone is familiar with the moves, and dance in unison, even the babies of the family. The sadness of my dad’s passing is momentarily trumped by the triumph of the living, the next generations of the family moving forward as they should.
My parents had always enjoyed a good party and between the navy socials and my mum’s work socials, my parents had enjoyed an active party life. When I was a child, there were many occasions when Dad would come home late at night from a “do” with his naval buddies and, after having had a considerable amount to drink, create a good-natured ruckus in the house. Mum was no better. She loved her Cinzano and would watch Saturday night telly with a couple of drinks in her. I remember coming home from a date one Saturday night and finding my tipsy mum lying on the couch watching television and asking no one in particular why they had bowling balls lined up along the front of the telly? They were footlights along the front of a stage, unrecognizable to my mum’s intoxicated brain.
But this night at my cousins’ party, I watch without criticism as Mum drinks, dances, and sings with the family as we all celebrate our bond, knowing that we can rely on each other, through thick and thin. Mum is her usual funny self, full of piss and vinegar, with a quick retort for every comment. She is the epitome of what we call “cheeky.” Mischievous, quick-witted, having fun, and quite intoxicated.
Even Loretta has emerged from her flat and her mood to enjoy the party. I watch as she dances, balancing herself between her prosthetic leg and her cane. I admire how she doesn’t let her disability slow her down.
For the first time in many days I allow myself to “let go.” I have a few drinks. I dance with my cousins. It has been a long time since I have danced, and despite feeling awkward at first, as I begin to relax, I find myself enjoying the familiarity of moving to the music, my feet following the beat, my body movements accompanying the steps. I watch everyone around me, smiling and dancing. The clan is having a great time. The party was a great idea.
The hours are passing in song and dance and people enjoying each other’s company, then, unexpectedly, Mum’s Scots brogue cuts into the din.
“Where’s Ian? Is he in the kitchen? Where is he? Was that him I just saw?”
Instantly the party comes to a crashing halt.
People stop dancing. They stop singing, ignoring the music as it incongruously plays on. All eyes turn to Mum. She had forgotten. In the fervor of the party and shrouded in an intoxicated haze, she had forgotten that Dad was gone. For more than fifty years they had gone to parties together, as a team. This is the first time she is without him. But, she had been sitting in a big armchair near the door of the living room when out of the corner of her eye she had seen someone walk down the hallway into the kitchen. A man who in her mind looked like Dad and, as was normal for her, she questioned where he was going, what he was doing.
Everyone is silent, and as the reality begins to filter into her intoxicated mind, she begins to cry.
“Where’s Ian? Where is he?”
My heart breaks. “Oh Mom!” I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know how to make it better.
My mother’s face crumples in misery, tears begin running down her cheeks. She shakes her head and closes her eyes.
“I want Ian. I miss Ian.”
She is pitiful. My heart weeps with her. The family looks at each other, silently asking each other what to do. I kneel down beside my mother, hugging her tight but saying nothing. I don’t know what to say. I simply hope the hug will make up for the missing words of comfort. My mother cries. It is the distressing lament of a woman wanting her man, not wanting to accept he is gone forever, that she isn’t going to see him again. Poor Mum. For me it is heartbreaking, gut-wrenching.
The mood has changed. The party is over. People around us begin to move discreetly, turning down the music, grabbing their coats, quietly thanking the hosts, and making arrangements among themselves to get home. I continue to hug my mum, trying to console her. But I need to get her home soon. It is going to be difficult. We have to walk because we have been drinking. One of Mum’s friends who doesn’t drink has a car and room to drive Loretta to the house. Loretta can’t be expected to walk the distance home with her artificial leg. But Mum, Mark, and I will have to walk. I gather Mum’s things, and help her put on her coat while fussing over her as if she is a little child, urging her to turn around and put her hands through her sleeves. Mum is still crying, softly now, her cheeks wet with the evidence of her grief. I pick up my mother’s handbag and my own, and taking my mother gently by one arm, I guide her to the front door. My cousin Steve and my younger cousin Cameron say they will walk us home to make sure we don’t get lost and to make sure we get home safely. It is kind of them. After seeing us to the house, they will then have the return walk back to their own homes. The walk home that should have taken us about ten minutes takes much longer. We are delayed by the impromptu concert in the street.
It is the early hours of the morning as we say our goodbyes and step out into the sharp night air and begin the walk home. We are an odd-looking bunch. Steve and I, both older adults, the young adult Mark, Cameron the teenage boy doing his good deed of escort duty, and the old lady singing at the top of her lungs. I am not sure if it is the fresh air hitting my mother mixed with the alcohol in her system, or what it is, but as soon as we begin walking along the road, my mum’s demeanor changes. She begins to giggle and sing, and she is loud. The quiet of the night is shattered by her raucous voice singing—I don’t know what—but what should have been a walk in a straight line along the pavement becomes a meandering dance as my mother wiggles and wobbles from side to side with the rest of us tracking along with her, making sure she doesn’t fall, while at the same time gently guiding her forward.
I nervously watch the houses around us for signs that we are disrupting the sleep of the occupants, hoping that no one will call the police so we don’t have to explain the unfortunate circumstances. We are lucky. No lights suddenly come on in any of the houses. Nor are there signs of movement behind curtains or of people looking out of their windows to see who is making the disturbing racket. Meanwhile Mum keeps singing, loud but surprisingly in tune. More surprising is the strength of the voice coming out of her tiny frame. She is funny, though the circumstances are somewhat tragic. I gently urge my mother homeward. I become the parent chastising the wayward child, my tone serious, my words fruitless, my smile a reflection of my rolling eyes and shaking head. My cousins and son are laughing. Mum is a character.
The April night is cold, brisk. Despite our thick coats the cold finds vulnerable spots on our hands and faces and unkindly cuts into us like a sharp blade. The walk is long. I am more than ready to get back to Mum’s house. The alcohol is wearing off, leaving me feeli
ng tired. I want my bed. Mum keeps on singing, oblivious to the time of night or the spectacle she makes. We walk down to the end of the street, past the park, and onto the main road. We turn the corner, and after walking a couple more blocks, we eventually get to the house where Loretta has the lights on ready for us, and the kettle on the boil.
We usher Mum into the living room, and settle her down. I then go to the kitchen to prepare some coffee for my mother, leaving everyone else to keep Mum company. Taking the coffee into the living room, I find Mum surrounded by family, and in a poignant frame of mind. She has reached the fanciful state of drunkenness where everything is good, and she loves everyone. In her slurred Scots accent, she holds court, grandly announcing to those seated on the floor around her how much she loves them all.
I sit down on Dad’s chair, leaving the rest of the family to attend to Mum. I look across at the opposite wall and the broad streaks of off-colored paint put there by Dad. I pray that everything remains good and loving in the morning when Mum remembers that her reality has changed forever.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
“Look there! Out at the horizon. I think that’s it sailing in now.” The other three girls and I, all dancers, follow the line of Sheila’s arm to where she is pointing out across a blue expanse of the Caribbean Sea. It is still very early in the morning in this tropical paradise of San Juan, Puerto Rico; the sun is barely up, but we are too excited to sleep. We four girls and Sheila, the choreographer, are standing on the hotel balcony, waiting for our new home to come sailing into the port. I look out and see something on the horizon. It is shapeless at this distance, but I think I can make out smoke trailing above the object. It will be a while before the shape makes it to shore, but for me it gives me that much more time to stand on the balcony and absorb every element around me, from the salty air blowing in from the sea to the humidity of the tropics. I can’t believe I am really here, in San Juan, Puerto Rico, looking out at the Caribbean Sea, looking down on palm trees, and listening to the faint foreign words spoken by persons walking along the sand below the balcony.
Within weeks of leaving the academy, I auditioned and got a job as a dancer on a cruise ship, and after a week of rehearsals in London with Sheila, the other three dancers—Susan, Jenna, and Julie—and I are here standing on the balcony of a room at the posh El San Juan Hotel, waiting for the cruise ship to reach its home port. I am effused with excitement, unable to contain my sense of exhilaration, wanting to know what my future holds for me. Here I am in the Caribbean. This is my first time abroad. It is the first port of call of many places I hope I will visit. This is the first class in life’s edification, and I am ready for it.
Cunard Countess docked in Grenada, photo © Laraine Denny Burrell
I quickly and easily settle into my new life, embracing each new wonderful day bringing its own adventure of new people, places, and experiences. My work on the cruise ship, the Cunard Countess, involves dancing opening numbers for the lounge acts throughout the weeklong cruise. On occasion I might do extra cruise staff duties, but I don’t mind as it allows me to meet and interact with the passengers and other crew members.
Time off is spent at the crew bar or disco, or ashore with groups of crew members visiting the tropical beaches and tourist attractions of the places we visit each week, such as La Guaira in Venezuela, Grenada, Barbados, St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands, and our home port of San Juan. I have a new boyfriend who I meet on the ship. His name is Marty, and he is an AB or able-bodied seaman. I spend most of my spare time with him. Sometimes late at night when he is on watch, I sneak onto the ship’s bridge, and under Marty’s guidance, I take the ship’s wheel, the fate of its passengers in my hands. I see new things: a lunar eclipse over the Caribbean Sea; dolphins chasing the ship and playing in its bow spray; flying fish jumping high out of the ocean, momentarily free from their briny home.
Now and again at night I take a moment to myself and sit alone out on the back deck. I feel the ship sway beneath me, and the sea breeze tickle my face. I hear the rhythmic crashing of waves against the ship’s hull. I remember those many hours of having to stand in the corner and my imaginations of foreign ports, sailing on the ocean, and tropical breezes, and here I am: my imaginations have become reality. I am so lucky.
Sitting looking out over the dark ocean waves dusted with sparkles from the moon, I recognize a parallel between my dad’s life and my own. I think of my dad’s naval career and his life onboard ship. I think of my father sailing these same waters and feel an affinity with him. We are both travelers, seamen, escaping the boundaries of ordinary life, seeking and accepting each new horizon open to us.
Living on a ship suits me. I share a cabin with another dancer, Susan, and we never have to cook a meal or clean up after ourselves, or change a bed. There are no rent or utility bills to worry about. Our wages are all ours, and we spend them well on visiting tourist attractions, parties on shore, fun clothes from the ports. It is a carefree time, and I absorb every enjoyable moment of it.
Every Monday the ship docks in La Guaira, the port city of Caracus, Venezuela. Today is my first excursion ashore in Venezuela. Following instructions from a leaflet obtained from a ship tour guide, Marty, our friends, and I find the bus stop and the right bus, and manage to work out the correct bus fare to our destination. The temperature is hot and humid. The ride is uncomfortable and dirty. I don’t care that the bus is a rusty dilapidated vehicle that hits potholes and jolts me abruptly upward from my seat. Or that the route is dirty and dry, the dust lying on the street disturbed by the bus and finding its way inside the open windows, coating us passengers in a beige film. This is an adventure, and I look out of the windows left and right, wanting to see everything we pass, not wanting to miss a thing. Shops, some mere wooden shacks, and the occasional cart are lined along the street, selling some things that are familiar, some things unrecognizable. The familiar Coca-Cola® sign hangs over more than one doorway. I see various handmade craft items, hats, and bags, all trying to lure the American dollars of the tourists. I make a mental note to buy a souvenir for myself.
Our destination is the cable car where apparently we can ride to the top of the mountain and look down at the port on one side and the city of Caracas on the other. On the bus we are surrounded by passengers dressed in colorful South American clothes, including ponchos and wide straw hats, the colors a contrast to the brown leatherlike faces of the locals. We friends are riding the bus, looking at the map the ship tour guide has given us, while keeping a lookout for our stop.
Suddenly, several people on the bus begin to clap. My friends and I are startled by the sound and look around, wondering why these people are clapping, and then we look at each other without comprehension. I laugh.
“What are they doing?”
Marty shrugs his shoulders. “Dunno.”
It happens again, people clapping for no apparent reason; they are not looking at anything in particular, nothing noteworthy is taking place on or off the bus, and still they keep clapping, not the same people, but different groups at different times. Marty asks, “Should we be clapping too?”
I shrug. “No idea.”
We watch the people sitting around us, studying what is happening, the people clapping and the stopping and starting of the bus. What are we missing? Within time it clicks. We begin to understand that in Venezuela, clapping is the way to stop the bus. Nothing fancy; no bells or buzzers. It is a simple solution to a basic need. It is one of the first times abroad that I recognize people in other countries do things differently. Arriving at our destination, we all cheerfully clap our hands, and the bus stops, allowing us to get off.
Once on the cable car we take a lengthy, almost perpendicular ride some distance up the Avila mountainside, looking in amazement at the farms we soar over which are literally carved into the steep mountainside. They are man-made horizontal plateaus of grain and bright green pasture cut into the vertical landscape. It is a mystery how the people manag
e to live on these farms, let alone how they whittled them out of this unlikely farmland in the first place. It is a prime example of people adapting to their environment, and making the environment adapt to their needs. It is humankind and nature working together to sustain life.
As we ascend in the cable car, the temperature drops. The humid, tropical temperature in the port city is replaced by an icy temperature at the top of the mountain, where a restaurant and skating rink offer visitors some distraction.
From the top of the mountain the main attraction is the view. To the north I look down on the Caribbean Sea, where oil tankers sitting outside the port look like minute ants sitting on a blue canvas. To the south lies the capital city of Caracas sprawled in green hues throughout the valley so far below. This is not England. It is not my own port town of Portsmouth. It is a page in my book of reality; a class in my course of life’s education. I take a deep breath, inhaling the thin air, the view, a feeling of excitement and elation. I am very lucky.
It is another Monday and the ship is again docked in La Guaira. I am not going ashore today because there is a rehearsal in the lounge for tonight’s show. I am in my rehearsal clothes, standing on the marble dance floor, holding a yellow boa, a prop for our dance number, trying hard to focus on the rehearsal. But the lounge windows and doors are open, allowing a light breeze to visit from the outside and bring in a warm tropical scent that tempts us to go outside and enjoy the day. Julie the dance captain calls to us to pay attention and then begins showing us a dance step, but as she is dancing, the rest of us become aware of vehement shouting in Spanish coming from somewhere outside. The loudness and tenor of the shouting suggests something angry and aggressive, and, ignoring Julie, the other dancers and I run out the door of the lounge onto the promenade deck. We find ourselves watching what develops into an international incident involving the ship, her officers, and the Venezuelan army. An incident underlining my acknowledgement that I am no longer in England and that things are different abroad.
Our Grand Finale Page 11