And, of course, I am undemocratically irritated by the utter lack of luxury at this stage in the proceedings – cheap carpet, prefab walls, grey-sounding announcements relating to technical/nautical difficulties and delays – which may or may not be alarming: I understand none of them – and a rank of vaguely shoddy check-in desks, behind which women in uniforms do almost nothing very slowly.
Why are we here? We’re not cruise people. We’re not quoits and gin slings and rubbers of bridge people. Or being driven past monuments at speed with optional commentary people, we are not tonight will be the 1974 theme disco in the Galaxy Room people. We will not be getting tattoos while in altered states, or buying Moroccan boys, or toppling wealthy aunts over the side, and we will not be – hopefully – dying in an unfortunate but historic mid-Atlantic calamity.
Why are we here?
Why am I here?
Why am I here with Derek?
Why is Derek here with me?
Why are we standing in a non-moving queue which, at best, threatens to funnel us into a holding area equipped with unadventurous vending machines and a lady who seems to be selling tea and shockingly rudimentary sandwiches. She may also have biscuits, I can’t tell from here.
At least there are toilets.
Currently out of reach, but it’s good to know they’ve been provided.
Over there.
Where we can’t use them.
Not that I couldn’t nip away and ease discomfort should I need to, although Derek might not like that – my leaving him.
He’s in a mood.
Hasn’t said so, doesn’t need to, doesn’t speak during moods. Self-explanatory, his bad temper, by dint of its heaving great silence.
Nevertheless, without using the medium of language he is still making it plain that he doesn’t want to be surrounded by the staggeringly ancient as they whine about their pills and their luggage and their feet, or – should they, by some miracle, have actually been processed – as they shuffle between the tea lady and the toilets while mouthing sandwiches and apparently coming close to coughing their last.
We are, by miles, the youngest couple here. We are also the tallest. Well, Derek is the tallest. Just about. No doubt, should he – like our queue-dwelling neighbours – live to be 180, his own vertebrae will have collapsed into powder and aches and he will be smaller, or else hooped over like that guy there who is practically, for goodness’ sake, peering back at life through his own knees. Which must be novel. Then again, at his age, would he want to keep on having to look ahead?
In front of Elizabeth, Derek hunches and shrugs his shoulders inside his jacket, then rubs one hand into and through his hair.
Dirty blond.
And she remembers this morning and lying on her side, newly awake, still softly fitting back into herself and being bewildered by a thought, by the idea of holding – she had this perfectly clear sensation of holding her arms around warm, breathing ribs, a lean chest – her hands meeting over his breathing – a dream of her resting in tight to the curve of his spine. But she wasn’t holding anyone.
Hypnopompic hallucination. It’s not uncommon. Might be linked to stress.
I have stress.
My stresses are considerable.
A long spine, clearly enunciated, and then the dream had closed and made her miss him.
Silly.
More than silly – quite a lot more than that.
More than silly being currently the absolute best I can muster.
Derek had been out of bed and clattering about in the hotel shower, trotting to the sink, tooth brushing, spitting, throat-clearing, shaving, forgetting and then not forgetting to comb his hair. He had been readying himself while Beth was quietly left with a hot illusion, finding it deep, convincing.
Later, she’d held his hand in the taxi as they headed for the docks. She’d felt his knuckles, she’d suffered that tiny bump of nervousness as the pale side of the ship approached them, a higher and higher slab – like a building, like something too large to float.
Although it will. I have every confidence that it will. Massive boat for a massive ocean, that’s not a problem.
And it’s not as if we’ve had to pay for this – not exactly. This is a – what would you call it? – windfall. A possibly fortunate happenstance.
Then again – no such thing as a free cruise. Which isn’t a popular saying, but could be – it might be appropriate . . .
Not that we’re on a cruise, not honestly what we could say is a cruise. This will be transport – Southampton to New York – like catching a bus.
Well, not so much like a bus.
More like being taught to appreciate the romance of taking tea at four and cabin stewards and sunsets off the stern before an early night.
Sunsets off the bow. Heading west – it would be the bow. Where you’d be exposed, wind-lashed, freezing. Not romantic.
Just the early night then.
Like willingly falling unconscious in a vast disaster movie with a cast of the virtually dead.
Christ, I don’t know why I’m doing this.
I just do not.
‘Boring, isn’t it? Or else, perhaps not so much boring as unsettling. I mean, I’m unsettled . . . Can’t speak for anyone else. Sorry . . .’ This is the man who has ended up standing behind her in the line.
Behind him is the brittle lady with aggressive jewellery – the one Elizabeth has decided to think of as a quietly alcoholic widow, the one who genuinely does seem to be accompanied by what might once have been called A Companion.
Bet she’ll turn out to be less quietly alcoholic.
Elizabeth is starting to gather hypotheses about many of her relatively-soon-to-be fellow passengers.
She has no theories about the man. He does not seem to be anything in particular. He has one hand in his trouser pocket and whatever bags he is travelling with must have been handed over for loading, because he is carrying nothing beyond a dark brown overcoat. It is a noticeably good coat, although he does not seem to care about it, keeps it haphazardly folded across one arm.
It’ll crease.
And he’ll be sorry if they lose his luggage.
No. No, he won’t.
His suit, although vaguely ill-kempt, fits him suspiciously well.
Made for him.
He would buy other luggage, if they lost his. There’s nothing he couldn’t replace.
That’s what I’d guess.
Even though she knows this is unfair, she believes there is something despicable about a person who can’t appreciate his own belongings, who doesn’t need his clothes.
Should this happen to be the case. Judging the book by its cover – which one never should.
‘I do apologise. Perhaps you didn’t want to talk.’
‘What?’ She doesn’t want to seem rude. Saying what to a stranger would be rude, in almost anyone’s opinion. Ignoring someone when they speak to you and thinking about them instead is rude, too. ‘Um . . .’ Doing it again would be ruder. ‘I’m sorry.’ Whether you know them or not.
‘Ah. So we’re both sorry.’ He rummages violently in the pockets of his coat and then stops. He inclines his head and apparently gives his entire attention to the notch in her collarbone. He addresses it earnestly. ‘I . . . by myself, you see. Long voyage ahead . . . not incredibly long and there’s the cinema, shows, entertainers . . . probably far too much going on to deal with, in actuality, uncomfortable numbers of possibilities – but familiar faces . . .’ He breaks off to gaze beyond her, as if he is searching for something troublesome and fast moving. He is pale in a way that suggests fragility, illness. He sighs, ‘There are occasionally times – will be, I beg your pardon, occasionally times when one would like to chat – when I would. Apart from this time, of course, which is excruciating – but hardly a time at all, more a type o
f solid, liquid maybe, that has to be got through. Probably, though, you don’t want to chat and so everything I’ve said is . . . irrelevant.’ The man blinks, considers. ‘Or else . . . chatting might not be involving, distracting enough.’ He shakes his head briefly and steps towards her, his left foot splaying very gently, not inelegant, but outwith his control. He walks as if his shoes are too stiff, or too heavy, or not his.
Or as if he’s afraid. I would say he’s afraid. He walks like a man on glass, on ice.
He falters to a halt. ‘Are you good at maths?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Maths.’ He smiles past her, aims the expression quite carefully at her partner’s doggedly mute back. ‘Arithmetic? Numbers? One and one equalling two. As an alternative to eleven. Or three. In the binary system, three – but not in the decimal, not in the one we’d be used to using. So many ways of saying so many things. Two would be what we were dealing with here and now.’
‘I know one and one is two, yes.’ She tries to smile calmly, because this might be the correct response.
When he looks at her directly there is something about the deep of the man’s eyes which makes her reach and find Derek’s hand, tug him round by it to stand beside her. Elizabeth is not absolutely surprised when this doesn’t make her feel more at ease. She seems only to be demonstrating a public weakness, a lapse in taste.
The stranger continues, apparently concentrating on forcing himself inside his words, increasing their density, and yet staying as motionless as he can be while still managing to speak, ‘Then what would be the number you would pick – just a game – can we play a game? – one number between one and ten – what would you pick? – you might want to think for your number carefully, search, maybe discount inappropriate options – or else you could choose the first one, your very first choice, the one that seemed right, that immediate choice. Or you could change your mind. Because everyone’s free to do that. Of course.’
He could be an entertainer.
Either very successful, or very not.
‘No. Really. Indulge me. Genuinely think of a number between one and ten. You can’t be wrong. Just give me a number.’
He waits politely.
A paid entertainer.
He continues to wait, but with no suggestion that he doubts she will eventually oblige him.
‘Seven.’
‘Really? Seven. You’re sure?’
Stage clothes and pretending. An act.
When she says it again, ‘Seven,’ she sounds sharp and has the sense that she has become a small focus for others’ interest. She wishes the man would go away.
Instead, he very carefully smiles at her. ‘And another? He shows her exactly the face of an understanding friend, a man to whom she could say anything in any way and be entirely understood, a gentle man and a gentleman, a rare thing. He shows her precisely and tenderly calibrated fellow feeling. For the space of two words it roars and flares and is unpreventable. It comforts. It is built to do nothing but. Then he puts it away. ‘Another? If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Two.’
‘And another?’
She can feel Derek’s arm leaning against hers, but he says nothing to help her. She is the one that speaks. ‘Five. No, eight. Eight.’
‘You’re good at this. Now reverse them – those numbers. Do you need a piece of paper to work this out? I think I have a piece of paper . . .’ He contemplates his coat and its pockets again severely.
‘Seven five eight in reverse is eight five seven. I can remember that much.’ Which didn’t seem petulant and ungrateful before she’d said it, heard it, but it clearly was – undoubtedly she is being a bad sport. No, she is being put in the wrong – when none of this is anything she asked for.
The man blinks, takes himself close to the edge of a grin, conspiratorial, charming. ‘But you chose seven two eight . . .’ He pauses to clear his throat. ‘If seven five eight would be better . . .’ The amusement flickers in again.
‘It would.’
‘Beautiful.’ Although for an instant he frowns, considers, then, ‘So now you can subtract them from each other – seven five eight from eight five seven. What would that make ?’
‘That would be . . . Nine . . . That would be ninety-nine.’
‘As opposed to sixty-six, if we picked another point of view . . . And if you add those numbers together – nine and another nine – that would be . . .’
‘Eighteen.’
‘And then subtract the one from the eight. Because we can’t leave it be. Poor eighteen.’
‘Seven.’
‘Seven. Which is the number you first thought of, isn’t it . . . ? Oddly. Seven. And I’ll show . . . I’ll show you seven. In a manner of speaking. I have it here.’ This time he is more assured as he manhandles his coat and fetches out a thumbed book from one of its pockets – she can’t see the cover. ‘Would you say you were determined, a determined person? If you don’t mind my asking . . .’ The man angles his head towards Derek and grins, rapidly boyish and then smoothed again. ‘Is the lady determined? I have no idea, but she does seem that way – admirable, if I can say so – which is why I asked – I wouldn’t ask if I thought it wasn’t probable – determination, that shows in the face – like . . . mercy, for example – kindness – betrayal, grief . . .’
He can’t shut up. He’s stuck in this, talking it through to the end. Patter. Spitting out the patter, no matter what. A man who memorises nonsense and then inflicts it.
‘You’re her husband? Boyfriend? None of my business – but lovely idea, to go on a cruise together. Nothing better, I would say.’
And the stranger nods back at Elizabeth, refocuses, winks, while he speaks and speaks, voice quiet but unavoidable. He hands her the book and tells her, ‘Determination can change who you are. Changing who you are can alter almost anything. Do you believe that?’ And no space for her to answer, because rattling, bolting in after it comes, ‘I can prove it. In a way. In a trivial, though perhaps diverting, way. If you take the book and you think of your number, you think of seven, strongly enough – if you feel seven in your chest, in your pulse, if inside your head you scream it – if you internally yell – and that seven becomes so true that its essence, its strength, is irresistible – and when you do that and keep doing that, then you can open up the book and turn it to page seven and you will see . . .’
Obedient, she opens the book where she’s told to and sees nothing unusual.
‘And you keep on screaming and you turn over that page . . .’
Which she does and finds that neatly, predictably, there is no page eight. There are only two pages, one after the other, both numbered seven – as if seven were somehow contagious, had soaked through the paper.
‘And page eighteen, as we might imagine . . .’
Delivers itself as another page seven.
‘The numbers.’ She passes him back his trick. ‘Clever. Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ And he puts on his coat, which seems unnecessary – the waiting area is bleak, but not cold.
‘It must be odd to read – a book like that.’
‘Maybe.’ He repockets the book which is maybe odd to read, shakes his sleeves, his lapels, until whatever order he sought to impose has been established. ‘Books aren’t about numbers, though, are they? They’re stories – words. They’re people’s stories. The numbers wouldn’t be the part you’d notice, I’d have said. Even if you ought to . . .’
The man forces out his hand abruptly and surprises Derek into shaking it.
And, perfectly normally, Elizabeth is next for the chill, smooth pressure of his grip, the tamp of his thumb in the heart of her palm. There is something overly naked about the man’s skin, as if it is a terrible, white secret. She tries to disengage a moment before he allows her to which makes her feel rude again, intolerant. She t
ells him, ‘Some people would notice.’ Which is intended to sound placatory, but is mainly patronising and also mumbled.
‘Many wouldn’t. Many, in fact, would not.’ This as he turns from her, as he is leaving with that faintly dragged and staggered walk, that atmosphere of discomfort, the uneasy head.
All at sea.
Elizabeth intends to keep an eye on him, watch where he goes, but then the queue fusses around her in a kind of irritated ripple and manages to propel itself forward by at least a yard. The excitement of this means she loses the man completely.
‘God save me from amateur magicians.’ At least the incident has broken Derek’s sulk. ‘I think we’re getting somewhere finally, though . . .’
And he’s right. As mysteriously as they were trapped by inaction, they are now bustled through and can fully partake in the joys of flip-up plastic seating and sturdy tea, no biscuits. Elisabeth feels she might want to buy a bag of chocolate nuts from the machine, but then reconsiders her intention, does nothing.
Docile blocks of humanity are summoned from their benevolent detention and disappear through doorways which smell of oily mechanisms, fuel and – unmistakably – salt water.
Almost on our way.
And this thought squeezes her with panic, raises a true, sick welt of fear that means, when the appropriate passenger grouping is called, Elizabeth almost stumbles from her seat. She has small difficulties with her hands as she picks up her bag. Over to her left she can hear voices.
‘And if we subtract two hundred and thirty six from six hundred and thirty two . . . ? We get?
‘Um . . . three hundred and ninety-six . . . ?’
‘And three plus nine plus six?’
‘That’s . . . seventeen.’
‘That’s . . . ?’
‘Oh, eighteen. Yes. Eighteen.’
‘And we can’t leave poor eighteen alone, though, can we? Poor eighteen. One from eight?’
‘Is seven.’
The second time around it’s less impressive: the working starts to show and maybe she’s sorry for the man and his puzzle which no longer does.
The Blue Book Page 2