“I'll see you at dinner, Dr Scott ...” And she was gone.
I decided I would eat in the ward-room this evening.
The Arabia Room was larger, but only fractionally less luxurious than the Aztec Room, where the First Class Gala Evening had taken place, on the previous night. By ten-forty-five it was already quite crowded; the place was warm and smoky, the cut-glass Venetian chandeliers were ablaze, and reflected off the polished mahogany and brass fittings. Oil paintings and tapestries depicting Lawrence of Arabia and scenes from the Arabian Nights adorned the walls. My shoes sank into the deep pile of the peacock blue and gold carpet, around the margin of the polished wood floor. Now I sat at the far end of the ballroom, nursing a gin and tonic, having been doing my duty on the dance floor almost continuously since I had arrived at ten; I was enjoying the cooling breeze from an open doorway nearby; the four-piece band were taking a well-earned break.
Wendy Alexander sailed in, accompanied by a group of young people, and they sat down with a flourish at a table near the musicians. A big lad, looking rather awkward in a new white dinner-jacket and plum cummerbund, went to the bar to fetch drinks.
“Strangers in the Night ...” All at once, as the band struck up again, Wendy appeared to notice me; in a trice she had crossed the floor to my table.
“Will you dance with me?”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet; before I could reply I found myself on the dance floor, performing the foxtrot. Still in her halter-blouse and skirt, she drew all male eyes towards her. From the corner of my eye I noticed the big man with the plum cummerbund return with drinks for the group, looking rather crestfallen.
“I can't call you Dr Scott all evening ...”
(“Who said anything about 'all evening',” I thought.)
“What's your first name?”
“It's Edwin, er Wendy ... Where you from, Wendy?”
“From Gidea Park, in Essex; but I've been living in Sydney for the last year and a half.”
Her voice was low, slightly husky, and I now noticed the faintest Cockney accent, overlain by an Aussie twang. I inhaled the exotic rather heavy, yet none-the-less attractive, perfume, as she leaned closer.
“I'm a legal secretary, and I'm on my way home to marry my fiancé – my old boss.”
By the time the dance finished, I had learnt that she was twenty five and her solicitor fiancé was thirty eight (“But the age difference suits me fine ...”), that she had two older brothers who spoilt her rotten, that Sydney was a wonderful place, but she was a bit home-sick after eighteen months away ...
“Do come and join us, Edwin. It'll be fun, and you'll make up the numbers ...” and she started to drag me by the hand towards the table where her friends were sitting. Her choice of phrase reminded me painfully of Barbara.
“Let me just go back and fetch my drink ...”
When I came to sit down at their table, I found the music uncomfortably loud; in compensation, we could hardly hear ourselves speak, which ruled out serious communication for lengthy periods.
“This is the ship's surgeon, Dr Edwin Scott ...” she introduced me to the group.
“Assistant surgeon,” I interjected, “And please call me 'Edwin'.”
There were two men and two women: the big man with the drinks was Stewart (“Call me 'Stew'”); his friend, more comfortable in his dinner jacket, was shorter but equally beefy (“Barry”); the girls, in pastel cocktail dresses, were pretty, though less strikingly so than Wendy (“Diane and Colette”).
I learned that the three girls had shared a flat on the outskirts of Sydney; Colette was Australian, originally from Perth, but Diane came from Finchley in North London, and was returning to England after three years; the boys were both natives of Sydney.
Stew was gesturing to his glass:
“Can I get you a drink, doc?”
“A G&T, thanks ...” I mouthed, over the pandemonium.
“You're too young to be a doctor,” Colette shouted in my ear.
“I've been qualified six years; I'm quite old really ...”
“I hear you're the ship's hero, Edwin.” Barry's voice held a tinge of irony, as it emerged loud and clear, during a sudden lull in the music. “Tell us about the appendix operation on the little girl.”
I had been handling similar queries at regular intervals over the last three weeks; though I didn't relish these, I was able to respond succinctly, without overt embarrassment, keeping my response suitably low key.
“What about the murder?” Though Stew's grin remained open, without guile, I felt under attack. “I'm told you 're also the ship's sleuth, doc. Have you solved the mystery yet?”
So, the cat was out of the bag! I supposed it must have been young Danny ...
“That'll be the day, when you make me cry ...” sang the guitarist through his microphone, as the band came back to life, drowning out all further conversation, and saving me from a difficult reply. Wendy grabbed my hands, intimating that she wanted to dance again. This time I rose gratefully to my feet, the other two couples following ...
“Dream, dream, dream ...”
They were playing another Everly Brothers song. Wendy's eyes were closed; she had her arms around my neck, and was holding me close. Apart from two quick sorties with Diane and Colette, I had stayed with Wendy all evening. To my surprise, I was enjoying myself. Stew, who appeared to have had hopes there himself, spent the evening dancing with Colette instead, with every appearance of contentment. He became cheerfully drunk (on a huge consignment of lager), and now treated me like his long-lost brother.
“... only trouble is, Gee whizz, I'm dreaming my life away ...”
“I've got to leave, Wendy. I have to be out of the public rooms by midnight – and it's five to twelve now!”
She opened her eyes and gazed at me, at the same time, tightening her arms around my neck; she pouted, and her eyes smouldered:
“I don't want you to go yet; I'm having fun.” (I was again reminded of Barbara Clifton.) “Can't you stay just a little longer?”
“Well, just a short time, then ...” I didn't want to leave, either; I noticed the chief officer looking pointedly in my direction, and avoided eye contact ...
“I've really got to go now.” It was twelve-twenty-five, and the Chief was positively scowling at me.
“Well I'm not leaving.” Wendy was becoming petulant. “The night is yet young ...”
I disengaged myself somewhat reluctantly, said goodbye to them all, and walked the length of the ballroom to the doors, the chief officer's intense black eyes boring a hole in my back.
Tuesday, 9th August: I woke with a blinding headache and a dry mouth, to the ring of the telephone. I had a massive hangover.
“I want you in my office at eleven o'clock sharp, Scott.” It was the chief officer.
“But I'm due to start crew surgery at eleven, Sir.”
“The crew will just have to wait a few minutes; this won't take long ...”
Stephen Kipper was in his mid-forties, thin, serious, dyspeptic, and not known for his humour; his habitual pallor contrasted starkly with his thick black hair, as he faced me across his desk, his deep-set eyes searching mine, as if he would see into my soul. Our interview was short and sharp: I was a disgrace to the medical department; for my indiscipline, I would be banned from public rooms after 23.00 hours for the whole of the next week (“ just like the most junior officers”).
“And don't do it again!”
For the rest of the day, in spite of aspirin, vitamin C and two pints of cold water, my temple continued to beat like a water-hammer, my tongue seemed to fill my mouth, I felt groggy and sick.
“I'm drinking too much,” I admitted to myself. “Why, I must be consuming the best part of bottle of gin a day.”
I decided I would “go on the wagon” one day every week, starting next Monday!
Alcohol, on board ship, was tax-free and far too cheap to make abstinence easy: gin – at twelve shillings a bottle – served twelve (Angost
ura Bitters was virtually free – one five shilling quart bottle would make over a hundred drinks). Whisky was sixteen shillings a bottle. Beer, at one shilling and eight pence a half-pint, and three shillings a pint, was relatively expensive.
I presided over two tables for dinner – one in First Class and one in Tourist Class; formal lunch at my tables was a rarer occasion, as I often took a buffet lunch on deck. I drank a minimum of two glasses of wine with each meal, and regularly supplied a bottle for my table. In return, passengers bought me pre-lunch drinks, which I couldn't refuse without causing offence. I had to attend two or three officers' parties a week, and was expected to “keep my end up”. I had an entertainment allowance of two hundred pounds for the voyage, as socialising with the passengers was a recognised part of my official duties. (Yet by the time we returned to Southampton, I had exceeded my allowance by four hundred pounds!)
I could see how easily a ship's surgeon might acquire a taste for the cheap booze, free Cordon Bleu food, lavish entertainment, cosseting by his cabin steward; at the same time, he had no personal worries or responsibilities – everything was laid on. I determined that I would not be drawn into this sort of life. I strengthened my resolved to leave at the end of the trip, and resume my civilian career – taking up my post as senior registrar in rheumatology at the London Hospital, as originally intended.
Yet in the meantime, as the voyage progressed, I was becoming increasingly fuzzy and apathetic; I had lost my joie de vivre. I was still functioning adequately on a professional level, but felt like the walking dead. I realised that – like many of my predecessors – I was becoming an alcoholic. Thus, every Monday, I now confined myself to soft drinks. I announced this to everyone – officers and passengers alike – who accepted it with a good-natured shrug, as just another mark of my eccentricity. Henceforth, I would feel great every Monday – happy (almost euphoric) and full of energy; the feeling would last through Tuesday and Wednesday, but would gradually wane over the next three days, until I was back to my previous zombie state by Sunday.
Wednesday, 10th August: The SS Koh-i-Noor arrived in Tonga, at eight-thirty in the morning. From the ship's launch, as we approached the port of Nuku Alofa, the land appeared low and flat; through tall trees, peeped white stucco buildings with crimson roofs. The heat and the sweet, vaguely putrid smell of land hit me as we neared the shore. The sky was grey and overcast. A light breeze rippled the palms. As I stepped onto dry land, I found, directly ahead, a single storey colonnaded building, subdivided into three parts – labelled “Treasury”, “Customs” and “Post office”. Nearby, each enclosed by a hedge, were two clap-board edifices, three storeys high – the tallest on the island – each surmounted by a tower and a red tiled roof. These, I discovered, were the King's palace and the abbey.
While I idly photographed the scene, I became aware of the chief officer, mysterious, brooding and vaguely menacing, in earnest conversation with two islanders. He paused, looked towards me, and then moved on; the two burly men approached. Suddenly the small grassy square was empty of all tourists! Alarmed, I ducked into a souvenir shop, where I gazed with sightless eyes at the wares; eventually, I forced myself to select some picture postcards, and, for my mother, a small ladies' handbag encrusted with sea-shells. (Later, I was able to see that I had made an excellent buy.) When I emerged, the square was deserted. My tension eased.
Yet on turning back towards the small harbour and our launch, I found the same two islanders barring my way. In mounting panic, I wheeled about, and started off rapidly in the opposite direction; the track appeared to lead into thick jungle.
“Would you like a ride around the island?” a melodious voice enquired in English.
A slim young Polynesian with dark curly hair and a broad smile stood before me; he wore a rainbow-coloured shirt, and a blue and white patterned sarong reached down almost to his ankles.
“Yes, please ...” I let out my breath in relief.
He helped me into the back of his cycle rickshaw, and we were away. I didn't look back.
“My name is George,” he flung over his shoulder. After this the silence was broken only by the sounds of the jungle. He pedalled briskly down a path, five or six feet wide, which wove its way through the thick undergrowth; it was relatively cool in the half-light. I gazed about me at the limited vista, suddenly so different from what I had expected when I left the Koh-i-Noor. Time passed; it became warmer; insects began to pester me. Once again I became apprehensive: had I exchanged the frying pan for the fire, I wondered.
We emerged into a clearing containing half a dozen huts, and a couple of comatose dogs which perked up on our arrival; most of the buildings were of logs with reed-thatched roofs; however, George led me proudly to a slightly larger construction in white clap-board topped with corrugated tin.
“This is my home ...” He invited me to take a photo of him in front of the hut, before leading me inside. We stepped over the threshold, and entered the single room. Here I found myself seated on a rush chair at a table with a yellow and sky blue cloth. On one wall hung a rug decorated with reddish brown zig-zags on a grey background. There was a large portrait of a beaming Polynesian lady with a tiara over her frizzy greying hair: I recognised Queen Salote of Tonga – now sadly deceased, but still revered by her people. On another wall hung a picture in a plain wooden frame of a raft with mast and sail, in coloured pencils, naïve, as if drawn by a child. On the shelves and flat surfaces sat attractive decorations made from sea shells in white and delicate pinks.
While I looked around, George was rummaging in a cupboard, his back to me. With a wistful smile, he returned with two bulging photo albums, which he placed delicately in front of me on the table; he proceeded to show me picture after picture of himself, his family and the sights of Tonga. His pace was leisurely, and he was clearly enjoying himself. His presentation was interrupted by voices outside.
An imposing overweight woman in a brightly patterned linen dress, which reached almost to the ground, entered in the company of a heavier version of George.
“This is my Mum, and this is my brother; his name is Nikafu, but you can call him Sam.”
The woman's face split into a huge grin, giving her an uncanny resemblance to a younger Queen Salote, marginally slimmer, hair less grizzled, but still immensely dignified.
“Welcome to our home. I hope my son has been entertaining you suitably. Have you eaten?”
She moved to the kitchen end of the room, to what I was surprised to see was a refrigerator. Where on earth do they get their electricity in this remote wilderness?
Sam came ponderously over to me and shook my hand; he didn't smile, in fact there appeared to be a permanent scowl on his face; having performed this civility, he stood back against a wall, keeping his eyes glued on me, saying not a word. He was a powerful, somewhat sinister figure, reminding me of the two men I had been trying to escape, in the main square of Nuku Alofa. Almost at once George's mother returned with a plateful of cheese sandwiches, a mug and a glass jug. Without asking, she filled the mug from the jug.
“You will like this, Sir, it is fermented coconut juice ... and do help yourself to a sandwich. We Tongans pride ourselves on our hospitality.”
Her voice was deep, with a joyful lilt; her English was faultless, with the faintest American accent.
“I was at the University of California for six years when I was a young girl,” she explained, as though able to read my mind.
How could I refuse; I put the mug to my lips.
She sat down by George and me, while we resumed our perusal of the photos:
“Look, there's my eldest son Hughie when he was a little boy; and here's my daughter with her two children. They live in New Zealand now.”
She pointed to a black and white print with evident pride. It showed a younger Queen Salote shaking hands with a pretty young woman, slender and graceful.
“This is me with our Queen ...” Now I could see the resemblance. I was impressed.
&n
bsp; The sandwiches were delicious, the cheese like none I had ever tasted before. The coconut juice was cool and refreshing, but with a harsh after-taste. By the time I had drunk it all, I realized that it was highly alcoholic. My lips began to feel numb, my limbs heavy; I had a strong urge to sleep. Once again, I was becoming anxious. Had I been deliberately drugged? Did they intend to keep me here? Were these people in a plot with the two burly islanders from the main square? Would they attempt to hold me here until the ship had sailed? Would I be stranded on Tonga for the rest of my days ... or worse?
“Are you alright, Sir? It does get rather warm at this time of day. Would you like another cup of juice, it's very refreshing ...”
“I must be getting back to the ship,” I muttered hoarsely, my mouth suddenly dry. “I don't want to miss it ...” I dragged myself to my feet, my pulse racing, my face flushed.
“Of course ... but there is plenty of time ...”
“Thank you so much for your hospitality, Mrs ... er ...” I realized I didn't even know her name, so I bowed vaguely in her direction.
After a chorus of goodbyes, I found myself in the back of the bicycle-rickshaw again travelling through a dark green lane.
George deposited me on the quayside, still smiling broadly; and gracefully accepted the five-pound note I pressed into his hand.
“It was my pleasure ...”
Hugely relieved, I made my way to the ship's launch.
Back on board the Koh-i-Noor, I lunched alone in the ward-room, before retiring to my cabin for a siesta. Thus I missed the King of Tonga, Taufaahau Tupou IV, who had come on board for lunch with the captain, and then toured the ship (including the hospital) while I slept.
I woke to a change in the ship's rhythm. It was tea-time, and we were leaving Tonga ...
During the night we crossed the INTERNATIONAL DATE LINE.
Wednesday, 10th August: It is 10th August again today!
The limitless aquamarine waters stretched to a smudged horizon. The day was warm, the sun shining from a cloudless sky. However, by the afternoon, the wind had blown up, and the water in the First Class swimming pool was pitching and heaving as I went for my solitary swim.
Death on the Koh-i-Noor (Edwin Scott Crime Trilogy Book 3) Page 11