by Mark Rice
To our left, two Bermudans sat reading aloud from the scriptures, each alternating with the other. They didn’t seem to allow any time for the words to sink in before the other reader read out his next prayer.
Back outside, a homeless man sat by the church gate, his life squeezed into his metal shopping trolley parked next to him. His untended beard and unwashed hair gave away his perilous existence on the edge of society, clinging on grimly. Where does he get the motivation to rise off the church bench and set off around this small city, in a never-ending, repetitive search for food and shelter? It surprises me that even in such a religious, beautiful and well-run island, some people can slip through the cracks.
We walked on further along Church Street and past yet more churches. We got directions and climbed the hill past the Seventh Day Adventist church and supermarket until we found a walkway leading up to Fort Hamilton, a fort started but never completed by the English army after the American civil war had ended. It’s suggested the fort which overlooks the bay, had cannon guns that fired one thousand yards out into the bay. However, the guns were made obsolete when ships developed breech guns that fired from three miles away.
We strolled along the harbour frontage a bit further but saw nothing we wanted to buy and so we caught the ferry back to our ship at Kings Wharf. It was a grand experience travelling past the hundreds of yachts rocking on their moorings and coming upon the Cunard’s Queen Victoria, a beautiful ship parked behind our own dear SS Azara.
We boarded and overheard that the Queen Victoria was departing soon so we strode to the top deck and to the bow of our ship. There we listened as the two ships exchanged loud, deep, vibrating farewells to each other, black smoke billowing out of their huge funnels. The Queen Victoria finally cast off its ropes and moved ever so quietly away from the dock, remaining parallel to the dock. It sort of drifted out in a controlled fashion under the watchful eye of Powerful, an old English rescue tug that stood by to lend assistance if some were needed.
Dinner was a lively table of good humour and chat. Then afterwards, the Electric girls, Sally and Emma, put on their second and final show in the Gaiety Theatre and with the ship’s orchestra backing them and they were fantastic. They did a tear-jerking version of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah and we sat and watched them with Anita and Brian, both tired from a day of walking. Anita missed the last half hour of the show, her head buried in her chest snoring loudly.
Day 11
Friday 13th January.
Docked in Bermuda.
We spent the night docked in Bermuda, but the air con and vibrations experienced when sailing are also present when you are in port, so it made no real difference.
I awoke early, as my body had still not adjusted to the time zone changes we’d experienced to date.
We ate a hearty breakfast and set off down the gangplank. We explored the dockland area immediately around the ship which has been developed as a yacht and retail therapy zone.
We visited a few of the expensive shops and then popped into the Glass Blowing Centre where we watched three men manufacturing a colourful glass fish which would be a table decoration. One stuck a long pole into the glowing yellow heated kiln and removed it minutes later with a glob of glass on the tip of the pole. The next man struck that glass with a hammer flattening it out and then with a set of pincers working and teasing the shape until it resembled a fish. Finally, he stuck the cooling glass on a red-hot piece of glass that would be a base for the object and the job was done.
We walked on and found a sandy beach in a water sports area behind the National Museum. Finally, we were able to remove our footwear and walk on the bleached white sand and into the cold water of the North Atlantic.
Just a quick dip satisfied the curiosity. The water was freezing!
We spent the rest of the time sitting on a large weathered grey tree trunk that had washed up on the beach and sat enjoying the sun and each other’s company. A nearby art gallery contained new works by contemporary local artists and you could purchase prints for as little as $20.
We found several premises offering free Wi-Fi and, along with many other passengers made contact with home.
Back on board, we ate lunch and sat by the pool. Departure was scheduled for 15:00 but had been delayed as a malfunction in the headcount system meant all staff and passengers had to be counted again. I wondered if this “malfunction” was cover for further investigations into the missing entertainments officer. If it was, nothing was to come of it.
For us, it was back to our cabin to be ticked off by our cabin steward and then to await further instructions.
Dinner that evening was uneventful with full attendance. Nothing worth repeating was said at the table and we all scurried off to the theatre where a Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons tribute show was presented by the Unknown Boys, four ex-Jesus Christ Superstar cast members from the West End. It was a fantastic show which also included some Broadway musical numbers. Again the stars of the show were outside meeting and greeting guests as they left.
We walked to the other end of the ship and enjoyed a night of Burt Bacharach music.
Day 12
Saturday 14th January.
Sailing towards Cape Canaveral.
We slept in a bit and awoke later than normal so it was a quick wash, shave and dress and up to the Palace restaurant for breakfast.
Afterwards we lingered about the tennis court until the net and equipment was installed by the crew member.
10:00. Beginner’s Bridge Class
It was a largely listening class with the playing of the same hand of cards by all tables. As 11:00 approached the intermediate class appeared just inside the door. But after a while they pressed forward, to line the side walls. Then they proceeded to stand behind our chairs. Their conversation volume level rose as the minutes passed and Brendan’s voice became lost in their mindless chatter.
It looks as if my work here is not yet done, I thought, glancing about the room. But do I really want to wipe out an entire class of pensioners? In fairness, not all are guilty but a sizable majority stood condemned. I looked for any ringleaders, loud chatterboxes who talked at the top of their voices while we still had, I glanced at my watch, two minutes and forty seconds of class time, left.
Margaret, reading my mind, followed my gaze and gave me a nudge in the ribs.
I scanned the intermediate class but failed to find the two women taken poorly by my poisoned cards. One, I can now guess, is dead. I’ve seen one of their husbands about the ship but, though I’m consumed with curiosity, I daren’t ask about their fate.
We had an early lunch and I attended the choir practice. Lorcan is still retaining all the songs that we have worked on and is even talking of adding another. The "Gorgeous!" count was a miserly one today but he did say he had listened to our last rehearsal, as he had recorded it and he had cried! We obviously had sung and moved him deeply. He's such a wuss!
While all the other travellers took lunch, we played more tennis and then settled for sunbathing, tucked in behind the huge funnel. That was until we met up with Anita and Brian for cards. It may be our last game as Margaret is totally browned off by Brian's sssshing of conversation when the chatter is made by others. However, he breaches the rule frequently himself and talks ten-to-the-dozen. He also tends to blame others when he loses. Margaret’s had enough of him. Either we take a break or we let the couple loose on each other by making them partners. Something’s gotta give.
Back in the cabin, it was time for preparation for the fourth of fourteen Black Tie formal dress evenings. The black suit and dickie bow tie are extracted from the wardrobe and Margaret picks a shimmering blue dress and slips on sparkly blue sling-backs.
Up in the Atrium, which has a wide multilevel swirling staircase as its centrepiece, we see no temporary portrait studio and further along no photographic staff at their desk. The reason for their absence becomes clear when we reach our dinner table. The postponed Atlas Club event with the shi
p’s officers was taking place before our dinner and the cameras were snapping away in the Pelican Lounge.
The table was in good form tonight and conversation buzzed on all sides. Roger had worked as a guide in the Greenwich Naval School and enjoyed leading tourists around the 17th century English ships in the dry dock. Sometimes, tourists would notice the full complement of ships cannons present but noted that there was an absence of cannon balls. "Where are the missing cannonballs?" they would ask. "You'll have to ask the French Navy," was Roger's tongue in cheek response.
We left the table and strolled to the theatre at the front of the ship and found it buzzing, full of finely dressed men and women fresh from dinner. Tonight we had a double bill and what fantastic singers they both were. Lesley Smythe, a slip of a girl from Manchester, sang in French, English and Italian with power and delicacy, songs from around the world. While James Young, an American with Broadway pedigree presented songs by Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Jesus Christ Superstar, Sunset Boulevard, Evita etc. Both brought the house down.
Later in a very full Hawks Inn, the Lorcan Bond Trio performed with Chris Whitewell, a saxophonist of remarkable quality and we headed for home.
Day 13
Sunday 15th January.
Still en-route to Cape Canaveral.
We rise and the gentle rhythm of the boat is reassuring and reinforces a feeling of safety and warmth. After a sensible breakfast, we took to the open deck and got in a good tennis session in the twenty-one degrees now warming the deck.
10:00. Beginners Bridge Class
Now that Brendan has distributed a copy of his famed Bridge Tips, hopefully, the basics will begin to stick in our brains. This morning saw us exposed to the Stayman convention and Jennifer played the hand brilliantly. Unfortunately, she had to leave the class early and this led to the unfortunate occurrence.
The always annoying intermediate class were even more irritating than usual with their babble of conversation exceeding previous decibel levels. One man came out from the crowd and sat in Jennifer’s seat with five minutes of our class to go. He continued chatting to his mates while we tried to play out the hand. The man seemed unaware of his rude behaviour. It’s amazing to me, that one can reach the age of seventy and still be unaware of some basic manners.
I stared hard at him and kept a steady gaze going until he looked me straight in the eye. He knew he was being critically observed. Usually, I would look away so as not to invite trouble, to avoid catching their eyes. But this time I sat there, matching his hostile gaze with one of my own.
“What is it, mate?” he said with exasperation and a hint of rising anger. He still apparently didn’t know what he had done wrong.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “our class is continuing and yours won’t start for a while, so will you please step away from the chair and let us finish the hand we are playing.”
For a moment I had visions of him jumping up and head butting me, but he didn’t. He considered my reasoned argument and after a second replied, “Go fuck yourself!” rather loudly.
The rest of the room now became aware of our disagreement. Whispered voices spoke behind cupped hands while we just sat and glared at each other. Margaret didn’t know where to look and sat frozen in her seat. The impasse was broken by Brendan, who spoke in a loud commanding voice “Right, that’s enough for today. I’ll see you all at the same time tomorrow.”
Brendan stepped forward to our table. “Luke, can you please collect and pass me the cards from each of the tables?”
I did as he asked, but all the while I knew a rather smug man sat a few feet away and watched me visit the other tables, in silence.
“Now, Luke,” said Margaret. “Don’t let it affect you. He’s a pig and you can’t expect manners from a pig, OK?”
I nodded in agreement but I was far from agreeing with her. That man was a worthy list occupant.
We had an early lunch and completed crosswords before we claimed ownership of the tennis court for over an hour. With no practice card games arranged for the afternoon, Margaret took to the sun loungers for a few hours. I wandered the lower decks as the ship cut its way through the endless waves of a deep blue sea. All I could see, in every direction, was sea. No land, no birds, not another ship, just sea.
Strolling along the promenade deck’s interior walkway I passed a classical music recital, a ballroom dance class, a lecture on the universe and a live football match, being shown on television in the bar.
Then I saw him. That intermediate bridge player, who took Jennifer’s seat earlier, was now in the bar. He sat alone with a pint of lager and a packet of crisps for company. His eyes focused on the large television screen on the wall to his left and he sat on a large couch. Sat wasn’t really the right word. He rather poured himself onto the couch than sat on it, his liquid obese body just oozing all over the leather surface and his legs stretched out over the carpeted floor. His arms lolled lifelessly by his side, except for the movement of his left wrist and hand, which seemed to be on autopilot, repeatedly reaching into a large bag delivering a handful of crisps to his gaping mouth. His eyes never shifted from the screen. He was obviously a staunch supporter of one of the sides.
I entered the bar from a door behind him and sat on a high stool where I had a good view of both him and the screen. I waved the barman away and took in my surroundings.
On the screen, Manchester United were playing away to Juventus and led 0 - 1 with twenty minutes gone. It meant he’d be sat there for the next eighty minutes so I had time to formulate a plan.
On cruises like this one, customers rarely have to go to the bar to buy a drink. With his glass almost empty a waiter approached him and he passed his card over and ordered another pint which was duly delivered.
I looked around the bar and found I was amongst an all-male clientele. About eight men were spread around the open bar, sat on high stools and couches, with tables and chairs in the open body of the room. With the sun blazing away outside, only the dedicated fan was inside watching this match.
I checked my pockets for anything useful to assist me with my quickly formed plan to dispatch this individual. The only thing I came up with was a small quantity of my talcum powder. Since coming on board, I had taken to carrying a small sachet of it in my wallet, for just such an occurrence as this. I guessed I had a couple of grams which ought to be enough to knock a dog sideways, but it would be unlikely to kill a large man. It should give him a few rough nights and days.
The question now was how to bring him in contact with the powder? I hadn’t the surgical gloves so I had to be careful that I didn’t also come into direct contact with the substance myself.
The match on screen was a lively affair and with half-time approaching Juventus manufactured a goal out of nothing. The room groaned as the replay revealed some very poor defending by United and an inspired long distance shot from thirty yards out by the Italian international, Gregato.
“Daly should have closed him down much earlier,” cried out one man.
“Typical of United, coasting along and missing chance after chance,” shouted another.
“Now Juve are back in it,” said yet another.
Five minutes later the referee blew the whistle for half-time. The teams left the pitch and the television channel cut to commercials.
In the bar, conversation broke out and our man rose from his seat. The effect of several pints of lager on any human being is to overload the urinary tract and this man was no exception. I watched him as he trundled out of the bar and into the toilet nearby.
I saw my chance. Most of the men had headed to the bar or the bathroom and the area beside my target’s seat was empty. I walked over and stood at an angle, using my body to shield the table should anyone glance around. I quickly drew out and opened my sachet. Carefully, I sprinkled his bag of crisps with the powder and then shook the bag, dispersing the powder granules across all the bag contents. I replaced the bag on the table as I foun
d it.
A quick check inside the bag revealed no obvious signs of white powder. It had mixed in with the salt, pepper and broken crisps. Without looking back I strode onwards and left via the sea door, out onto the deck.
“Fuck you, dick head,” I said under my breath.
Swiftly putting some distance between myself and the bar, I was soon back beside a dozing Margaret.
She lay stretched out on the sun lounger, one of more than a dozen neatly spaced along this part of the deck. Her skin glittered with the copious amounts of factor five she had applied, and her flowery swimsuit followed the smooth form of her petite body. Her straw hat threw shade not only on her face but on the book which she had been reading, The Final Hour by Tom Wood.
I reached over and removed the book without waking her. She’d only read the first two chapters of this thriller, so I guessed she’d only opened it in the last half hour. Margaret is a speed reader and page turner and would have this book devoured by the end of the day. I read the storyline on the back of the book and it followed the usual format of an agent tracking a vicious murderer for a number of years. The killer would be a nameless hit-man responsible for numerous homicides. Not very realistic I thought but keeps Tom’s head above water.
She stirred and became aware of my presence. Her blue eyes opened and focused on me. “What time is it?”
I glanced at my watch. “Just 15:30.”
“Gosh I’ve only been asleep for half an hour. I feel as if I have been here for hours!” She sat up and reached down to slip on her sandals. “C’mon it’s coffee time!”