Even though I have shared a house with my parents in the past– mainly in their home in Sussex – being confined to a small apartment is a little too close for comfort. The constant loo flushing is a bit of a revelation too. I hope my father isn’t developing prostate cancer. I sit on the bed, next to Michael, and make sure that he’s wearing his pyjamas and has brushed his teeth. It’s like being with an oversized child. I check the door to see if there’s a lock. There isn’t. Michael doesn’t stir. He is thinking. This can only mean one thing: a series of questions to which I won’t have all the answers. Why am I here? Have I been here before? You need to give me time to adjust. I haven’t lived up north for years. Is this our new house? The questions are endless. I do my best to answer them quietly and methodically until he is satisfied that I am telling the truth. I open up the white linen sheets and encourage Michael to get in between them. His legs hang over the end of the bed; I know he will struggle to fall sleep like this. I pop back out to the sitting room to inspect the sofa; it’s quite long and bends round into a U shape. He might be more comfortable on that. Michael is offended and refuses to budge. You’re just trying to get rid of me. You can take the sofa. He is unnecessarily aggressive. So much for our Roman Holiday. I already want to go home. I remind myself that it’s the dementia talking. The man I have loved for so many years isn’t really here anymore; he’s the imposter now and I am not sure how much longer I can last in this relationship. I feel as though I am imprisoned by love. I’m the one who needs time to adjust, not him.
It’s about 5 am by the time I have realised that sleep and I are not going to be good bedfellows. I wander into the sitting room and gaze out of the window at the illuminated Colosseum; it’s a beautiful sight. We are lucky to be here. I feel light-headed, thirsty and tired. The whole journey was fraught with tension and incident. I’m pleased my parents were spared the embarrassment that travelling with my husband now entails. I sit down at the glass table and read through my mother’s itinerary for the day; it looks exhausting and I am already anxious at the prospect of making sure that Michael doesn’t wander off. It’s supposed to be a holiday, not the Duke of Edinburgh Award. I make myself a cup of tea; it tastes odd. The water is too soft. I flick through my father’s guidebook and try to take in the advice meted out in it. A gentle hand is placed on my shoulder; it’s my mother’s. She can’t sleep either. We sit on the sofa together, arms around each other. I know it’s difficult, darling. If it’s all too much today, do your own thing. We want everyone to be happy, especially you. I give way to her kindness and descend into tears. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. This is my life. I am reassured that it won’t last forever; that Michael’s decline is rapid. I must be brave, for the children. I know that she is right. I allow my mother to take over.
Chapter 37
The Cruise
We board the ship via a long gangway which zigzags its way towards the legal polluting monstrosity that sits on the dark blue water at Port Civitavecchia. Michael has insisted on carrying our case, as opposed to dragging it along on its wheels, but my father claims that it’s good for him to get some exercise. I cannot argue with that. Henry pulls my parents’ case along with some effort; he couldn’t lift if even if he wanted to. My mother has packed an outfit for each day with shoes and accessories to match. I’m depending on her to lend me a bit of everything as I always pack too little.
The ship is only half full. The recent outbreak of the Coronavirus – particularly passengers being imprisoned in their cabins for fourteen days – has culminated in many people cancelling their holidays. We soldier on, as if we are oblivious to the risks. But the thought of being confined to a cabin measuring two to three hundred square feet fills me with horror. Part of me wants to disembark already.
Initially, we are told to congregate at our fire stations. Ours is H and it’s in a place called the Carousel Lounge. We are packed into this place like sardines in a tin. Some of the elderly passengers are wearing white face masks. There are very few seats available. I notice a group of young people taking up most of a sofa. I give them one of my institutional stares, shaming them into rendering their seats up for my parents. I insist they accept. I realise I am being bossy again. Our drill is led by a young man called Tommy. He’s a total drama queen and creates a theatrical performance out of the most humdrum of experiences. I admire him for that. We chat a little and I establish that he was a pupil at Arts Educational in Chiswick; this doesn’t surprise me. He’s one of the actors/dancers on the ship. We say we’re looking forward to seeing him in his “spectacular” show though in reality we are unlikely to see it. My parents detest musical theatre. I am not allowed to: I’m a teacher, after all. I have VIP seats at every show whether I want these or not.
Once the drill is over, we are informed that our cabins are ready. We are on Deck 7 and our three cabins are all next to each other: 701, 703 and 705. We walk down the stairs from Level 10 to Level 7. There’s a sign indicating which way the cabin numbers work though each corridor looks like the other. Even the doors are the same colour except for the one near the stairs; that’s blue. It’s not a lavatory, as in the care homes that I saw earlier in the year. It’s just a blue door. It says “staff only”. My father leads the way, striding down the corridor. He spies his case outside one of the doors and greets it like an old friend. I suspect he was worried about the shopping trips that my mother would insist on, should the damn thing not arrive in time for the ship’s disembarkation. I take out the blue and white credit card which is labelled with the ship’s name and it press it against the censor on the door. The red instantly flashes into green. We’re in.
The cabin is very well designed. The bed is a surprisingly good size and it has lovely little bedside cabinets on each side in addition to a love-seat sofa, a vanity desk, a hairdryer, clever space saving cupboards and an en suite shower and lavatory. The storage space is remarkably good. I am quite excited. Our stateroom also has a balcony which overlooks the lifeboats though we can also see the sea. I am not complaining. I go straight onto the balcony and stand at the railings looking out onto the busy port. My parents are one step behind me, sliding their door open too. We can all see each other’s balconies, with just a little stretch of our necks. I find it quite comforting though I tell myself that privacy will be somewhat restricted unless we keep the sliding doors closed.
The ship disembarks at 6 pm. We have had plenty of time to unpack; or rather, I have. I have left Michael on the balcony where he can relax. I slip quietly out of the room, putting the lock onto the latch, and walk into Eddie and Olivia’s room. I want to check that they have settled in. Theirs is a carbon copy of ours except that, much to my relief, they have two single beds. It’s a bit cosy but I know that they will respect each other’s privacy when required. They have an understanding that only twins can have. We chat about how we’re going to keep their grandparents happy whilst also not compromising too much on our own holiday. I stress the importance of timekeeping as ships have been known to depart without all their passengers. Lateness isn’t tolerated. I can hear myself again: dishing out instructions. I make a silent promise to myself to stop. I wonder whether Michael’s control over me facilitates my control over others. It’s not Wuthering Heights. Michael isn’t Heathcliff and I’m not Cathy. I am hopeful that this holiday will be a panacea for all our trials and tribulations.
I return to our cabin and join Michael on the balcony. I pour us a glass of sparkling water from the complimentary bottle on our vanity unit. We drink a toast to our future even though I know that he doesn’t have one. He looks quite handsome in his blue polo tee shirt and his white chinos. I wonder how long it will take for this illusion of a husband to make his dementia known to the other passengers. My thoughts are interrupted by a friendly knock on the door; it’s our maid, Lally, who is looking after our corridor for the duration of the holiday. She’s about forty; from the Philippines; is married with two young ch
ildren and is desperate to save up enough money for her future. I don’t enquire further. I invite her into the cabin and admire her handiwork. She has sculpted an elephant out of the white towel. It’s in the room, so to speak. Funny. She says nothing is too much trouble for her. She is here to serve. I want her to enjoy serving us – if that makes her happy – but I regret to inform her that my husband has a mental illness. I’ve said it. She is disappointed in me; it’s as if my disloyalty reflects gravely on my character. I don’t doubt it but I say it to protect her, not because I am callous or mean. I am being practical.
In the evening, we meet at the bar on Level 10 as there’s a live band with a rather good singer. My parents are dancing along with two other couples. They’re at least ten years younger than the others. They’re all very light on their feet. They’re a different generation; the ones that learned to dance as opposed to jiggle around to the beat. Michael and I sit down at a little table as if we’re on the set for Cabaret. A few moments later, Eddie and Olivia join us. They both look lovely. I remark on their efforts and they blush simultaneously. Olivia tells her father to take me onto the dancefloor. No, I say. I think we’re about to go into dinner. I love to dance but I don’t want to make a spectacle of myself, especially on the first night of the cruise. She is most insistent, dragging her father up by the wrist until he gives way to her prettiness and pleading. Why don’t you dance with your father? I say it with a teasing smile but she joins our hands together and leaves us to it. The dancefloor has too much space. I feel exposed. Michael can’t dance. He’s jerky and lopsided. He never was much good anyway but now he is worse. I pull him closer to me, so that my face rests against his blue shirt, and just let him hold me close. He embraces me tightly and says he won’t let me go. We dance to our own tune and it’s all right. I wish this moment of happiness could last us my lifetime.
During dinner, we manage to keep a conversation going. My parents are adept at this, regaling us with information about each of the five stops; the currencies in each country; whether we need our passports and so forth. They assume their positions as the patriarch and the matriarch of our family; I’m more than happy for them to do this. It is too exhausting being in control all the time. We eat well though we eat too much. There are endless courses which arrive at very short intervals. We drink excessively, taking full advantage of the drinks package that my parents have generously bought us. I can see that Olivia is definitely tipsy, as am I, so I encourage Eddie to escort his sister back to the cabin. They can go to the 18 to 30 disco another night. My parents agree. No one dares to disobey them.
Michael and I saunter down the confusing set of corridors until we find our cabin. He has absolutely no idea where we are. Lally is prowling around, having turned down our sheets and left us little wrapped chocolates on the bed. I ask her if she can put something distinctive on our door, so that it’s easier for us to recognise. She says she will think of something and I thank her. I lock the door from the inside. Anyone could think our cabin was theirs though I am sure we are secure in ours. Michael starts stripping off his clothes, leaving them strewn on the tiny space of carpet that is in front of the bedside table. His little area is a mess. I tell him that it’s not Lally’s job to pick up after him; not like that, anyway. He’s not Prince Charles. I don’t know why I bother. He doesn’t know who I am talking about and in the end, I have to tidy up after him anyway. It saddens me to see him this way. Michael was always so considerate. Unspoilt. Fun. He was always a bit northern and sometimes defensive with it, accusing us southerners of being posh and spoilt. But we were equals in our marriage: husband and wife. Not man and servant. I capitulate, eventually, and take pity on the man, even though I’m a little unsteady on my feet. I vow to abstain from alcohol tomorrow. I leave Michael sitting on the little sofa, pretending to read the information sheet, and take a shower, knowing that he is safe in our cabin.
Afterwards, I stand on the balcony. It is lovely to be able to see the stars and planets in the sky. I don’t know which is which. Michael used to know; I miss his intellect. There is no light pollution here, other than the tiny little lights emanating from the orange lifeboats several decks beneath us. My father is sitting on the balcony, sipping a whiskey. We heard your shenanigans, he says. I apologise and stretch my hand over the divider between our balconies so that he can share his drink with me. So much for my abstention.
I stay out there for about an hour, staring up at the full moon; its reflection glows brightly on the inky water. I press my face against the sliding door, hoping that Michael will be asleep. I can’t see him in the cabin. I suddenly feel anxious and have to suppress the anxiety attack that is about to force itself on me. I check the shower/loo – he’s not there either. I look under the bed, where we have stashed the case, and I check inside the cupboards. I know it’s daft but I half expect him to jump out at me like Cato in Inspector Clouseau. I am disappointed that he doesn’t. I return to the balcony to see if my father is still there but he isn’t. My parents’ cabin light is off and the curtains are closed. I look on the other side. There’s no sign of life from Eddie and Olivia’s cabin either. It must be later than I thought.
I am not sure what to do. I know that one of the symptoms of dementia is restlessness. Michael might be suffering from cabin fever. He can’t have gone very far. In my panic, I exit the room in my nightshirt and bare feet. I am definitely not dreaming this time. I run down the corridor, calling for Michael. No one responds. I run up the stairs, back to the bar. Very few people are still there. A waiter, wearing a wine-red waistcoat, approaches me with his little round silver tray. I don’t want a drink. I want my husband. I describe him down to the last detail but realise that he’s not wearing the clothes that he was in earlier. He may be wearing pyjamas. Like you, says the waiter. I explain that it’s an emergency. The waiter advises me to liaise with the staff on duty at the Customer Services desk; it’s on Level 3.
There’s only one Night Manager on duty. He’s called Juan and is from South America. The only British people are the passengers. Amazingly, the cabin staff are from all over the world. They all speak a different version of English. Juan is helpful and sympathetic but he isn’t unduly worried about Michael’s disappearance. It’s a common phenomenon on cruise ships, especially at the beginning of the week. Passengers drink too much; they get lost and disorientated; it’s completely normal. He can’t use the tannoy as it’s 2.30 am but he will circulate an urgent memorandum to all the crew. He tells me to wait at one of the tables at the far end of the circular lounge opposite the help desk. I sit down on my own. I have left my mobile charging in the room and only have the key-card with me. I wonder if I should wake up the twins or my parents. I can’t work out whether they would want me to or not. None of us will be much good to Michael if we all lose a night’s sleep. I suppose I am getting used to sleep deprivation.
Juan is on the desk phone, rabbiting away in Spanish. I can only make out the odd word but I hear him say Michael’s name. The call is evidently about my lost husband. I am restless. There’s too much adrenalin flowing through my arteries. Eventually, Juan gestures me to come back to him. Michael has been found. I follow him and the other member of staff down towards the life boats. Michael is leaning against one of them, dressed in his blue stripy pyjamas. There is an empty beer bottle next to him. Fortunately, Michael is asleep. Juan and Jamie, the other man, drag my husband onto the deck where they prop him up between their shoulders. It’s a mild night but they’re keen to bring him indoors. Michael is significantly taller and broader than both of his rescuers; they struggle to support his weight. I offer to help but they say they can manage. We enter the lift and I push the number 7 for our floor. It takes a moment for me to re-orientate myself; after all, we haven’t even been on the ship for twenty-four hours. Juan and Jamie drag Michael’s lank body all the way to our cabin. Lally has stuck red and blue balloons down on each side of our door; it is no one’s birthday but it will certainly be eas
ier to find our cabin now. The two members of staff are totally out of breath. I apologise profusely and offer them twenty euros each. After a little hesitation, they accept. I assure them that this gesture will be our little secret.
I roll Michael into the bed, making sure that he’s in the recovery position. I kiss him gently on the lips, savouring his scent. I still love him. I enter the bed from the other side, pulling the sheets right up to my neck. My eyes well up and the tears fall down, saturating the pillow. The ship moves swiftly and silently through the black water onto its first destination: the port of Messina.
We dock at 8 am and are encouraged to start disembarking shortly after that. We have been given a newsletter sheet which includes essential information about returning to the ship on time, local taxis, excursions to Taormina and other general facts including the weather. It will be a maximum of 22 degrees and sunny: perfect for sightseeing. We meet for breakfast – which is a buffet in the main dining room – and discuss our day ahead. My father accompanies Michael to each of the food stations until he has everything that he wants. He chooses an unusual combination but he’s not alone in this; most of the passengers on the ship are desperate to get their money’s worth. I bring a tray of coffee and tea over to our table. All is well. My parents suggest that we all take a daytrip to Taormina as there’s not much to do in Messina, given half of it was rebuilt after the earthquake. We disembark from the ship and are immediately accosted by the many travel reps who have sold “tours” to our chosen destination; the thought of spending 90% of our time sitting on a coach whilst the same information is said in four different languages is our idea of pure hell. Instead, we flag down a taxi driver whose mini bus can accommodate us. We agree a price and hire Giovanni for the whole day.
Imprisoned by Love Page 26