S.O.S. (39 page)

‘See …' rambled on the rambler – making to wipe at wildly his wet and uncontrollable mouth, and missing by a long chalk – ‘a writer's life must be very … all right. I'd do it myself, only I had the time. I'm in
paper
, Sammy – paper, me. Wholesale side. Not a bad living. I'm not saying it's a bad living. But your name on a book – that'd be something, wouldn't it? Hey? Sammy? That'd … wouldn't it? Be something.'

‘Get you ladies anything?' enquired Sammy, braving it out in the face of their concerted and very determined approach.

‘Dwight,' said Charlene. ‘Shift your butt. We're outta here. You been eating those macadamias?'

Dwight nearly stirred.

‘Charlene. Macadamias I ain't had.'

‘Come on, David,' sighed Nicole. ‘
Can
you walk? Just lean here. Pat. You'll be fine. Do you want an Alka-Seltzer, or something?'

‘Trouble
is
,' broke in the man of paper. ‘Trouble
is
 – if you're a
writer
, let's face it – well, you've got to
write
, haven't you? Stands to reason …'

‘
So
,' put in Sammy, quite doggedly. ‘Nothing I can get you?'

‘Which
is
,' crashed on the relentless and jackknifed derailment of his train of something less than thought, ‘ … whichever way you look at it … a hell of a fucking stumbling block, isn't it? Fundamentally.'

Nicole, now, was at first squeezing, then maybe slightly pulling at, and very soon quite viciously jerking back on David's shoulder (Jesus Jesus – when he gets like this it's like, Christ, he's been cemented down. He just won't move – I'm not even sure he is aware of what I am doing to him, and it can only now be just this side of a dislocation).

‘Yeh yeh,' said David darkly. ‘Yeh yeh yeh …'

And Nicole's concentration upon her immutable husband – this awful thing in hand – was momentarily distracted by the sort of deep and underlying but still very horribly audible sound that you really never wish to hear hissingly rumble from somewhere profound and unthinkable within the rebellious organs and cavities of another.

‘Oh God, Pat …' she stuttered with caution. ‘You look just
awful
… here, sit here. Barman – have you got maybe an Alka-Seltzer or something, yes?'

Like hippos at the bogside, Dwight and David had begun to lazily stir, just about detectably (and the raised up eyebrows, downturned mouths and rueful glances were just between themselves).

‘Here, Patty – here,' said Charlene – moving around the nearly dissolved and gushing tablets with a briskly swishing finger. ‘You just get yourself around this baby, and you'll be fine, girl.'

‘I'm OK …' Pat barely croaked out – which put the fear of God into just everyone who heard it, and none more so than Sammy. Dwight was standing – legs well apart – and
Charlene was dabbing at the corners of his mouth with the folded-in edges of a hastily licked-at handkerchief. David too was turning, now, and as he did so, he tried his best to focus. And then he focused. And then much to her own astonishment, Pat was just at that second convulsed by a huge and unstoppable assertion of no less than the whole of all her insides, and the instant eruption was not just gutturally raucous and very dreadfully copious, but of truly spectacular duration. David stared down at his obliterated shoes and well-speckled trousers. And then he looked back at the woman in front of his wide and then closed-down eyes with a gaping disbelief. Sammy (oh
God
, oh
God
 – will this bloody day never
end
…?) and Nicole were fussing about with bar towels and cloths and rolls of paper, and neither was liking it a bit.

‘This is, I know,' sighed Nicole, ‘hardly the moment for
introductions
… but David – this is
Pat
…'

‘Here, Patty,' clucked Charlene. ‘Sip at this water, OK?'

‘Or,' amended Nicole, ‘Patty. Which is it. Pat? Pat or Patty? Are you feeling a little bit better? Yes? Little bit?'

‘
Yes
…' agreed the newly rosy and bright-eyed Pat or Patty. ‘I suddenly feel remarkably
OK
. As to my name – oh God, I'm so sorry, everyone. Awfully sorry! As to my name, Nicole …' And now she met David's blank and fearful eyes head on ‘ … well actually, most people call me
Trish
…'

Because
yes
, Nicole, she was wickedly thinking: I do have a husband of my own, you see – and he is, as I said, exactly the same. The only real problem here is that he happens to be – technically speaking – yours as well, at the moment, you bloody
wife
. But not, maybe now, for too much longer.

 

I'm pretty sure that Tom, thought Marianne, is the sort of person who'll be terribly punctual, so nine a.m. on the Boat Deck means, I should think, exactly that: no more and no less. Which is fine – I've got a couple of minutes in hand and I'm just about, what – half a corridor away? Not much more. And from what I can see of the weather, it looks like it's going to be another glorious day. I don't know what the Captain was going on about the other night – maybe he
was
joking, do you think? I mean, surely their … whatever they have – I don't know, instruments, computers, however it's done: they can't say Uh-oh – storm brewing, no question, and then it just
doesn't
… can they? So maybe it was just some sort of rather heavy-handed and not very witty
joke
; well if it was, he certainly got a lot of people wholly needlessly worried – which isn't really, is it, quite what a Captain should be
for
.

My God. Look at this! Wonders will never … no … no – it can't be, can it? Not at nine o'clock in the morning? Can't be. But – God – it
is
, you know, it jolly well is. God Almighty – can't believe it.

‘Dad! Hey, Dad! Where are you rushing off to? How amazing to see you up so early.'

David whirled round to face whatever new and fearful thing
this
could be now, and managed to leap into the air as he did it – this the reaction to some grossly invasive though as yet unspecified terror that already was done with softening him up, and now was earnestly working him over.

‘Hm?
Hm
? Oh,
Marianne
 – hello, hello. Yes. Hello.'

‘What
is
it, Daddy? You look
awful
. Couldn't you sleep?'

‘Hm?
Hm
? Sleep? Don't know. Haven't tried. I've just, uh –
well yes, you see – I'm not so much up
early
as, um – still up from yesterday, if you see what I mean.'

Marianne nodded, quite sadly. ‘Yes, Dad. I see.'

‘Well you probably
don't
, actually – it's not, well … it's not the
usual
, if that's what you mean. It's just that I've had one or two, um –
surprises
, really … yes …'

‘You haven't shaved. You sure you're OK?'

‘Yes, I am. Of course. And no, you're right – I haven't.'

No. Haven't shaved. Went down to the cabin to
change
, very rapidly – and it's a, Jesus! Small old world, isn't it, really? I mean – did I for one minute imagine I'd wind up the evening not just sipping with Dwight but coated pretty much from head to toe in my mistress's vomit? That is my mistress
Trish
, you see – who is actually back in London, isn't she? Because I never ever take her
anywhere
, do I? So it can't, can it, have really been her? Can it? Well yes it
can
, actually – yes indeed: it was, oh yes – no mistake. Which means, then (doesn't it?), that she isn't, is she, as we speak back, in fact, in London? Yes yes – these are, it would seem (and not just on the surface) very much the facts of the matter. Trish is in fact a happy little tripper on the
Transylvania
, along with me and my children and of course my bloody
wife
 – and on board too is a rather lovely young American girl who I just must find a moment for when I've sorted through these little local difficulties because she
craves
, do you see, to be
cherished
. OK? Good. I'm glad we've got all that in order. Oh my God. Oh my
God
. I think I'll lose my
mind
…

And shaving? No – didn't linger for that, because Nicole, you see (still unaware of this latest little time bomb, far as I can tell – certainly she hasn't
knifed
me yet), would have started up with her eternal commentaries interlarded with a more general and all-encompassing salvo of denigration, spiked by ridicule – and so what I had to do was peel off all these very deeply offensive and now quite crusty and gag-making clothes (and dump them where, exactly? Well –
Nicole can see to that) and then have a very rapid shower and then I'll just slip on this polo shirt, yes – this one will do – and these grey trousers, excellent, excellent, and deck shoes, yes fine, and now I'll just ram all my stuff into a jacket, jacket, jacket – um, this jacket, yes, and –
what
? What did you say, Nicole?
Not
this jacket? Why, in fact, not this jacket, actually, Nicole? Oh I see. I see – yes. Yes I
had
failed to pick up on that point – you are perfectly correct. It is quite the wrong shade of blue for the trousers – yes, of
course
, I quite see that now, how very remiss of me: it's almost as if I've got other things on my
mind
, isn't it? Oh my
God
. Oh my
God
. What? What are you saying to me now, Nicole? The grey? The mid-grey tweed with the heathery flecks? No – didn't bring that one along with me, actually. Why? Why didn't I? Well no reason, really (well
one
reason, actually – I
sold
it, didn't I? To person or persons unknown one loud and tanked-up hubbubby night in a hot and fetid
pub
just only a very few days ago, since you ask, my sweetness – but still years and years and years before I boarded this ship and found myself on Planet
Lunatic
, of course).

‘Well look, Dad – I've got to go. Seeing someone, OK? Bit late.'

David nodded quite wildly at that and was off and away, just vaguely trailing a hand in farewell. He nearly bustled and was rather peculiarly crouched – stooped over, it looked like to Marianne: as if he was either intent upon snuffling out and hauling to the light some deeply hidden thing, or else maybe ducking detection, and hell-bent on his lair. Well. That was Dad: she'd seen him weird before. Not maybe this particular
variety
of weird, it was true, but then he was rather
known
, wasn't he – poor old Daddy – for not just the breadth and scope and abundant colour that his full and ample repertoire of weirdnesses afforded, but also the subtleties of nuance that blurred the fringes bordering on each of the incarnations, all of them gloriously combining to make up the whole of the selection on offer.

And no – I wasn't wrong about Tom: as soon as I heaved open this great big heavy door, I saw him at the far end of the deck, full-length on a lounger and intent upon the sea –
swaddled
, he practically seemed, in what appeared to be far more than just the one coat and hat and scarf, but presumably that's all there was. The air – the almost maddening rush of air has stung me and I love it! You really have to hunch yourself over (bit like Dad) to have any real hope of making some headway.

‘Tom. Hello. Sorry – bit late. God, what a fabulous morning …'

And no – Marianne saw it immediately, now: she
had
, in a sense, been wrong about Tom. He wasn't just punctual: he had been here for very possibly hours. He shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand as he raised them up to meet her – a gesture that was almost a salute, thought Marianne suddenly – and she laughingly sprang to attention and clicked her heels.

‘
Duce
…' she said.

‘Alas …' was the whole of Tom's rejoinder. And then, as she stood there, he came up with this: ‘Here – sit. Sit with me. I have something to tell you. Something I think you should know.'

So Marianne stretched herself out on the lounger alongside (well – she had been going to do that anyway) and of course was intrigued by what Tom had just murmured (and, she somehow thought, had been rehearsing and honing and paring right down since maybe dawn, who knew? And why did she actually think that?). But as well as merely a raw and justifiable curiosity, there pawed around her consciousness a need, she supposed, to be
admitted
to Tom – quite why this should be and to what end such a state might lead her, she honestly could not have told you – but it was a tolerant need that she had kept in check and certainly never allowed to blossom into anything like a hunger, because she had not once, ever, thought it might be even
appeased, let alone fed. Her eagerness to hear him out, however, was tempered by the merest squeak of fear; if what he said came close to touching her, then there would be established between them a bond – and one whose potential had surely by now been frequently and loudly touting the shadow of its presence, but had not to date revealed a chance of being forged.

This new and protracted silence, then, was vexing, now – very.

‘Well … Tom? What is it? Hm?'

Tom glanced at her and nodded, as if to say Yes, he knew it was his cue, and thank you for the prompt, but wait – just wait, can you, for only a very few seconds longer – and then I'll let you (if you want it) have it, yes, with pleasure.

The sun was at their backs, but still the light was blinding; Marianne put on her mid-blue tinted sunglasses, and settled down to wait. With Tom, it's what you did. The sea and sky are a seamless royal and dazzling blue – the dancing spatters of gleaming, like millions upon millions of little silver fish, all swimming in formation and taking it in turns to leap up for attention, before diving back down to resume their rightful place in the vast and sparkling eternal scheme of things.