S.O.S. (24 page)

‘Do you think,' the woman went on – her voice made slow by the bending of the wind, and also maybe by the weight of thought that was backing it up, ‘that the water – the water in the swimming pool, yes? Do you think it's
fresh
water, could it be? Or sea water? What do you think?'

Marianne glanced at the pale blue pool, its surface fluttered into fillets.

‘I, uh – I don't know. I hadn't really, er –
thought
…'

The woman nodded with emphasis, as if to state Well I
have
.

‘
Sea
, fairly sure. Yes – it
must
be sea water, if you look at it closely. Can't you see? All the
waves
…?'

Marianne stared at the ground, and nodded. Then she made a sort of pointing yet twitchy and frankly farewell movement with all of the fingers on one of her hands (the message being loosely that she was in fact, you see, an agent working undercover for the British Secret Service and if my tail sees me talking to you then the entire operation will be blown asunder and both our lives could well be at grave risk and I have only just now glimpsed M over there, lurking by the quoits, so you will understand if I just slide away?).

Marianne was relieved, now, to be quite alone again and standing at the rearmost point of the liner – actually holding on to the jutting-out flag pole (why no flag? Huh? Tell me that. Should be a Union Jack there, shouldn't there? So why not? Why isn't there? Huh?). But just look at this. Look at those massive and churned-up vees of foam we're leaving behind in our wake. What I'm doing now is, I'm focusing on one just-formed white and chopped-up eddy, and I'm keeping my eyes on that little one and that one only … and God, in just the space of eight, nine, ten … twelve seconds, now, and it's practically hitting the horizon.

I think, you know, that if anyone ever went over the side … then one of those lifebelts would be just too little, three miles late.

*

And scattered across the sun-dappled baize of this taller than usual and big square table were what appeared to be just thousands of bits of jigsaw. Marianne plucked up a few, quite idly – most of the perimeter was already done – and with just one interesting reddish and white piece carefully pinioned between her thumb and forefinger, her hand hovered vaguely in circles through the air, sometimes shifting more angularly like an arbitrary gearstick, maybe trusting to magnetics to haul this thing down and let it just click with no small satisfaction into quite the right spot. (Hopeless at jigsaws, always was – even when I used to pick out all the straight-sided bits, I could never seem to fit them together). And the process wasn't helped by her having to whip off her glasses at the approach of just anyone (hadn't been back to the cabin, not yet, to deal with all the contact stuff), this new blindness rendering the whole scene before her yet again as no more than a small and fuzzy lawn – and don't, please, get her on to all the old house thing again – now romantically marred by a frittering of leaves.

‘Why,' she had asked of a trim and eager steward, just a few moments earlier, ‘is this jigsaw here, actually?'

And, she might have added, so oddly positioned – sort of half into a broad corridor, and hard by the smoking section of the I think it's called Piano Bar.

‘Bit of a tradition,' smiled the steward.

Ah yes, thought Marianne – everything, just everything on board surely seems to be that: I'm not convinced that anyone in authority – and certainly not the regulars – could actually cope with anything occurring for the very first time.

‘There's a sort of challenge,' the steward went on (he had
offered her tea – drop of coffee, maybe? – and although Marianne had politely declined, he still seemed to have all the time in the world for her), ‘to – you know – get it finished off by the time we dock in New York. There are no prizes, or anything. People just fit in the odd piece as they're passing, like.'

Marianne nodded at length her complete understanding (one feels, I don't know – in some way compelled to point up, magnify, practically illuminate one's every remark and gesture) while doubting that that really was the way it went. From what she'd observed even during the short time she'd been loitering there – waiting for what, exactly? Dad and Mum and Rollo to one by one emerge and show their faces? Not really: but something, I'm waiting for something, feels like – it had been plain to her that practically everyone passing gave this table not even a glance. They had in mind a nice set of chairs clustered around maybe one of those little round tables, there (not in the glare of the sun, but not too far out of it either), and possibly an early morning little snack – would that be nice? To round off breakfast with, before they could idly contemplate just maybe a spot of elevenses, during which their minds and conversation could stray in the direction of lunch. But the few who
did
stop: oh my God – those two Japanese, there, and that extraordinarily large and blond and I think rather cruel-looking man (his face is set – so terribly serious) – their eyes were darting from piece to perimeter to box and back again, and occasionally a triumphant hand would swoop down from on high like a hawk in silence – and as the piece snapped unerringly home, there spread slowly across the face of the huge and unforgiving blond man a sneer of repletion, as if he had once and for all settled the hash of his implacable enemy; the Japanese would whoop briefly like seven-year-olds having been newly awarded an extra half-holiday, before all masks were resumed and the game in earnest began again.

The puzzle depicted – and Marianne could only note this and wonder – an Alpine scene: snow-capped mountains and plunging valleys, hugging into warm-lit coves, clusters of picturesque chalets that reminded Marianne of a musical box she had had so very briefly, oh just years ago (the fruit, as it happens, of yet another bumper conker-swapping jag, though this thing too, which played – don't ask – Come Back to Sorrento, soon – at the say-so of Nicole – went the way of the Parker propelling pencil). Marianne hadn't really minded, though – it was her royal blue velveteen jewel box she had loved, with the little pirouetty ballerina, all her prettiness and outstretched grace mirrored and twinkling as she slowly and only just a bit jerkily revolved in not quite time to some weird and plinky noise, which every single time had tenderly wrapped up Marianne in successive layers of softness, and delivered her somewhere safe and elsewhere (a place she badly needed to be).

Had enough of this. Maybe I'll go and chuck a bucket of water over that horrible brother of mine: even if it doesn't wake him up, it'd be quite fun to do. Oh … oh look who it is! Oh no – isn't him, is it? Maybe just sneak on my glasses (no one seems to be looking). Yup – is him. Why's he just hanging around like that? He's a very dark horse, this Tom, I think – much more interesting than he seems, and so so
sad
. I can probably understand why people might just dismiss him as some sort of a nutter (well
I
did, didn't I? At first I did, before we'd properly spoken) but I really think that sort of thing happens far too much, nowadays. Everything – everyone's judged on
appearances
: if I can't
relate
 – if you're not wearing the right
labels
 – then as far as I'm concerned you're either invisible or some old lunatic: either way of no concern.
That's
the attitude today. And it's wrong, I think: very.

There's a woman, leaning against the window and staring out to sea. Tom is behind her, just a couple of feet away, hardly more, and he's looking – what? Hesitant? Yes – I
would say hesitant (but he always does, Tom, doesn't he? Look that). Still he's just standing there, one finger to his lips. But now he seems to have come to a decision – he's making his move.

The next thing came swiftly – and Marianne maybe was as shocked as the woman. Tom had approached her in silence (but not like a hawk) and in one fluid movement he inclined his head downwards and closing his eyes he buried most of his face quite deep into this (who is she?) woman's rather thick and sunlit tawny hair, as his hand closed in fast and was firmly massaging her tightly-trousered bottom. Marianne both felt and heard the woman's gasp as she spun around to meet this, her eyes and mouth struck open and held in not just bad surprise but also big enquiry, while a darkening flush fled up from her neck and was mottling her cheeks (a kind of mauve). From Tom, though, all trace of blood or even muscle had instantly dissolved: he seemed stricken by a pain, stuck with jagged confusion, and already his jaws were set to work as he stammered out now his hopeless apology:

‘Oh my – oh God, goodness – I'm so terribly – !'

‘What in hell you think you're
doing
?!'

‘I thought you – oh my God, please
forgive
me – I thought – !'

‘What
doing
, huh?!
Mister
!'

And although the woman was working hard on indignation, Marianne could see that already the mind behind her slapped-open eyes had latched on to the reality, here. Tom seemed suddenly so much older – thin and white and dressed in black, his eyes beseeching and yet darting with energy from side to side, to maybe ensure he wouldn't be
looked
at – and his fingers flipped hard at the air in a mute display of mortified exasperation.

‘ …
desperately
sorry. I thought you were – someone else entirely. I … I can't apologize
enough
, I'm just …!'

The whole of the woman's outraged face and pent-up body were calmed right down.

‘Well…
okay
…' she was conceding – and even kindly.

But Tom was having none of that: it was as if he was pleading for his life.

‘ … quite
unforgivable
… I don't know what you must – !'

‘
Hey
…' soothed the woman. ‘It's OK – OK. Big ship, huh? Stuff happens. It's
OK
…'

And now, thought Marianne, the woman really needed to be done with it. This was kinda becoming a whole, like –
thing
, you know? People were looking over – and anyways, I gotta be someplace else real soon.

‘Come on, Tom,' said Marianne. ‘Come and sit down. Have some tea with me, yes?'

Both Tom and the woman turned to gaze at Marianne: the relief that hovered it seemed was unspeakable.

‘
Marianne
…' breathed Tom. ‘I – thank you, yes. Some tea would be so nice. I haven't yet had – oh
madam
, I really am so terribly … um – breakfast.'

Marianne smiled quite graciously at each of them in turn (and the woman, guys – she was just
outta
there) and then she took Tom by the hand and led him somewhere safe and elsewhere (a place he badly needed to be).

*

‘Yeh well – all I'm saying is – ' (Charlene was doing it again, yeh? Talking at Dwight these same goddam words) ‘ – you'd been there, it maybe wouldna happened. Nobody gets to thinking you're someone you ain't if you're with someone you're with – right? Get just the plain potatoes, Dwight – those with the mayo are gonna kill you for sure. So it's with
me
you shouldda been. Is all I'm saying.'

Dwight was standing in front of her and sliding a tray down this sleekly ribbed and aluminium slipway – so long and snakey, the damn thing is … nah –
long
just don't do it:
like everything on this tub it goes on for just
ever
? And why they're in the Poolside restaurant doing self-service lunch, just don't ask him. Most days, he picks and chooses in the Duchess Grill (they know him down there, know what he likes – and also not to serve it when Charlene's around him and yakking). But sometimes – and this is one of those times, surely seems – Charlene, she takes it into her head to hit the Poolside for some kinda change. Do you good, Dwight – change is good, also the food I think up here is
lighter
? And with your bowels, Dwight – you listening to me, Dwight? Light is what they're needing.

‘I can't be around you alla the time, Charlene. What you figure the guy was gonna
do
? All it was was some dumb klutz making a mistake. Jeez, Charlene – it's you that
told
me he made a mistake – so why we don't just
leave
it already, huh? Excuse me, sir – any how you can see your way to breaking a egg over the top of that steak, there, just easy like?'

‘A egg, Dwight, you don't want. And mister – can I ask you to make real sure that steak is, like,
totally
lean? I thank you. The salad he'll take as it is.'

‘Thousand Island is what I like.'

‘The point I am
making
, Dwight, is that it brought on home to me that all through the vacation you ain't hardly never been by my side. I'm in the beauty parlour – you're in the casino. I take in a movie – you get wasted in a bar. I visit the coffee shop – then
you
take in a movie. It ain't
togetherness
, honey, is what I'm saying here. OK? No Thousand Island. And Dwight – what's with the
cream
?'

‘You can't have no fruit salad, you don't got cream.'

‘Where's Suki and Earl? You see them, Dwight? Always they get their food in so damn quick and they say they're gonna get us a table someplace and danged if I ever can see them again.'

‘Over yonder. I see them. See – Earl's waving.'

‘How'd all that cream get to be on your tray, Dwight? It
flew
there, maybe?'

‘
Jeez
…'

‘Just get it back. What is it with you, Dwight? You
wanna
die, or what is it?'