S.O.S. (42 page)

And Stacy just stared. Something had barged right into her, and she was knocked from her axis: all the many and clamouring things that had crowded into her brain and begged to be said were just sent sprawling all over the place in the face of this swift and unforeseen upheaval: her whole mind went white and blanked out at this impossibly irrelevant and very stupid
thing
, here.

‘But …' was all she could do, for now. And then: ‘ … you live with Charlene …?'

And it was Suki's turn now to look as if some person both unknown and unseen had plucked from the ocean beneath them a very frisky and glisteningly wet and sinuous herring and set to with vigour slapping her around with it.

‘Get
outta
here, Stace! What're you –
nuts
? Charlene is my
mother
…!'

There was only a flicker that betrayed Stacy's continued bemusement.

‘
Yes
… and …?'

Suki narrowed her eyes and studied this Stacy before her. There was the beginning of dawning – a low glimmer of
nearly light at the back of her glittering, black and just-not-
into
-this eyes – but then it was immediately damped back down. Suki now grinned at her own mad idea – she flipped her fingers and rolled up her eyes: it was as if she was subjecting herself to a mute but thorough carpeting for even so much as
going
there … but the suspicion returned, and was shining like a blade.

‘You are not
telling
me …? Oh my
Gaad
, I just can't – ! You ain't saying, Stace, that Jennifer is your, God –
mother
?'

All Stacy did was nod: my mother, yes. Well of
course
she is: Jennifer's my mother – everyone knows that. What
else
could she be …?

‘
Christ
…' whispered Stacy, then. ‘You thought – did you think – ?'

‘Sure I did. And you know what
now
I think? I think
yuck
, Stace, is what I think. I mean,
what
? Before, Earl and me, we kinda figured, like, what the hell, you know? But you are telling me that my
brother
has been balling your
mother
?' And Suki now was lightly clutching her temples, as if seeking a sign from the other side. ‘Like – we are in
freaksville
, here …!'

The tear that Stacy had been denying quickly expanded and rolled away down, fluidly curling under her chin. She turned to go, and the last thing she heard from Suki came in the form of the sort of whine wailed out by those who feel they have been shabbily treated:

‘I didn't even think you English were
like
that …'

‘So,' resumed Jennifer. ‘Tea's cold, cakes gone – what shall we do? Something exciting, yes? Let's find Nobby and Aggie, and then we can kill them.'

Stacy tried for a smile of indulgence, but her whole head was still filled with such a lot of … I think it's sadness.

‘I have to see someone, Mum. What time dinner?'

‘Hardly matters, does it? Seems one
eternal
dinner, sometimes. Seven? Later? Eight? Then we can go to the disco thing. And no more
toy
boys, I promise you. Stick to nice old men who buy us lots of champagne and then go and do what they're bloody well told.'

Stacy stood and stretched herself (I often feel, here, like I've just got up: just another part of all the strangeness, I suppose).

‘Yes, eight's fine. But I'll come down earlier and change, and stuff. So see you, yes? And Mum?
Please
don't let it get to you … Yes? Promise?'

Jennifer was beaming. ‘I won't. Promise. Now off you go. See you later.'

And she felt a surge of quite simple, well –
love
, it was, must be, as she watched little Stacy, somehow so alone, walking away from her, slowly. And already I've broken my promise, sweet daughter – because it's all just welled up and got to me again. The revulsion the boy felt for me … I almost feel it for myself. Maybe, once people cease to find me distasteful, I shall descend into being a figure of fun; I might end up like Disco Debbie – a marvel only in that after all this time, I linger on. Bopping till I drop.

I think, thought Jennifer – quite briskly, now, as she rose from the very low tub chair and smoothed back down her hoiked-up chinos – I had better get myself off to somewhere dark and secret – and yes, quite quickly. Because otherwise I think I just might be in danger of losing it, now. A thing I try not to do.

*

Yet one
more
job that has been foisted upon me. Well – no real surprises there, are there? Get
Stewart
to do it – good old Stew, he'll be up for it, yes why not? Fact that he's got, ooh – just about ten thousand
other
things to attend to just doesn't
register
, does it? And I mean to say – if only they'd give me just a bit more notice. The next two hours I had clearly designated as the final opportunity for all the limping saddos, all the croaky old-timers, all the drunken
fat unfunny men and all their off-key wives to register for the, oh Christ help me –
Talent
Show (it's there for all to see – perfectly clear on each of the posters
eventually
chivvied out of those bastards in the print shop and Blu-Tacked up at all strategic points all over the bloody ship by just
who
, exactly, do you think? Yes indeed – got it in one. Yours fucking truly. And it's a – and by the way, it's a nightmare, Blu-Tack – you find that? Doesn't bloody
stick
, does it? God Almighty, how do they get away with it?) … yes, as I say, it's not strictly within my brief, all this, is it? Or even
loosely
, come to that – face it, Christ: it's nothing to bloody do with me at
all
, all this stuff to do with journalists, the swine. I mean – that's Cruise Director country, isn't it? And the Cruise Director? In bed. With a chill. Touch, they think, of a temperature. Oh dear I'm so terribly sorry to hear
that
. But never mind: Stew will handle it, Stew will be happy to step into the breach – because Stew isn't bothered, is he, by a touch of temperature? No no, Stew toils on with an impending bloody
brain
tumour while at the same time being covered in the sores of scorn and rebuff and raddled by the cancers of high
anxiety
… so why don't we all heave together and just chuck this one more thing into the dip-backed, balding donkey's panniers and sit back and watch his bloody legs just damn near buckle, as unbatted flies continue to worry those brown and trusting put-upon eyes?

Journalists: can't stand them. Lowest of the low, bloody journalists are. Not that I've actually had that much experience of them in the past, thank God (as I bloody said – not my
field
, is it? Which the powers that be would do well to remember) – but whenever I
have
been in contact, well: you say one thing, and they go and write up something else completely. I mean to say – is it because they're all so permanently pissed on someone else's booze and they simply don't hear or remember? Or are they all genetically programmed to grin with their faces and swallow with their throats and then just turn round and fuck you all up, right
royally? Three of them on board, this trip. Don't know what papers – two provincial and a broadsheet national, apparently:
Times
, I think – needn't be. Nice for some, isn't it? First class cabins, endless drink (or else how could they get them here?), and now that they've taken it into their collective and empty little heads to want a guided tour of all the parts of the ship that
ordinary
people who have shelled out bloody thousands just to
be
here will never get to see in a million bloody
years
… well then let's not keep them waiting: get old
Stew
to do it – always a smile and a ready quip!
Bastards
…

Mind you, one good thing about it (and they're already due, our noble members of Her Majesty's Press: sods can't even be on time) … yes, the positive point here is that I can finally get away from Nobby and Aggie. I mean –
nice
souls, don't get me wrong – always a pleasure to see them on every single trip (and how do they
do
that, actually? Are they very rich? Or simply very mad?). But they do tend to get just the tiniest bit
clingy
: can just become rather wearing. Still – you know me: show willing (what I'm paid for – or so they tell me).

‘
Right
, then, Nobby. That's you down for your usual little talk about nautical terms, then … maybe not quite so long, though, this time, hey? Keep them wanting more, hey Nobby?'

‘I hear what you're saying, Stewart, but it's not that simple a topic to
condense
. I mean – anything less than an hour and you're really not getting much more than the
flavour
of the thing …'

‘Which is exactly what we
want
, Nobby. Exactly what we're after. The very
essence
, yes? Ten minutes tops, this time, I'm afraid. Captain's orders.'

‘Oh really? Orders from the
Captain
? Oh well in that case …'

Stewart smiled his encouragement and was nodding eagerly as he red-inked Nobby into his slot. Well of
course
it's not Captain's orders, you silly little sod: you don't honestly believe the Captain gets himself involved with all
this
crap, do you? No no no – this is all for me: my crap.

‘And Aggie – tell me again. What exactly is it you are proposing to do?'

Aggie shot a glance full of first-night nerves over in Nobby's direction – her whole mouth tightly and briefly elongating to its utmost extent, as if she was preparing to fit into it for the sake of a bet an old LP, or similar.

‘The
Madison
…' she said. And she gnawed a nervous nail.

Stewart nodded. ‘Yes. That's what you said before. Um – what exactly
is
this? The Madison?'

‘It's the steps to a dance. You go
left
one pace, and
back
one pace and – '

‘Yes, OK – right, I see. So – duration of a single, then?'

‘If I can keep it up. No, hang on – it's
right
one pace, isn't it Nobby? And
then
back one pace and – '

‘Search me, Captain Honeybunch!' laughed Nobby. ‘Should've stuck with your hand jive, you want my opinion.'

‘Oh but Nobby I
always
do the hand jive, don't I, Stewart? Every single trip I do the hand jive, don't I?'

‘Yes,' said Stewart. Yes you do indeed. Every single trip. Mm. ‘And oh look – if I'm not very much mistaken, my extremely important party of journalists has arrived. Greetings, all. Welcome. My name is Stewart. Assistant Cruise Director. All well? Excellent. OK then, Nobby and Aggie –
à bientoôt
, yes?
Ciao
.'

And yes it
has
crossed my mind that they both might like to stay and talk to the journalists (thought it the second I very stupidly let slip the bloody
word
) and they in their turn, highly probably, would very much like to give to Nobby especially, ooh – more than enough rope. But no – we won't make it that easy for them, shall we? We won't deliver unto them a monomaniacal sap spread out on a plate with a parsley garnish just so that they can all ritually shred the poor devil in the course of their noxious little articles, while jeeringly writing off cruises in general and this one in particular as being still very much the province of the old, the rich, the idle, or else the padded cell brigade. No – this time let's see if we can't get them to be
positive
, for once, shall we? Get them to actually write about what's in front of their bloody eyes, if only they weren't too stupid to see it. Mind you … if they want a
real
story, it's me, isn't it, they should actually be talking to. By Christ
I
could give them a story that would make their bloody hair stand on end … and not very much
of
it, in the case of what just has to be the broadsheet guy (smarmy bloody look all over his fucking superior face – and the two misshapen women from the provincials – you can see they're feeling it too: they've probably hated him for days, now). But just take one
look
at his hair, won't you? Grazed upon by a herd of starved alpacas. Why does the man appear to be a stranger to a simple backcomb and scalp tint? Has he not heard of
volumizer?
Dear oh dear. And they call themselves professionals …

*

Dwight fell in easily with his customary amble (one piece of this tub I sure do like a lot: long, straight lanes like one eternal bowlerama – see where's I'm headed, and I take it real slow – ain't no hassle to get anyplace). His eyes were quietly bright as a result of a whole heap of amusement, the odd throaty wheeze and nasal fart escaping him – and all on account of David's last call. Jeez, I am telling you – my man David, he sure did sound like one spooked critter. And here I can see the sunny upland of my situation: sure I ain't got me no filly I can call my own – no sweet thighs to make me horny, drive me wild – but nor I got alla the ice-cold fear I was sure aware of in David, when I get the call. That, or else that shit-hot baby of his is cooking so bad, she maybe
reduced the man to no more'n a poola chop suey, broke down and steaming. Anyways – said I'd sure be pleased to meet with the man, share a couple drinks, see how's I can maybe help him out some. Yeah – why not? Telling ya – Dave is one of the good guys:
buddy
, right? Plus – was I ready to get out from under Charlene!

‘You sure? You sure bout that, Dwight? You don't have any baxes anyplace?'