S.O.S. (6 page)

And then … it happened. And among the very many (endless) things that hurtled into me and laid siege to my thoughts – and how quiet now the house is, in which to think them – was the question of what to do about the booking. I could have cancelled – could easily have done that (there's a clause in my insurance: my cover, as you will appreciate, is always both in order and more than adequate) and I suppose this was my initial inclination. And then I thought, well … the time looms larger than ever, now – and maybe, because dear Mary is with me always, I can still (why not?) take her with me. Because where Tom goes, Mary goes – yes? So why not do this one last thing together? See? So here, in this car, in a sense we both are.

We're moving again. Making a fair bit of progress, now. The ship's so close, I can't honestly see any of it at all: it's just like a wall, with us in our cars so small and crouching, maybe awed by the darkness of its shadow.

*

‘Oh … my …
God
…' came young Rollo's look-at-me descant – but his mother was certainly far too preoccupied to pay any heed whatever to
that
sort of thing.

They had all, the four of them, been standing in line in this vast and rather loweringly spartan embarkation hall for, yes, just a teeny weeny bit longer than Nicole thought was fitting for the family that had, after all, won through to be the sole captors of the fabulous no-expense-spared Trip of a Lifetime (thanks in no little way, I like to think, to my tiebreaking seventeen words which I'll happily tell you about later but not just now because I want us to be
settled
).

Nicole had rather supposed that they might have been, well – piped aboard, maybe, and warmly welcomed by one or two of the shipping line's senior directors, or possibly even the Captain himself, or something, but so far not even so much as a paid-by-the-grin meeter and greeter had seen fit to show his face – but OK, yes, she was certainly gratified to discover that the very queue in which they were standing conferred on them at least a
modicum
of status. The whole elaborate checking-in system, it rather oddly seemed, was organized according to the class of onboard
restaurant
, of all things, to which your ticket entitled you; the longest queues all down the other end, then, must be for the rather lowlier eating places and bars, Nicole could only assume –
some
comfort, anyway – and presumably all these poor people (didn't, admittedly,
look
terribly poor) were going to be, what, stuck in with the cargo, or something, were they? Dangling from hammocks.

‘Check … it …
out
,' persisted Rollo. ‘Mar? Get
this
…'

Marianne glanced across in the direction – Rollo was energetically and sideways jerking his head – but actually, frankly, couldn't quite focus on much because she hadn't got her
contacts
in, right, but she wasn't about to tell Rollo that because then he'd start in on his blind-as-a-bat routine and it's hell, quite honestly: you just can't win with Rollo because if I ever wear my
glasses
(and they're really cool, I
think – designer frames, the lot) he calls me (‘four-eyes') and it's no good me saying Oh
God
, Rollo, if you're going to be insulting at least you could be a bit
original
about it, couldn't you, hm? I mean honestly – ‘four-eyes': bit
prep
school, isn't it, dear heart?

‘Can't you see him?' hissed an irritated Rollo. ‘
There
… over
there
. Prat in black.'

‘Rollo,' said Nicole – absently in a way, though still with the edge of urgency lurking beneath what she liked to think was a maternal overtone. ‘Don't just
kick
your bag along like that. Lift it – it won't kill you.'

‘Oh yeh …' said Marianne. ‘I see him. God – how odd. Dad? Dad? See this guy?'

David had quite rightly judged it only a matter of time before someone – most likely Marianne, if it wasn't to be outright abuse – addressed to him some or other comment on some or other topic, and so he now breathed in sharply and put all he could muster into chivvying along the not-yet-dead muscles in his lower face and around the chin (and oh God yes – don't forget, will you, to open your bloody eyes) – urging them to rally round (come on, lads) into a semblance of animation and a passably fair simulation of ready-for-it eagerness.

‘See what, love?'

Didn't sound too odd, he was reasonably sure:
felt
it, though, by God: it was as if he was using someone else's lips. And the pressure, now, at the base of my skull is coming very close to shutting me down. The war in my stomach I can just about subdue – but if I don't get down a very swift couple of (oh God) sharpeners in double-quick time, then we're booked for a bout of horizontal groaning (curtains firmly closed and a bucket of Nurofen) and I don't think, do you, in these rather singular circumstances (on this bloody day of all bloody days) that such behaviour would altogether endear me to my doting wife and help-meet?
(Or, let's put it another way: make her loathe me less?)

‘Oh God – Dad never sees
anything
,' spat out Rollo, with true impatience, as well as what struck David as open disgust. ‘
There
!
There
! Christ what's
wrong
with you? The bloke in
black
…!'

‘We're next, now,' said Nicole, quite hurriedly (hadn't been hearing any of all this: over the years, you are vaguely aware of so much background pointless droning, but God – you don't waste time by paying attention, no: it passes soon enough). ‘Pick
up
your bag, Rollo. How many times?'

‘See him, Dad?' urged Marianne. ‘Three queues down.'

‘Oh yes,' said David. ‘I do see him now. Hm. God – once you've actually focused, he really does stand out, doesn't he?'

‘That's what I've bloody been
saying
,' growled Rollo.

David, Marianne and Rollo continued to gaze in silence at Tom. Other people too were not quite casually taking in his singular appearance (if you're stuck in a queue – and this ship
will
eventually, won't it, sail? – then any sort of diversion can only be a good thing). Tom himself seemed quite unaware.
Was
unaware – had been, in truth, over every night and day he could recently recall. He had said nothing to the girl in the office over there, when he handed back the keys of the hire car. Had maybe nodded briefly at the, what was he? (and in another time, he might have registered it) – big and chummy porter as he wheeled away to somewhere Tom's one small suitcase (possibly I didn't even do that – nod at him, briefly. Certainly didn't
utter
: perfectly sure on that score). And now he just stood in line, as instructed, staring intently at the back of the mid-blue cotton hat worn by the person in front (could be a man, could be a woman – really couldn't tell you, really haven't looked).

‘He must,' judged David, ‘be awfully
hot
…'

‘
Right
,' said Nicole, with finality. ‘It's us, we're here.
Hello.' And she slid over four passports, along with all the rest of it.

‘Good after
noon
, Madam,' said the quite extraordinarily happy-sounding woman behind the quite high and boxy check-in booth. ‘Four of you travelling, yes?'

‘Yes,' agreed Nicole, very readily, rapidly pointing a finger at her husband, each of her two children and finally herself – as if to check, or maybe prove it.

‘I think,' considered Rollo, ‘he must be some kind of a nutter. I bet the whole bloody boat's going to be full of bloody nutters.'

‘
Ship
,' said Marianne. ‘It's a ship.'

‘Oh fuck off, Mar,' was Rollo's take on that.

‘I'd be stifling,' said David – more to himself than anyone (second nature, now). ‘I'm pretty warm in just this seersucker thing.'

‘
Right
,' said Nicole – and she's said that a good deal, now, and forcibly too. The extraordinarily happy-sounding woman blinked once only, every time she did it, and her lips just momentarily froze up in tune with the temporary breakdown; less than a second later, though, a big and immediate thaw had set in, and once more she was up there with a chance of bringing back for England a Gold in the Happiness Olympics. ‘Now listen, everyone – we've got to put our faces in front of this funny little thing and then it takes a
picture
, apparently. Oh not all at
once
, Rollo, Godsake – wait your turn, can't you? And David – they need your credit card.'

‘And all in black …' mused David. ‘Maybe he's the ship's undertaker.'

‘Oh
Daddy
!' deplored Marianne. ‘You're awful.'

‘Well
someone's
got to tip them over the side, haven't they?' Loved it when Marianne laughed, like that.

‘
Credit
card, David. Lady's waiting.'

‘Credit card?' he came back. ‘What for? What's this for, now?'

‘Good after
noon
, Sir,' was launched at him then – and David flinched just a bit before being duly dazzled by this truly professional and five-star greeting, courtesy of the Delighted One. (God it just goes to show, though, doesn't it? The benefit of a proper training scheme and back-up refresher courses: you leave all this business of politeness and welcome to the hicks and amateurs and what you end up with is hardly more than varnished scorn.) ‘The registration of any major credit card, Sir, frees you up to charge at any point during the crossing all purchases, services or beverages to your on-board account whereupon an itemized tally will be presented for your authorization on the morning of disembarkation.'

David had been sliding across his Mastercard long before any of this was vouchsafed unto him (he didn't know her name, this woman, but she was surely one of life's great little vouchsafers – born to it, you could tell). And look – when people want a credit card,
request
doesn't really come into it, does it? It's just what's expected, so you do it: without a credit card, these days – Christ, let's face it – you barely get to touch base. The sight of cash in the twenty-first century, and all your credibility is, just like that, shot to bits.

‘Oh my
God
!' exclaimed Nicole – sort of laughing, but not really very much. ‘I look absolutely
ghastly
 – oh God
look
, Marianne – look at this simply ghastly picture!'

Marianne took the laminated plastic card from her mother's pinch of fingers.

‘Hm. Looks like the camera was pointed up your nostrils.'

‘Oh
God
…' Nicole was moaning, truly miserable – and none the less so when Rollo snatched the card from Marianne's hand and started snorting like he did, and said she looked like that puppet, what is it? Miss Piggy, yeh.

David, Marianne and Rollo in turn hung their heads over this counter affair and subjected themselves to the strange little camera (looked like a mouse) – David asking idly Has it clicked? Is it done? Marianne had taken heed of her
mother's ill-judged attitude and ducked down her nose while giving her eyes everything she had; Rollo hammed it up without mercy – came out looking like a drivelling fool; but then look – Rollo would. As they moved off in the allocated direction – a distant escalator was looming – Nicole was still very shaken by the awfulness of her photo.

‘I mean – what's it actually in aid of, this card? We don't have to
show
it, or anything, do we? It's like a sort of a child's ID or a
bus
pass, or something. Not very
civilized
…'

They emerged now into what looked like an immense but not remotely nice airport departure lounge: could have been acres, there, of bright green seating but not, very evidently, nearly enough. Most people were standing – quite a few, Marianne noticed, intentionally or otherwise catching the eye of other people standing, and then they smiled quite shyly. Maybe, she thought, poor Rollo should learn the art of that: God, it would help a bit if he smiled at all. Look at him now – staring at those two girls over there as if he's in a
trance
, or something. Been doing it for ages. Blonde one looks quite nice – reminds me a bit of my old schoolfriend, Sally. They seem quite young to be going on a trip like this – the Sally-type one looks only about a year or two older than me – nineteen, maybe (even a bit less, could be). Other one's more – mid-twenties, should think. Oh Rollo! God you're so hopeless – don't keep
goggling
like that; they'll never look back if you do – or
if
they do, it'll only be to … oh God yeh, one of them's just done it, now: held his eye just long enough to then turn away and dismiss all thought of him. As if he was just a passing fly. And look at Rollo now – gone all red, and hurting, probably. I wish I could help him, sometimes, but I never really know what to say. How to get going. He's terribly difficult to just talk to, Rollo. But all he has to do is
ask
me: that's all he has to do.

The sea of travellers and tingle of anticipation put David in mind of a documentary he had seen, one time, when all the wartime children were taken to railway stations with a
cardboard box strung about their tucked-in school scarves with rough white twine: the start of a big adventure, but with everything to come – and therefore, though charged with hope, so far unknown.

Nicole was extremely gratified that – as ‘Duchess Grill' ticketholders – they were free to embark immediately (isn't it lovely? This sort of thing? Sweeping past all of those people who
can't
?) but very miffed indeed that the first things the official had requested from each of them were these blasted little laminated cards.