Dancing Backwards. Salley Vickers
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They’re lucky, porpoises,’ said Captain Ryle. ‘Sailors say so, anyhow.’ Too well-mannered to betray this openly, he was impatient for the return of his binoculars.
‘Thank you,’ said Vi, handing the glasses back. She had rather wanted to continue examining the self-renewing horizon.
‘These were a present from Kath on our Ruby Wedding,’ the captain said, restoring the binoculars to the safety of his own neck. ‘I never go to sea without them. Care for a coffee?’
Vi, who didn’t at all want coffee, said she would love one and wondered how she was going to manage Captain Ryle. It was apparent he had taken a shine to her.
They sat in the Queen Bess Bar, on seats designed to resemble lifebuoys, while the captain recounted how he had begun his seafaring career on the ferry to the Isle of Wight and had graduated from this to channel crossings before getting his real break, a berth as second mate on the Queen Elizabeth. ‘Now she’s a ship and a half, the Queen Liz. Ever been on her?’
Vi regretted that she hadn’t.
‘Too late now. They let her go. Turned her into some flipping hotel. Makes you want to weep.’
‘Oh dear.’ She could see that sympathy was called for. But sympathy, that comes so readily to some, can be hard work. Vi decided it was time for Bunbury.
Vi had learned about Bunbury from Edwin. The original Bunbury, the fictional fiction, employed as an alibi in Wilde’s most famous play, was, Edwin had taught her, a concept capable of being recruited.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said after they had drunk one cup of coffee and she sensed that the offer of a second was imminent, ‘but I have some work I must do.’
‘Work?’ The captain’s good-hearted face betrayed puzzlement.
‘Yes. I’m a poet.’ With luck that would put the lid on any further questioning.
‘A poet?’ said the captain. Had she confided that she was a belly dancer he could hardly have looked more ill at ease.
‘I don’t generally mention it, because people can be nervous of poets.’ Guessing she could rely on his chivalry, she went on, ‘so if you wouldn’t mind keeping it to yourself?’
As she had hoped, flattery—not a bad strategy if it is only employed for self-preservation—did the trick.
‘Of course, dear lady. Our little secret. Kath liked poetry. She was the clever one. Over my head, I’m afraid, except for the one about the tall ship and the star to steer her by. Kath read that to me sometimes.’
‘Yes,’ said Vi, ‘people seem to like it. But on the whole, poetry is not most people’s cup of tea.’
Which is true, she thought, making her way back to the privacy of her cabin. She wondered if Kath really read poetry or if that was the captain’s own form of Bunburying. The dead, how ever much missed, could, as she knew, be usefully pressed into service.
Back at her cabin, she found Renato energetically shaking out the gold counterpane. ‘Mrs Hetherington, please, I can go away now and come back later.’
‘No, Renato, it’s OK, you go on.’ He had switched off the TV but she had caught the picture. ‘You were watching dancing?’
‘It is our own dancers on the ship. The TV programme which is relayed to your room, you see. They give demonstrations. Every day in the King Edward Lounge is a tea dance. You go?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t dance, Renato.’
‘You dance well. Nice figure. Not like some ladies.’ Renato held his hands wide and giggled. ‘Forgive me I speak like this to you, Mrs Hetherington.’
‘Nobody minds a compliment, Renato.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I am delighted you think I might be able to dance. But I’m afraid you’re wrong.’
‘Oh yes. You dance well.’ Renato began to spray the desk with a vile-smelling cleanser.
‘Renato, would you mind, only my eyes…’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The cleaner you’re using. I’m sorry, but it is making my eyes sting.’
‘Excuse me, Mrs Hetherington, but I must clean the cabin.’
‘Couldn’t you just dust it or wipe it over with a damp cloth?’
Renato looked opaque. He left the room stinking to high heaven and to escape the fumes Vi went outside on to the balcony.
And there was the sea, reminding her that nothing that happens matters much in the great sum of things. And yet, she thought, how can we help minding?
She walked back into the cabin. On the zealously cleansed desk, Renato had stacked her books in neat piles. Beside them he had placed, in a parallel pile, her notebooks. She had not opened the notebooks in years. Goodness knows what had induced her to bring them. Except, of course, she did know. Edwin.
What would it be like seeing Edwin again after all these years? Was she excited? Scared? She wasn’t sure. She had set out on something stronger than a whim. It was an impulse, but with an attendant caution that had led to her making the crossing by sea. But for what? Time, she supposed. Time to consider. Time for reflection. Although you would think she had had all the time in the world for that.
She tried to recall when she and Edwin had last met—but the years had evaporated to a mist. Had they even said goodbye? She wasn’t sure of that either.
The first time Des saw Mrs Hetherington she was sitting a little way off so that he couldn’t see her hands. Des liked to see the hands because this gave him valuable information. Nail polish or no nail polish, rocks or no rocks. You could gather quite a lot from such clues. She attracted notice because she had that air of being a little apart, with her attention not on the room and the other passengers, as was the case with most of the single women who came for tea, but directed only at the sea.
‘Any idea who she is?’ he asked Boris. ‘The skinny one in the corner over there.’
Boris was Ukrainian, one of the many Eastern Europeans who had been joining the staff of the shipping lines in droves. They were unpopular among their colleagues. Having acquired stamina under regimes founded by Stalin, they were willing to work longer hours than those raised on more easygoing political systems. There was a general feeling that if the redundancies which were threatened struck, they would take advantage.
Boris adjusted one of the immaculate white gloves worn by the waiters serving tea. ‘Mrs Hetherington, Deck Twelve, single occupancy. I think she is not with anyone. But your guess is as good as mine.’
The Eastern Europeans’ command of English idiom, which they appeared to pick up with demonic cleverness, was another ground for complaint, particularly with the British staff who were naturally suspicious of any ability with other languages.
Des, however, was Italian, at least on his father’s side.
‘She dance?’
Boris raised bored aristocratic eyebrows. Long ago, his family had owned serfs, and vast tracts of woodland where wolves had loped. In the family annals it was alleged that on nights when the moon was full an ancestor of Boris’s had loped alongside the wolves.
Des made his way over to the thin woman’s table and noted that she already had a pot of tea. ‘Can I ask the waiter to get you anything to eat, Mrs Hetherington? A pastry maybe? Some sandwiches?’
‘You know my name!’ She had flushed.
‘It is our business to get to know our guests, madam.’
‘Of