Page 28 of The Cruise

‘Would you like to join us?’ Kath asked. She was dressed in her yellow sandals, trousers and a pretty lemon-coloured blouse and gripped her bag close to her body. ‘You’d be very welcome,’ she added.

‘No, thank you, that’s very kind, but I would like to have a day by myself.’

Kath and Anne turned away, and Jane eased out of her chair. Her anxiety was returning, but she felt she couldn’t leave without saying something to Selwyn. ‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you,’ she stumbled. ‘Th … thank you for sitting with me.’

‘The pleasure, my dear, is all mine.’ Selwyn reached out and stroked Jane’s arm. ‘You go and enjoy yourself.’

Jane straightened her back and tried to walk gracefully away from the table. She had the strangest feeling that a butterfly was bouncing about in her belly. With his compliments and soft touch, Selwyn made her feel special, and somehow Jane knew that his eyes were watching her departure. As she followed Kath and Anne through the Deck Café, Jane stopped by the door and turned.

Selwyn was staring at her.

The butterfly began to dance, and her hand rose automatically. Jane was perplexed and pondered on the new-found feeling, ‘It must be something I ate,’ she thought and waved goodbye to Selwyn.

* * *

In cabin 1101 on the lower deck of theDiamond Star, Dicky lay on his bed, counting a thick pile of dollars. His fingers tingled as his skin caressed the crisp new notes, and Dicky relished the feeling. Tingling fingers were a sign of better times to come. No need for lucky horseshoes or a four-leaf clover, Dicky Delaney was on a roll.

He placed his stash on the bedside table and reached for a glass which had a measure of last night’s brandy. Despite the hour, the rich amber liquid tasted good. It was soothing and lulled Dicky into a sleepy stupor. Nestling into a pillow, he closed his eyes and thought about his trip. Only a couple of days into the cruise, all was going to plan. His shows, as he’d expected, were a success. The audience lapped up his dated jokes and song and dance routines, which reminded the passengers of days gone by when life was for living and old age was for the decades to come. But the decades soon passed, and Dicky recalled Cat Stevens’ song that every generation had its day. He liked to think that however many days the mature passengers had left, he would ensure that all, including himself, had a good time.

For happy punters were perfect prey.

Dicky sighed with pleasure as he thought of the money accumulating in the safe at the back of his wardrobe. Private sales of his book and DVD were profitable. He enjoyed wandering amongst the guests during his free time, letting them know they had no need to purchase his merchandise from the ship’s shop, where they’d pay over the odds. He had a supply of goods he could drop off at their cabin for a discounted price. He also provided a discreet service, far more interesting than reading material. Dicky had identified a handful of wealthy widows who might seek out his ‘extras’, and he was willing to cater to their ‘special needs.’ It was far more lucrative than any fee he earned from hisDiamond Starcontract, and the tips for such services could be generous. The previous day a divorcee had purchased a Tag Heuer sports watch from the onboard jeweller. She insisted that the gift be the only thing Dicky wore when satisfying her lustful desires.

It was a drowsy Dicky who thought of Anne. She was as peachy as the dress she’d worn to his first night’s show, and he remembered her pretty face staring up at him as he strode across the stage. Anne was the icing on his cake. He would indulge her and enjoy her company, for she seemed to bring him luck. Last night’s winnings were proof, and he’d listened as she’d told him what numbers to play on the roulette wheel. Flushed with success, they’d danced in the disco until the early hours, and for once, Dicky enjoyed the company of a lovely woman. All thoughts of life at home in Doncaster were far from his mind.

Dicky had been chivalrous and walked Anne back to her suite. He hadn’t taken advantage of her and decided that he would save that treat. Maybe he wouldn’t even need the help of his little blue pills when the occasion arose, and he would rise unaided. In the meantime, he would enjoy her company and make the most of slyly charging his drinks to her account. Generous tips to the bar servers enabled this con, and she’d never know until she came to settle her bill, by which time Dicky would be long gone. Whatever trick he pulled, he felt safe knowing that acute embarrassment would prevent women from outing him. Their Dicky Delaney escapade would be put down to a holiday jape or an unfortunate mistake.

Dicky opened his eyes and glanced at his shiny new watch, then heaved himself upright and, with a yawn, stretched out his arms. After a rehearsal in the Neptune Lounge for the evening’s show, the day was his own. Most of the passengers would have disembarked to discover the delights of Grenada, and there would be an abundance of empty beds by the pool. Dicky could top up his tan undisturbed. He might even treat himself to a facial with the pretty beautician in theDiamond StarMarine & Wellness Spa, who’d told him to drop by when the passengers were ashore.

Crumpled clothes lay discarded where he’d fallen into bed a few hours earlier. Stepping over them, Dicky could hear his wife nagging him not to be so untidy. Still, as he cast a soiled shirt to one side, he was safe in the knowledge that theDiamond Starprovided attentive housekeeping. Everything would be sent off to the laundry and delivered back before nightfall, clean and pressed.

Striding into the bathroom, he reached for a towel and turned the shower to full power. Dicky stared at his reflection in the mirror and thought of his spoils so far, ‘Dicky,’ he said and removed the expensive watch on his wrist, ‘you’re on your way and will soon be back in business!’

ChapterThirteen

It was mid-morning when Selwyn decided to leave the ship. With a few late risers, he negotiated the ship’s security and customs procedures and, draping a jacket over his shoulders, walked along the long pier leading to the heart of St George’s. A tourist information kiosk offered leaflets detailing shops and duty-free stores. The smiling staff assured him that dazzling Colombian emeralds or beautiful Milano glass made excellent souvenirs.

Selwyn soon found himself on the historic St George’s main street, where he ignored the sightseeing train that slowed beside him. He dismissed offers of a water taxi to take him to Grande Anse Beach, which he’d heard was one of the most beautiful in the Caribbean. Ahead, there was a market selling produce. He wandered through the bustling stalls piled high with fresh fruit and colourful vegetables and was reminded of the street market in Brixton, just a seven-minute tube ride away from his home.

West Indian voices encouraged Selwyn to buy.

‘Yuh try my lead pipe!’ a vendor called out, and Selwyn gave in, parting with two dollars for a cake made with freshly grated coconut, sugar, and flour. The sweet treat was delicious and prompted a memory of his mother’s cramped but warm and aromatic kitchen, where she produced spicy meals and tasty treats.

Heading out of the market, Selwyn wandered into a side street. Shops displayed groceries, and household items were piled high and spread over pavements. Selwyn ducked his head to dip beneath a rickety ladder as he side-stepped brushes and tins of paint and saucepans of every size, which tumbled from boxes and crates. The buzz of the street was vibrant and bonded the locals, who milled about or sat in cafés, some passing the time of day with idle conversation, others playing dominoes, slapping the tiles face down on a table. Selwyn thought of home in Lambeth, with its sizeable and buzzing Afro-Caribbean community, but in St George the pace seemed slower, and Selwyn moved at leisure, enjoying his stroll.

He came to a gallery that appeared strangely out of place amongst other businesses on the street. Peering through the window, Selwyn saw vivid paintings, and a series of portraits captured in unguarded moments caught his eye. Two lovers kissed, hands caressing each other’s faces. A jogger stretched, his face showing anguish as he held his leg at a right angle on a tumbled-down wall. An unkempt old lady sat beside a pile of rags, her eyes dull, staring vacantly at a single-stem flower held in her hand.

Selwyn was fascinated by the artist’s ability to capture the subjects, perfectly representing their moment in time. His eyes turned to a canvas at the back of the room, which, though small, stood out. It depicted the shape of a woman who appeared to be dancing. The stout figure, curved, overweight, and alone, was a splash of vibrant colour. Hypnotised, Selwyn was sure he could hear the woman singing as she danced. The artist had given her movement and freedom as though unlocking the staid reality of her life.

Before he knew what he was doing, Selwyn opened the door and stepped into the gallery.

‘Happy Christmas to you,’ a voice called out, and a man came forward. Tall, dark, and smiling, he greeted Selwyn with a respectful fist bump. ‘What can I help you with?’ he asked.

‘I’m unsure,’ Selwyn said, staring at the painting of the dancing woman. ‘I just knew I had to come in.’ The image stopped him in his tracks. ‘Who is she?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know, she came to me in a dream.’

‘But you must know the subject?’

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