Page 5 of The Cruise

As he sat back for the ride, leaving Lambeth behind, Selwyn looked out the window at the suburban houses and apartments that stretched through Battersea and Putney. The road headed west and wound its way over spaghetti-like flyovers and junctions, far from the streets of London where Selwyn had spent most of his life. As they travelled along the A4 through Hounslow and signs for the airport came into view, he thought of his daughters. Gloria was pleased that her father was having a holiday, but his eldest, Susan, had been aghast when she’d learnt that their father was heading off to spend time with a group of strangers. Susan could not come to terms with Selwyn travelling abroad so soon after their mother’s death.

‘It’s not right,’ she’d argued, ‘you should show some respect – what will the community think at our church? It wouldn’t be so bad if you were taking Mum home.’

By ‘home’, Susan meant Jamaica, the island where Selwyn and Florence’s parents had grown up before settling in England.

Selwyn thought of the community at the Baptist church in Lambeth, where he’d worshipped each Sunday throughout his married life. The kindly brothers and sisters had rallied around the newly widowed member. So generous were the ladies, with their offerings of food and nourishment, that Selwyn could feel the waistband on his well-cut trousers tightening almost daily. He hadn’t told the congregation about his holiday but had mentioned it to Pastor Gregory after the previous Sunday service. The pastor appeared anxious when he learnt that Selwyn intended to overcome his grief by going on a cruise.

‘It may be too early for you to follow this path,’ Pastor Gregory said, frowning. ‘I’d recommend a more religious retreat.’

But Selwyn had no intention of changing his mind. He knew that Florence, or Flo as he’d liked to call her, would be frowning from above, her bulky body braced, arms folded, lips pursed, and eyebrows raised beneath her Sunday-best bonnet. Silent in words but deadly in meaning.

‘May the Lord go with you,’ Pastor Gregory said when he realised that Selwyn was determined, ‘and as you trust in Jesus in your hours of need, may the memory of your wife never dim, through your thoughts and actions, prayers and meditation.’

Sitting in the back of the cab as the driver turned off the motorway and headed to the airport, Selwyn tapped his fingers on the side of his hand luggage. Pastor Gregory had no need to worry about the memory of Flo ever dimming. Concealed in an old Typhoo Tea tin, Flo’s ashes were packed securely in Selwyn’s case and would accompany him on his journey.

Music played on the cab’s radio, and Selwyn leaned forward to look out the window and watch flights overhead. ‘Every little thing, gonna be all right,’ The cheerful voice of Bob Marley sang out.

‘Isn’t that the truth.’ Selwyn smiled and began to sing along too.

* * *

Dicky Delaney was running late. The train from Doncaster had been delayed and he had to race across London to ensure that he caught the flight he was booked on. Of medium height and slim build, he stood on the tube train headed to Heathrow Airport and gripped an overhead strap, bracing himself against the huddle of bodies crushed into the carriage. Dicky avoided eye contact with the nameless faces of travellers, loaded with rucksacks, cases and carry-ons. The mass exodus for Christmas had begun.

He couldn’t afford to miss this gig. His future depended on the money he’d earn from the two-week cruise, and he would be handsomely paid to entertain the passengers. In addition, Dicky had several tricks up his sleeve to supplement his income. He’d earned the nickname Dastardly Dicky among fellow comedians on the circuit, and stints in holiday resorts, hotels, and nightclubs had created rumours about his out-of-hours shenanigans. Still, there was an unspoken code between fellow comedians and what happened on tour very firmly stayed on tour, as far as Dastardly Dicky was concerned.

Dicky’s cheeks burned, and he felt his face flush with heat. The previous day he’d overdone the session timing on his wife’s ancient tanning bed. But looking good was the name of the game to Dicky Delaney, and, in his mid-fifties, he knew that he still cut a dash with his bronzed skin, head of curly hair, and straight white teeth. He kept in shape and felt confident when it was time to strip off and lounge around the pool. To eliminate all signs of greying hair, a dark tint, in Dicky’s opinion, took years off. As the tube reached the final stop, Dicky caught his reflection in the glass door panel and felt pleased that he’d gone to some trouble with his appearance.

‘The next station will be Heathrow Airport, Terminal Three,’ an automated voice rang out, and Dicky reached down to grab his cases. Walking slowly with the crowd, he joined the pack heading towards the terminal. At the check-in desk for his flight, no amount of flattery got him an upgrade, and with a sigh, Dicky took his boarding card and searched for the nearest bar. In years gone by, a couple of crisp notes in his passport and his engaging smile had moved him smoothly into business class, but those days were gone, and he’d have to put up with economy for the next nine hours. At least he’d be comfortable on the ship, he thought as he ordered a scotch and soda. The Diamond Star Cruise Line was notoriously generous when accommodating their entertainers, and Dicky knew that his cabin would be an outside berth with a porthole, at the very least.

His phone rang, and he reached into his pocket.

‘All ship-shape and ready to board?’ Clive, Dicky’s agent, yelled.

‘Yes, I’ve checked in,’ Dicky replied, grimacing, and holding the phone away from his ear.

‘Don’t mess this up, I’ve put my reputation on the line to get you this gig,’ Clive boomed.

Dicky visualised his agent in his dark office, just off Wardour Street in Soho. With his comb-over hair and feet propped on his desk to ease painful gout, cigar smoke clouded the airless room.

Taking a slug of his drink, Dicky replied, ‘I know you have, Clive, and I’m grateful. I’ll make sure that my show receives a glowing report from the Entertainment Director.’

‘Sod the E.D. I want a call from the skipper, Captain Kennedy, at least,’ Clive roared. ‘Keep your hands in your pockets and your eyes on the job and stay away from women!’

Clive slammed the phone down.

Dicky sighed and nodded to the bar staff for a refill. He’d worked with Clive for as long as he could remember, and in his heyday, Clive had always ensured that Dicky got the best billing at whatever gig he sent him to. Clive certainly earned his agent’s ten per cent and had never let Dicky down. But an incident with a theatre manager’s wife had created a scandal when it hit the headlines in the seaside town where Dicky had a summer residency. The local paper had gone to town:

Comedy Couple Caught in the Act!

The headline screamed above a compromising photograph, and Dicky’s contract was abruptly cut short. His marriage had barely survived, and Dicky fell on a lean time, struggling to pay his bills. When he heard through the grapevine that a comedy act had fallen ill and couldn’t take up a cruise in the Caribbean, Dicky raced to London and stormed into Clive’s office.

He demanded that he get the job.

‘You owe me,’ Clive had threatened, following his call to the cruise company. ‘Peter, the Entertainment Director, is a close friend so don’t mess it up!’

Dicky finished his drink and heard his flight being called. He had no intention of messing this job up and hurried to the departure gate. But he would take advantage of any opportunities. After all, he’d gotten away with it in the past and, with thousands of miles between himself and Clive, he was confident he could get away with it in the future.

‘Good morning.’ Dicky’s charming smile was wide as he greeted the attendant who welcomed him onboard the flight. ‘Any room for a little one in business class?’

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