trapped in the mesh of our own desires. And even these we hardly know and rarely understand.
A slight, dark-skinned man, whose name she saw was Dino, now came across the floor and addressed her by name. He must have learned it from the waiter with the dangerous eyes. Well, she supposed they were only doing their job. This man’s eyes were a gentle brown. And there was something in his face, a trace of what…? A melancholy quality, not cruel anyway.
‘One two three, one two three, it’s the all-time favourite’s all-time favourite, you’ve got it, ye-es the waltz! One two three, nice an’ easy now…’
George’s voice, furred with an adult lifetime of Players untipped, propelled the would-be dancers round the floor. ‘Gentleman, steer those lovely legs before you, don’t trip over them for thinking what you’d like her to do with them! One two three, one two three, ladies, don’t forget what Ginger Rogers said, now, you have to do it backwards and on high heels! One two three, one two three, nice an’ easy, that’s the way…’
‘You’re called Dino then? Is that Italian?’ The woman Des was dancing with had an angrily curious face.
‘Nice an’ easy there, gentlemen, there we go.’
Des produced his amiable smile. ‘That’s me, Mrs Rotherhyde.’
‘And one two three, ladies you’re doing swell, knocking those gentlemen into a cocked hat, if Marie will forgive me expressing my prejudice in favour of the fairer sex…’
‘Arsehole!’ Marie breathed into George’s ear as he danced by with a woman in red patent heels.
Seeing they were reaching the edge of the area that passed for a dance-floor, Des whirled his partner expertly round and executed a neat double chassis.
‘Nice and easy does it, Mrs Rotherhyde. There you are, not many ladies could’ve followed me so well. There we go now.’ He couldn’t wait to get rid of her.
‘And bringing it on now to an end, ladies and gentlemen, thank your partners, please as we get ready for the next number the all-time favourite, ye-es, it’s the foxtrot.’
‘So you’re Italian?’ Mrs Rotherhyde, catching her breath, suggested again. She was trying to delay his passage to a new partner. Usually he felt sorry for them when they tried this on, but not this one. This one, he could tell, was dangerous.
‘You do look kind of dark.’
Thanks, Mrs Rotherhyde. Slightly desperate now Des looked about for another partner. A woman came across the floor towards them.
‘Excuse me, were you wanting to dance…?’
‘I’m afraid I’m just leaving.’ It was the thin woman by the window apparently on her way out.
‘And taking your partners now for the foxtrot,’ George’s voice commanded.
‘Can I tempt you to a foxtrot, Mrs Hetherington?’
‘Oh he’s foxy, he is, that one!’ Mrs Rotherhyde’s mulberry lips glistened ominously.
The other woman looked at him. Expecting her to turn him down, Des was taken aback when she said, ‘All right, if you like I’ll have a bash.’
He could tell she had never danced a foxtrot in her life. But she moved well. Her body followed his easily and when the dance was over she smiled at him nicely and he felt able to go across to the little woman with the bad perm, whom he privately called ‘Miss Muffet’ on account of her height and her baby-doll clothes, and Miss Muffet had been surprisingly gracious, and did not try to hang on to him when the dance ended. Instead, she said quite cheerfully, ‘There’s others looking for a partner. I’ll sit here, my dear, and rest my old feet and watch you twinkle your toes.’
The band had started up again but Des paused for a moment to look out through the tall plate glass windows at the sea.
It had been something of a surprise to him how fascinated he had become with the constantly shifting colours and patterns made in the water. It soothed something in him to which he could not have put a name. As he stood, absorbed, two white birds wheeled down out of the sky. Mrs Hetherington, the woman he had danced with earlier, must have stayed on to watch the waltz because at that moment he saw her leaving the room and wondered if she had also seen the birds.
Vi, who had found dancing the foxtrot surprisingly agreeable, had lingered to watch the rumba. Perhaps worn out by the unaccustomed exercise, she went back to her cabin and fell asleep on the gold counterpane.
She dreamed that she was helping Harry climb to a high platform in a children’s playground. Harry’s feet, in his Clarks sandals, kept slipping and she was trying to place them securely on the rungs. She could feel his slender ankles and see the pale crepe of the sole which, dream-like, was visible on the palm of her hand. The rungs were wet and slimy and Harry began to slip and slide down through them. And suddenly the ladder was frighteningly high off the ground and swaying. And where had she left Daniel? He was a baby still and, wrapped in a jacket but nothing more, was sleeping, oh help, was it under the pile of rubbish they had made for a bonfire? She cried out and woke not knowing where in the world she was.
There was knocking at the door. Someone outside had been calling her. ‘Mrs Hetherington. Coo-ee. Coo-ee, Mrs Hetherington. Are you there?’
It was Renato wanting to know did she need anything.
‘No, thank you, Renato, I am dressing for dinner.’
‘How was the dancing, Mrs Hetherington?’
‘Very nice, thank you, Renato.’
‘I said you enjoy it, Mrs Hetherington. Have a nice dinner now.’
She drifted off again but Harry and Dan had walked on without her, through the valley of sleep—where those we have been close to, for good or ill, mingle—and had gone out into the adult world where things are done differently and her children no longer needed her.
Vi woke to the chugging engines and saw it was time to go down for dinner. The information in her cruise folder warned that it was ‘formal’ tonight. Well, she had her black evening dress. That looked OK with Ted’s pearls.
She pulled the dress over her head, caught a thread in an earring, took it off again to untangle the earring, decided to take off her knickers which were spoiling the line, brushed her hair into shape, extracted Ted’s grey pearls from the suitcase and added a silver belt and the silver slippers that Annie had given her for the voyage. Good old Annie. She still had that eye.
For all her hurry, Vi was late for dinner and when she arrived there were ten already at the table. One of the newcomers, an elderly woman in a long beaded navy suit, had collared Captain Ryle, who looked across regretfully at Vi. The woman introduced herself as Miss Foot and apologised for not joining them the evening before but explained that she had felt the need to acclimatise.
The other pair missing from the previous evening turned out to be part of the programme of entertainment laid on for the passengers: a New York theatre critic and a writer of popular
