heard of the theatre critic who was known by his pen name ‘The Critic at the Hearth’ and was famed for his savage reviews which closed down Broadway shows overnight. He was a little, bird-like man with round tortoiseshell glasses and mild hazel eyes. Kimberley Crane, the novelist, was a statuesque woman wearing a white fishtail dress which showed off impressive breasts. She was explaining, when Vi arrived, how the evening before she and the critic had been summoned to the Captain’s bridge for cocktails and had subsequently been unable to find their way to the Alexandria.
‘You should have seen us. We were like babes lost in the wood.’
‘What did you do for food?’ Valerie Garson asked.
‘We made do,’ said the critic, with a benign-seeming smile. (There was a widespread fear among his New York acquaintances that he might one day publish his reminiscences.) ‘We amused ourselves with some crumbs of pizza dropped by the woodland birds.’
‘He did,’ said Kimberley. ‘I can’t touch gluten.’
Martha asked Vi how her day had been and the captain gave her a conspiratorial look and passed her the basket of bread rolls.
Les said, ‘I spotted you dancing with that handsome young man. Don’t you worry, Val here’ll tell you not much gets past me.’
The captain looked crestfallen and to spare his feelings Vi explained. ‘My steward is a ballroom dance fan. He was keen for me to try it out so I went to the tea dance to please him.’
‘My wife was a wonderful ballroom dancer.’ The captain spoke wistfully.
Vi, seeing where this was heading, said hastily, ‘I’m really no good at dancing. I only went to please Renato.’
‘Extraordinary,’ said the critic. ‘I do hope my steward won’t insist.’
The sommelier, who introduced himself as Pedro, came to take her order and recommended the Rioja. Vi ordered a large glass. ‘My steward’s very keen on the Titanic,’ she said to the critic. ‘The show, I mean, not the ship.’ She remembered that this had been the target of one of his most scathing pieces.
Conversation drifted generally to other topics. The critic and Martha took up the recent changes of foreign policy in the US, Kimberley and Valerie begin to debate the pros and cons of breast reduction and Les said that he preferred his women natural and what was wrong with a bit of tit? Greg and Heather, in the absence of any outside interest, spoke among themselves of their son’s latest accomplishments and Miss Foot asked the captain if he was acquainted with the work of Rudolph Steiner, of whose philosophy, she confided, she had been a life-long disciple. The captain was patently out of his depth but he was too far away for Vi to rescue him. She turned, rather thankfully, to Baz.
‘What was it you were doing at the LSE if that isn’t too nosy?’
‘I’m an anthropologist.’
‘Not economics, then?’
‘Not at all. African religion is my field. My speciality is traditional healers, “witch doctors” to you. The LSE happens to be rather good on witch doctors.’
‘How funny,’ she said. ‘Someone I knew is, or was, interested in witch doctors, sorry, traditional healers, I should say.’
‘No?’
‘Yes. He was at the LSE too.’
‘I admit to being surprised. Rather big-headedly, I get to thinking I am the only witch-doctor doctor. We tend to be kind of thin on the ground.’
‘I should imagine. What is it you study especially?’
‘My healers are the Sangomas, the traditional healers of southern Africa. I guess you could say they work as psychiatrists. But they practise as physicians too. Herbs, mostly, but also, for example, they prescribe lion’s fat to give courage.’
‘The person I knew was interested in Voodoo, sorry, I mean Vodun, but I was never quite sure whether he was telling tall stories,’ Vi said, thinking she wouldn’t mind some lion’s fat.
‘These esoteric religions generate tall stories. After all, who can check them? The Catholic missionaries of course exploited this like crazy. But I’m intrigued. Who was your friend?’
‘No one you would know,’ Vi said. ‘It was ages ago.’
After dinner, Greg and Heather hurried away to monitor the peacefully slumbering Patrick. Kimberley Crane announced that if that was what having kids did to you she was glad she hadn’t any and she didn’t know about anyone else but she for one was heading for the bar.
Vi went up on deck but it was chilly and the boards were wet with sea spray and slippery. Not quite knowing what to do with herself, she looked in at the Golden Hinde where she found Ken and Jen.
Jen grabbed her arm. ‘Did you know Kimberley Crane was on board?’
‘As a matter of fact she’s at my dinner table.’
‘Oh my God, she’s my hero!’
‘Heroine,’ Ken corrected. He was holding a pint of lager and, swaying slightly with the motion of the ship, looked a little tipsy.
‘No, Ken. Hero. Vi, can you get me to talk to her?’
Vi said, ‘I can try. But I only met her myself this evening.’
Kimberley Crane was standing by the bar in the thick of admirers. She clearly hadn’t any idea who Vi was when she made her way through the throng to introduce Jen who looked quite bashful and said, ‘I simply adore your books, Miss Crane.’
Vi left Jen to fight her corner with the other fans and tried in vain to attract the barman’s attention. She was rescued by Ken, who bought her a brandy and steered her through the crush.
‘Thank you, Ken. At my age, you tend to become invisible.’
‘I reckon you’re visible enough, Vi.’
‘Thank you, again.’
‘Old as you feel.’
Vi, who frequently felt as old as the hills, agreed. The ship lurched a little and he held the crook of her arm while she steadied herself.
‘Easy does it. Do you mind the swell, Vi?’
‘Actually, Ken, I quite like it.’
‘Jen doesn’t,’ Ken said. ‘Lucky I brought her seasickness tablets. She’s a terrible sailor.’ He looked admiringly over at his wife who was at the bar talking excitedly to the other Kimberley Crane fans. ‘She’d forget her head, Jen, if I weren’t there to remind her.’
Kimberley Crane was still at the bar when the critic wandered by later that evening. ‘You know,’ she swayed a little on her heels, steadying herself on his narrow shoulder, ‘my agent thinks I’ve got a play in me.’
‘Extraordinary how many seem to have,’ said the critic, stepping aside adroitly to help himself from a bowl of crisps on the bar.
‘I’d
