KIT
18 March 2015
‘This is cosy,’ I say, as the horizon tilts nauseatingly through a porthole the size of a compact disc. The cabin is tiny. An hour at sea and I’m already feeling the claustrophobia of the watertight compartment. Richard whistles through his nose when he breathes. I feel pathetically, childishly, homesick for my wife. I even miss that third wheel in our relationship, her anxiety.
Richard is poring over the brochure. ‘There’s a casino on board,’ he says in wonderment, as though the Princess Celeste was not a working cruise ship but a vessel commissioned especially for astronomers, unconcerned with such earthly pursuits, and he was expecting a state-of-the-art observatory next to the games room. There is also a ballroom, which will host tonight’s disco (goodness knows what that’ll be like), a miniature cinema and a beauty parlour. Before departure, I couldn’t see myself setting foot in any of them. Now I realise that the alternative is sitting in this cramped room, even the quoits deck has a certain allure.
‘Gone are the days when I could uncap one of these with my teeth,’ says Richard, twisting away at his bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale with his bare hands. ‘I’m going to take the skin off my palms if I’m not careful.’ He realises what he’s said and his eyes travel to my hands, which are folded on my lap. ‘Oh, Chris, sorry, I didn’t think.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, because he’s more embarrassed than I am. ‘There’s a Swiss Army in the side pocket of my rucksack – no, the other one – that’s it.’ There’s a comforting plink as Richard opens a beer for each of us. He folds the bottle opener back into the body of the knife, and when he throws it to me I catch it in one hand, then rise to take the proffered bottle.
‘Let’s take these out for a walk,’ I say.
Outside, our fellow passengers are determinedly taking their afternoon promenade, hoods up against a biting salty wind. Even with their hair and faces hidden, I can tell by their gaits that most of them are retirement age. This is the first eclipse package tour I’ve ever been on – for obvious reasons, Laura and I always travelled independently – and I feel the experienced traveller’s instinctive disdain for the mere tourist. As soon as I notice this attitude I vow to overcome it on this trip. An eclipse viewed from the deck of a ship or outside a coach is no less valid than one witnessed in a field full of hippies after a dusty Jeep-ride across the desert, or one viewed alone on top of a mountain. I’m nearly forty and about to become a father. I congratulate myself on my own maturity. It occurs to me for the first time, and I can’t believe this realisation has taken so long, that one good thing about being so removed from the alternative scene is that those few people who recognise us – and as discreet as we tried to be, there was at least one occasion when we could not avoid drawing attention to ourselves – are less likely to be here. That old granny there in her orthopaedic shoes, for example, I’ll stake my (re)mortgage that she won’t have witnessed the scene in Zambia.
A public address system bing-bongs into life, and everyone freezes mid-step as a fruity, weirdly familiar male voice broadcasts a message about tonight’s introductory drinks, lecture and – ‘for those who still have the stamina’ – disco. My heart bolts. If Beth is here, this is surely where she’ll reveal herself. I know from Zambia that she doesn’t mind making a scene. The bottle in my hand is suddenly light, and I realise that I’m up for my second drink already.
The speakers bing-bong back into silence and, released from the spell, everyone starts walking again. Richard and I soon reach the stern, and lean against a railing that overlooks a wall of lifeboats. To our left, the drop is sheer and the railings are just below chest height. It’s crowded here now but if it were deserted it would be the easiest thing in the world for someone else, someone fragile, someone unpredictable, someone storing up fifteen years’ worth of anger, to rush from behind and tip the other person into the churning water. It really wouldn’t take much at all.
We spend a few moments watching the North Sea churn to a creamy yellow foam in our wake. A family of seals swims dangerously, stupidly, close to the ship, arousing in me sentimental thoughts of my own incipient family. All roads lead back to Laura.
‘First picture of the trip,’ I say, setting my phone to selfie mode. I hold it at arm’s length and manage to capture the two of us, grinning over brown bottles of beer, the sea a blue blur in the background. When I try to send it to Laura, there’s no signal. That’s the problem with the middle of the North Sea; no phone masts.
‘You can get Wi-Fi, but only in the lobby, although apparently you can pick up a signal on most of the top deck,’ says Richard, whose hourly weather updates depend on knowing these things. On my land-lubber’s legs, I climb a white-painted staircase to the next level; the metal banister is cold under my hand. Up here, it’s deserted, and I can see why. The wind is sharp, loud and disorienting. I take shelter behind a steaming air vent, where it’s warmer as well as quieter. It takes under a minute for my phone to lock on to the Wi-Fi, and I send the picture to Laura in London.
Looks like the world’s geekiest ever stag do, she bounces back. I smile and pocket my phone, and turn to rejoin Richard.