Confessions from a Luxury Liner. Timothy Lea

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      ‘No,’ says Sid. ‘I’m nipping up to the Palais. Do you want to come?’

      ‘The Palais?’ I say. ‘I haven’t been there for years. I didn’t know you were into dancing.’

      ‘I’m not, am I?’ says Sid. ‘I’ve got a date with this bird who might be able to help us with the steward thing. Her old man is on the turn—’ at least, that is what I think he says. It is not until I have expressed sympathy that I learn that the lady’s husband serves on a boat called the Tern.

      ‘What do you need me for?’ I say.

      ‘She’s certain to have a friend,’ says Sid. ‘They always do, don’t they? You can look after her while I sort out Gloria.’

      ‘She goes there a lot while her old man’s at sea, does she?’ I ask.

      ‘She gets lonely,’ says Sid. ‘You can understand it. Everybody needs a bit of company, don’t they?’

      ‘Is that where you met her?’ I ask.

      ‘No,’ says Sid. ‘She was in The Highwayman on Friday night. She goes up there for the charity draw.’

      ‘Sounds very public spirited,’ I say. ‘You giving her one, are you?’

      ‘You don’t ask people questions like that when they’re happily married,’ says Sid. ‘Bugger! I forgot to buy any peppermints when I was in the boozer.’

      I am not over thrilled about going up the Palais because it is not cheap and I can’t dance to keep my joints from seizing up. I took a postal course once but it never showed you how to marry the footprints up to the music and you don’t like to ask your partner when to start and what sort of dance it is, do you? It is also a bit imitation posh and I don’t go a bundle on that either. You have to wear a tie in the Princess Bar and there is a Brylcreem dispenser in the gents – or ‘Caballeros’ as it is called.

      ‘Aren’t we going to have a few beers first?’ I say. ‘It never tastes the same with a carpet under your feet.’

      ‘Stop moaning,’ says Sid. ‘If we could get a job on one of these boats we could be putting ourselves in line for a new world of experiences. Gloria will be able to tell us all about it.’

      ‘We’d be better off with her old man, wouldn’t we?’

      ‘I hope not,’ says Sid. ‘Anyway, he’s chugging round the Mediterranean, lucky bastard.’ He squirts an aerosol spray round the inside of the Rover and it is clear the way his mind is working. The Alsatian in the back window will have something to nod about before the night is out.

      The Palais does not seem to have changed much from when I last saw it. Maybe the manager has a little more scar tissue round his mince pies than when I last saw him but it is difficult to be certain. He looks just as suspicious and worried as he did in the old days. Sid starts to hum ‘I’m putting on my white tie’ as he fumbles for his wallet, and my stomach heaves. I have a distant recollection of Rosie’s wedding when they piled the metal chairs on top of each other in the church hall, poured sand from the fire buckets over the pools of sick and danced until the Brownies rolled up. Sid had quite a dazzling quarter turn in those days I seem to remember. And something called the fish tail that involved hopping across the floor as if it was white hot coals and somebody had dropped a jellyfish down your Y-fronts.

      I am just about to suggest that Sid might like to buy me the other half when he stiffens and squares his enormous shoulders. It is obvious that somewhere amongst the crispy noodle of lacquered barnet he has spotted Gloria.

      ‘Right, here we go,’ he breathes. ‘Try and match my mood of breathless suavity. She likes a laugh so cheer yourself up a bit. You look like you dropped fifty pence in a dog turd.’

      ‘Is it true that Laurence Olivier is playing you in The Sid Noggett Story?’ I ask.

      Sid does not reply because he has already fixed a horrible smile on his gnashers and is gliding forward full of wild animal magic. I follow a few paces behind him, checking on the position of the exit doors. He is steering for a couple of blondes and from behind they do not look bad. The hair colour comes straight out of a bottle but the rest of them seems natural enough. Only time and the subtle pressure of my sensitive Germans will tell.

      ‘Sid!’ One of the birds has turned round and her face actually lights up. This is quite something at the Palais where it is cool to treat everyone like you are only just too good mannered to tell them that they have terminal BO.

      ‘Hidy hi! How are we then? Looking pretty fantastic, I must say.’ Sid takes both her mitts in his and holds her at arm’s length like the two of them were left over when the screen went blank after an old Doris Day movie.

      ‘You’re not looking so bad yourself, is he Natalie?’

      Natalie might be Gloria’s sister and she nods and giggles. Then everyone looks at me. Sid is wearing his fawn denim Sanders of the River safari suit, and both the birds have shiny dresses, so I suppose I am what you might call a bit underdressed. Certainly, Joe Bugner’s sparring partner in the dinner jacket on the door gave me an old-fashioned look. Sid swiftly gauges that the female reaction to me is not exactly white hot.

      ‘This is my kid brother-in-law, Timmy,’ he says. ‘He’s saving up for a suit.’

      ‘A paternity suit,’ I say. I reckon this is quite quick and verging on the amusing but neither of the birds seem to coco it overmuch. They are too busy running their eyes over my threads like they wish they were vacuum cleaners. I have to admit that my Chinese tank top from ‘Gone Wong’ in the High Street was a bit of a mistake and someone ought to tell the chinks that we are not all built like spaghetti with shoulder blades. Still, the Judies are clocking me from the best side because it is only when you are standing behind me that you can see where all the seams have gone.

      ‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Gloria without sounding as if she means it.

      ‘Hello,’ says Natalie with less enthusiasm than Gloria.

      ‘Great!’ says Sid, rubbing his hands together. ‘How would you girls fancy a drink?’

      ‘In a glass,’ says Gloria.

      ‘Oh yes, very good,’ says Sid trying to strike a few sparks off my glazed eyeballs. ‘We’ve got a couple of bright ones here, Timmo.’

      ‘Definitely,’ I say, trying desperately to work a little enthusiasm into my voice. ‘What would you like, girls?’

      ‘Pernod,’ says Gloria.

      ‘Pernod,’ says Natalie.

      ‘That’s a kind of absinthe, isn’t it?’ says Sid.

      ‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘You know what they say. “Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder”.’

      Of course, I am wasting my time weaving dizzy verbal patterns round these birds who would probably have difficulty arranging ‘off piss’ into a well known phrase or saying, and I need my head examined trying a second attempt at humour when the first has been a disaster. If a bird starts off finding you funny, that is great, but if you are up against the strong silent type you СКАЧАТЬ