Love a Sailor (8 page)

The
bright sunlight pouring through the edges of the drapes wakes me early.
I leap out of bed, taking care not to wake Kate, and rush over to peep out at
the seascape. The sky is clear, not a cloud to be seen. The sea is choppy,
white horses galloping towards the ship, manes flying in the wind. Even through
the double glazing I can hear its whistle. We are sailing against the famous
Mistral of Provence.

It is Clara’s day for looking after Sukey
and so I don’t even stop to check on the two of them, but throw on jeans and a
warm top and hurry up on deck after the skimpiest toilette. Snatching up a
couple of
pains au chocolat
and a cup of tea to-go from the deck
breakfast bar, I take up my now customary place at the railing and gaze out
over the historic Mediterranean Sea. Caesar’s and Napoleon’s sailing ships had
to battle against this wind in their time. The Captain has told me that so
strong can it be that the new port at Marseilles was built with the purpose of
protecting large cruise ships from its force. Blowing offshore at speeds of
from sixty to a hundred and sixty miles an hour, it has the power to blow small
ships backwards. The upside is the glorious luminous light that now cocoons the
ship beneath a sky of cerulean blue. The Captain explained that the strong wind
clears the air, blowing all the dust away and sending it back to the Sahara
from whence it came on last summer’s sirocco.

Lost in my musings, I don’t realize I am
no longer alone until Pete leans against the railing next to me on the one side
and Doreen on the other.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he says. “Quite
surreal — the clear bright light and the howling wind.”

“This is just the beginning,” I tell him.
“The Captain says—”

“Ooh! Captain alert! Captain alert!”
teases Doreen.

Pete stretches across me to give his
sister a shove. “Let her speak.”

I continue, “We’re still sailing up the
coast of Spain, but the Captain says when we cross the
Golfe du Lion
to
reach Marseilles, it will get really rough.”

“Well, at least we’ll have the ship to
ourselves again if there’s another bout of seasickness,” laughs Pete. “Have you
seen this, by the way?”

He tries to hand me a piece of paper but
the wind whips it out of his hand. “Frigging hell!” He slams his hands down
hard on the wooden rail. “That was stupid of me.”

“Let’s get out of this wind for a
moment,” says Doreen, turning away and walking towards the door to the
interior.

We negotiate our entry, struggling with
the heavy door against the force of the wind, to be met by Tony.

“What do you think about this rugby
match?” he asks.

“That’s what I was going to tell you,”
murmurs Pete.

I shake my head, “I don’t know anything
about it. What rugby match?”

Tony hands me a ship’s circular. “The
Captain has arranged a friendly when we get to Marseilles: the ship’s company
against the foremost semi-professional rugby union team in Marseilles, the
Marseille
Futurs
. He’s looking for volunteers amongst the passengers to make up a
fifteen, plus reserves.”

“Don’t look at me,” I say quickly.

Doreen rolls her eyes at me and giggles,
“Nor me. Pete’s your man.”

Tony turns to Pete, “You play rugger?”

Pete smiles. “I played for my university
first fifteen and hope to get a place on the local team when we hit Australia.
What about you? I thought surfing was your sport?”

“Hey, I’m an Aussie. All us Aussies can
play rugby. I’ll put my name down in case they’re short. And you?”

“Sure, I’ve heard of
Marseille Futurs
.
They’re a good team, almost as good as
Marseille Vitrolles
, their rivals
in Marseilles, who had Jonah Lomu playing for them for a couple of years. That
should show you how high the standard is.”

“So they’ll thrash us, eh?”

“Quite probably, but we’ll have a good
day out. A game of rugger beats dragging round old ruins and shops, any day.”

Tony turns to me, “Is your precious
captain playing, Merry?”

“He’s not precious and he’s not my
captain. And I don’t know. He hasn’t even mentioned this match to me.”

Pete takes my hand. “Don’t let Tony upset
you. He’s just a bit jealous. We’re going to do a mile, and then play pool. Do
you want to join us?”

“Sure.”

Pete adds, “The captain has asked anyone
interested to meet him in the pool room at two thirty. So I take it, you and
I’ll be going, Tony?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,
especially if the captain’s going to play. I’d like to see him get hot and
dirty in a scrum.”

Tony’s not the only one.

*

At two thirty sharp we’re all assembled
in the pool room along with several other members of the crew and a bunch of
passengers. The Captain enters on the dot. A broad smile breaks across his face
when he sees Kate, Doreen and me. “You girls aren’t thinking of playing are
you?”

Kate gives him an eye-roll. “Of course
not, but we’re not going to miss the sight of thirty plus muscly hunks charging
about the pitch, getting muddy and discharging testosterone to the four corners
of Marseilles.”

The Captain grins. “Right, down to
business.”

He makes a note of everyone’s rugby
credentials and chooses his team, taking Number 3 for himself, making Pete,
Number 6, and Tony, Number 11. I don’t really understand what all that means,
but at least the two boys have found a way onto the team. The First Officer
can’t play as he will have to stay and mind the ship, but three other officers
are chosen, with passengers and ratings making up the rest of the team and the
reserves.

“I’ve arranged a bus to pick us up at the
dockside at 2 p.m. tomorrow and take us to the stadium. It will wait there
during the match, and then drop you all off later in
Le Vieux Port
, the Old
Harbor, in the center of Marseilles.”

There is general chatter about what to
wear and what to take, the Captain offering the ship’s collection of rugby gear
to anyone who doesn’t have theirs with them. As everyone leaves, I trail
behind, hoping to catch a couple of minutes with the Captain before he returns
to duty. He pulls me aside.

“I’d like to give you a quick tour of
Le
Vieux Port
tomorrow evening after the game, and then perhaps we could share
a
bouillabaisse
. What do you say?”

It sounds like a wonderful idea to me: the
Captain all to myself for the evening. No stuffy Grill Room dinner. And my first
taste of a real Marseillaise
bouillabaisse
. I have heard so much of this
traditional fish soup-cum-stew and long to try it. Of course, I’m about to say
yes when I remember it will be my turn to babysit Sukey. I can’t leave her
alone with the nurse for the whole evening.

“I’d love to but I’ll have to do a swap
with Clara. That means I shan’t be able to spend the evening with you tonight,
just dinner at the bottom of your table.”

“Don’t look so sad, Meredith. I have to
do my social duty with a party of Chinese businessmen tonight, but I’ll make it
up to you tomorrow. So I’ll go and reserve a table for tomorrow night now.”

With that, The Captain touches his lips
to mine and sweeps out of the door.

*

In spite of the Mistral, the
Albion
docks on time at Marseilles. The view from my vantage point is dismal after the
beauty of Malaga and Barcelona. The new cruise ship port is miles from the city
of Marseilles and looks out over dull semi-industrial buildings and ugly-shaped
gray concrete blocks. I give up watching once the mooring ropes are tied off,
and spend the rest of the morning hiding away in the library with my book.

At lunch Clara surprises me by saying
that she would like to come to the match. She will be looking after Sukey and
they will both go back to the ship when the match is over. As directed we’re
all lined up on the quayside at two thirty and board our bus. It isn’t a pretty
ride as the stadium is west of the city, almost due inland from the port, but
the stadium itself is modern with an all-weather sliding roof. Once we’re
inside, the buffeting from the Mistral dies down and we sit in warm sunshine
and watch our team tackle the best of French manhood. It’s a good game as far
as I can tell and lives up to its epithet as friendly. Pete and the Captain are
the stars of our team, with Tony putting in an adequate if not gifted
performance. The Captain scores two tries and one conversion but the
Marseille
Futurs
beat us soundly with a final score of 23 to 15.

When the match is over I walk down with
Clara and Sukey to the car park, and see them both into a taxi to take them
back to the ship. The Captain comes running after me to say that he has to stay
and do a man’s thing with the team and won’t be able to get away for some time.
He suggests I take a taxi to
Le Vieux Port
and spend a couple of hours
wandering around. He will meet me at
Le Chat Rouge
, a little bar he
knows well. He gives me directions, calls a taxi for me and goes back inside
for some male bonding.

*

Five minutes later, I’m on my way down
the
Autoroute du Soleil
, the aptly named Sunshine Freeway, with the
Golfe
du Lion
and the cruise ship quays on my right. I’m excited. Here I am,
eighteen years old, on my own in France for the first time. We pass through the
western suburbs and the city center, fetching up at
Le Chat Rouge
. I pay
off the driver and cross the road to the quayside. I work out the orientation
of the bar so that I can find my way back again in time to meet the Captain.

Le Vieux Port
is shaped like a slipper orchid with a
long wide entrance and a u-shaped end. Stretching away out to the sea, the
quays are lined with small boats, fishing craft with lobster pots and nets, and
a colorful variety of pleasure craft. I guess that the port wouldn’t be so full
if the Mistral wasn’t blowing. I have about two hours to kill and so I stroll
up and down the quays, breathing in the Mistral cleansed salty air. I potter
about down the little streets looking in the touristy shops and stopping twice
for a cup of tea and a
p
â
tisserie
. Dusk is darkening to night. It’s time
for me to make my way back to
Le Chat Rouge.

Everything looks different at this time
in the evening. I’ve wandered far from the quayside and foolishly lost my way.
I ask a passerby for directions in my halting French and although I can’t
understand everything he says, I follow the arm signal he gives me. Fifteen
minutes later, I’m still lost and ask the way again. This time I’m told that
Le
Chat Rouge
is only five minutes away. I’m going the right way. He points to
a narrow little alleyway and says it’s a shortcut which will bring me out close
to the bar.

I stop at the entrance to the passageway,
but I don’t like the look of it — too dark and winding. But then again, I don’t
want to be late for my rendezvous with the Captain. Taking my mace out of my
pocket and holding it at the ready, I step into the dingy walkway. It smells of
stale pee and moss, and the quicker I’m through it and out the other end the
better. The old cobbles are slippery even in my flat-heeled boots and I have to
concentrate on where I put my feet. Footsteps ring out in front of me. I look
up to find a man coming towards me out of the gloom. He’s almost upon me. Not
to worry. We’ll offer each other a polite “
Bon Soir
” and move on. Not
so. He moves to bar my way, playfully, or so it seems at first, stretching his
arms out to touch the walls on either side.

He says something to me in very fast
French and laughs.

Time to retrace my steps, on the run, but
he’s too close. I’ll never make it before he grabs me. I have to tough it out.
I square my shoulders and say in as strong a voice as I can manage, “Let me
pass,
s’il vous pla
î
t
.”

That only makes him laugh the more.
Beating him to it, I swing the mace up and spray him full in the face. He falls
to his knees clutching at his eyes and screaming out, “
Merde, putain!
”

I squeeze past him on the left, watching
him closely to make sure he isn’t going to catch hold of my leg when someone
grabs my arm from behind and spins me round. Another rough looking lout. He
grins and twists my wrist until I have to let go of the canister. “What have
you done to my friend, bitch? You’ll pay for this.”

I can’t run and I’ve dropped the mace, so
it has to be Plan C. Saying a private thank-you to Clara for all the hours she
made me spend at self-defense classes, I spin round to face him, bending my
knees as I turn. Using the momentum of my spin, I launch myself upwards through
his arms and deal him a walloping head-butt on the chin and follow it up by
kneeing him in the balls with all my force. He doubles over with the pain and,
I’m sure, the shock of meeting with resistance.