Cruise

Cruise

Mr Tompkins sat down on the garish sun-lounger and looked gloomily out
to sea. Despite the clear blue skies, he wore his customary tweed
jacket and waistcoat and kept his shirt buttoned to the neck. His
matching tweed trousers, stretched tight about his portly figure,
contrasted dramatically with the slight bathing costumes that the
flappers all wore on deck. His paisley socks and brown brogues lay
uneasily against the lurid seat. The bustle and excitement of some two
thousand passengers encased in a large ocean liner passed him by. Mr
Tompkins looked at his pocket watch and saw that it was nine o'clock.
He retired to his cabin for the night.

It had been a long time coming, this trip. A half century of saving, of
hard work and pious living within his means. Not for Mr Tompkins the
luxuries of life. He knew that good things came only to those that
bided their time and that meant those who invested wisely. Yes, Mr
Tompkins lived by the maxim which had served his father well, and his
father before him. In his office, he had a yellowing hand-typed sign:
'Look after the Pennies and the Pounds Will Look After
Themselves'.

It wasn't until he was near retirement that he suddenly realised he was
afraid. Whilst he was able to go to the office and engage in meetings
he was not alone. At home though, on occasion, when he was sitting late
into the night with a cup of tea, listening to the wireless, he would
feel a loneliness that threatened to overwhelm him. For a long while
this feeling had manifested itself in a fleeting chill down his spine.
More recently, perhaps as the prospect of a thousand days of waiting
began to bear down upon him, his whole body began to shake with racking
sobs. He was most definitely afraid.

It was a colleague that had suggested the trip. Some time during his
last weeks at work, as he had been trying to ignore his impending fate
by concentrating on tying up all loose ends, he had overheard some of
the young fellows in the office joking about an article in the Picture
Post. From what he could glean, (although he was not for one minute
neglecting his work or eavesdropping, you understand) a rich elderly
man had found himself a young female companion when embarking on a
holiday abroad. His colleagues made several derogatory comments about
the foolishness of the man. Mr Tompkins rather felt that it was the
girl who should be pitied. After all, what could an old man in
retirement ever provide for a young woman less than half his age? Mr
Tompkins thought about that story until he went to bed that
evening.

Mr Tompkins always had the most remarkable dreams. Many an hour was
passed in consigning them to paper before ripping them into small
pieces and discarding them with derision. Dreams were not, after all,
what made a man who he was. Fantasy was a boy's plaything, not at all a
fitting pastime for a well-respected clerk approaching retirement. That
night, Mr Tompkins dreamt about a dance that he had attended to
celebrate the onset of the 20th century. Edward, a friend, and he were
preparing for their evening. Edward, already spruced and shining, was
buttoning his collar and adjusting his neat multi-coloured bow-tie. Mr
Tompkins was pulling on his tweed trousers and straightening his
waistcoat. After making some final adjustments to their dress they set
off, on foot, to the dance.

Mr Tompkins watched in awe, blushing by proxy as Edward asked each girl
in turn to dance. Some accepted, others turned away in disgust. All
secretly smiled and awaited their chance. Mr Tompkins stood
protectively against the wall, near the door and waited for the hours
to tick slowly by. Suddenly and seemingly from nowhere, a girl appeared
by his side. A short, dumpy girl with a heavily powdered face,
emanating a strong smell of cheap perfume. Without introducing herself,
she leant towards him and with beery breath whispered her coarse
invitation. Mr Tompkins froze. With a panic, he realised that Edward
was too far away to help him. A bead of sweat broke from his temple and
began a painfully ticklish trickle down his cheek. Mr Tompkins did not
dare to move. Her hand reached out and touched him on the shoulder. He
jumped back but found himself trapped in a corner. Feverishly he looked
around him for an escape route. There was none. She stepped forward and
encased him in her smell.

Mr Tompkins woke with a sharp scream. He was sweating. He threw off the
covers and sat up in bed, breathing heavily. After taking a moment to
recover his bearings, he rose and went over to the small marble sink in
the corner and doused himself liberally with cold water. The very act
of running a comb through the few hairs left on his head calmed him
down. Looking out of the porthole, he saw that it was now quite dark,
yet he could hear music and singing from the ballroom above him. He
consulted his pocket watch and saw that it was only ten minutes past
ten. Mr Tompkins reminded himself that he should see the Chief Steward
about moving rooms. He told himself that it was probably the damned
music that had woken him. He lay down to sleep once more, but found
himself too awake. Presently, after staring at the dim lights
reflecting off his ceiling from the sea for some minutes he sat up and
resolved to go upstairs and find out just how long the infernal racket
would continue. Mr Tompkins was a man often brave in the absence of an
enemy.

It took him some time to get dressed, replacing the tweed jacket,
trousers, shirt and waistcoat on his person. Noting that if anything,
the music and singing was louder than before, he rechecked his pocket
watch and saw that it was now half-past the hour. He wondered why
people didn't retire to their beds at a sensible time anymore. Mr
Tompkins left his cabin and made his way up several flights of stairs
towards the ballroom.

At the entrance, Mr Tompkins took a deep breath and prepared to throw
open the doors, march purposefully to the Chief Steward and demand an
explanation. Perhaps, he thought sagely, they might be persuaded to
reimburse some of the exorbitant fare that he had paid. A brief smile
drifted across his palid face. It froze on his face as he felt a touch
at his arm. Startled, he looked up to see a slight, fair haired young
woman with striking blue eyes. Her long, slender fingers traced across
his sleeve. Her pretty, lipsticked mouth asked him coquettishly if he
was returning to the dance.

"Oh no!" Mr Tompkins exclaimed. "I am simply&;#8230;."

His response was interrupted by a somewhat melodramatic outburst.

"It's just that Gerry's been such a rotter! When we first got here he
danced with me for about a minute and since then he's just spent all
his time fawning over that&;#8230;.that&;#8230;.over that ghastly
Victoria girl. It's just so, so unfair!"

She tailed off into sobs, and leaned luxuriously into his shoulder. Her
fair hair smelled sweet against his cheek. Mr Tompkins put an
uncomfortable arm around her shoulders.

"There, there." He said selfconsciously.

Mr Tompkins was shaken. He hadn't had this kind of contact with a girl
for many years. He very much wanted to sit her down and return to the
safety of his cabin but knew that it would be impolite to do so.
'Besides,' he reasoned with himself. 'No harm could come of comforting
the poor young thing'. After some minutes she spoke.

"Will you&;#8230;." she broke off. "Will you take me up to the deck
for some air?"

The tears had stopped, although Mr Tompkins saw, as he glanced down at
her face, that the lip still quivered and the eyes still brimmed to the
point of overflowing. Somewhat reluctantly, and perhaps in the hope of
calming her so that she might return to Gerry, whoever he was, he
agreed.

It was a calm night on deck. The wind was sharp and cold but there was
no rain. They stood together on the bow and looked out across the heavy
grey sea towards the distant horizon. Beyond that horizon, Mr Tompkins
knew, lay the Land of Freedom and Opportunity. Perhaps, he thought
irrationally, he might stay there forever, never returning to the
lonely English shores. She had his hand in hers and, as they looked
across the Atlantic, both wrapped up in their own thoughts, she
occasionally gave it a brazen squeeze. Mr Tompkins found that the
situation was becoming less and less uncomfortable. For the first time
in as long as he could remember, he felt himself begin to relax in the
presence of a female. Even more, as the time ticked toward the eleventh
hour, he began to feel a stirring inside him, an awakening of some
long-forgotten sensation.

After several false starts, he raised his arm and put it upon her
shoulder. She started, then looked up at him with a strange, knowing
smile. He left it there. After some moments like this, he noticed that
she kept turning her head towards him. At first, he felt impelled to
glance nervously over his shoulder towards the door that led back into
the ship. Shortly though, he realised that she was gazing not over his
shoulder, but into his face - at his warm, dry mouth. Surrepticiously,
he wiped a thin film of sweat from his upper lip. His heart pounded.
Taking a deep breath, he bent his head towards hers and closed his
eyes.

"Gerry!" She exclaimed, suddenly animated.

In a half-second she had wriggled out from under his arm and skipped
away towards the harrassed-looking young man waiting by the door.

"Oh Gerry, you're so naughty dancing with Victoria! You know I think
she's an awful toff. So out of your league you know."

As she continued her beration, the young man mumbled his practised
apologies and led her back towards the ballroom. An incredulous and
despondent Mr Tompkins remained with his gaze firmly fixed on the sea
ahead of him. His arm lay limply at his side with the comic outline of
her shoulders still evident in the crease of his sleeve. Tears of
frustration at his own stupidity welled in his eyes.

He remembered then, images poured up from the depths of his memory like
a dormant volcano breaking inexplicably into sudden explosive life. As
if transported back through time, he recalled how, on that sunny
morning so long ago, he had pulled on a pair of pale grey trousers, a
bright white shirt and a blue cravat. His smart grey jacket was made of
the best wool and fitted neatly across his chest. Edward, dressed
exactly the same, although his jacket was maybe a size too large,
helped him fix his tie-pin as they waited for the car. Both carried
well-brushed top hats.

They arrived at the church at ten, an hour before the ceremony was due
to start. They paced the gravel footpath together, each feeling the
increasing tension although neither mentioned it. Every few minutes Mr
Tompkins found himself glancing down at his pocket watch. At half-past
ten they went into the church to await his bride. Both knew, although
neither said, that it would be bad luck for the groom to see her as she
drew up at the church.

At eleven the vicar came over to speak with him. Reverend Neville
Greystone was a young chap with a slight nervous stammer. Mr Tompkins
remembered thinking that on any other occasion the speech deficiency
might be quite humourous.

"Th-the car," the vicar began cautiously. "It-it-it hasn't
arrive-arrived yet. Do you th-think it might have brok-broken
down?"

A coldness never before experienced had ran down Mr Tompkins spine and
he knew. However much they tried to reassure him, he knew she wasn't
coming. Pushing Edward aside he stumbled blindly into one of the choir
rooms, slamming the door behind him. He fell to the floor and buried
his head in his arms. Through the door he could hear the ridiculously
comic voice of the Reverend imploring him to come out. Mr Tompkins did
not know whether he would not, or could not, leave the comfort of the
small, dark room. He beat his hands against the floor and wept tears of
frustration and pity.

During the next days, weeks and months he had resolved never to allow
himself to feel that way again. He had scrupulously avoided female
contact. He had devoted his life to his dull work in a meaningless
cold, grey office and prepared himself for his life alone. As time went
on, the pain slowly, very slowly, had subsided. And now, he reflected,
in one foolish, unguarded moment, he had let himself remember. It was
as if suddenly, at his most vulnerable moment, humanity was determined
to flaunt what he had missed most of all.

In anger, he pulled roughly at the tweed jacket, plucked it from his
body and hurled it over the bows, into the wind. It settled for a
moment against the rails before slipping down the long, steep iron
slope towards the murky depths of the ocean. He ripped down his
trousers and threw them to one side, not caring where they landed. He
knew that where he was going they would not be needed anymore.

Mr Tompkins returned his teary gaze out across the grey seas and prayed
that whoever was out there would give him just one burst of courage.
The stars glimmered blindly in the sky and the occasional cloud on an
otherwise clear night made a patchwork of pinpricks in the blackness. A
low mist covered the ocean as far as the horizon and the moon cast her
silver glow upon the gently beckoning waves. In the midst of the
grey-black sea Mr Tompkins glimpsed a flash of white. As the ship rose
and fell, he saw that he had not been mistaken. The whiteness bobbed in
the water with the regularity of the waves.

Slowly a smile formed on Mr Tompkins' face. He looked back at the door
leading from the deck. No one was to be seen. He glanced down at his
pocket watch. It was a quarter past eleven. The decision was made. For
the first time in his long, tired life, Mr Tompkins relaxed, finally
secure that he was totally in control. He returned to the garish sun
lounger and sat, bare-legged, his eyes fixed on the summit of the white
mountain slowly making its way towards him. Mr Tompkins allowed a
satisfied, calm smile to creep slowly across his face.

? Julian Martin
January 2002