
The full, July moon sat high in the starry sky so that its light was reflected only when passengers happened to look down into the passing black water. A still night with no breeze other than that slight movement caused by the motion of the ship, the atmosphere everywhere was a heady mix of expensive perfumes, lingering cigarette smoke on the evening wear and the odd punctuation of close sweat. The band in the ballroom rattled out one after another of the most popular tunes, Rosemary Clooney and Nat King Cole, over the deep, persistent throbbing of the engines. From the bars on the upper decks could be heard the sound of singing and laughing and every now and then someone in heels would click past upon the polished decking accompanied by the polite conversation of couples.
Sighing the smoke away, he flicked the unfinished cigarette out into the darkness of the South-west Approaches and noted its light cascade in a beautiful, long, red-tipped arc. He turned on his polished heel to go back inside for an hour or two more by the bar. But before he could take a step the heavy deck door opened and she appeared.
“Oh, hello! Thought you were out here. Mind if I join you?” She approached with cigarette and matches at the ready in one hand. “I’m afraid I only brought the one.”
“Of course, Miss Shaw. Don’t worry, I have my own.” He patted his breast to indicate the inner pocket slight bulge containing his silver case. To impress, he pulled from his trouser pocket his silver lighter that instantly flicked and ignited.
“Beautiful… night.” she added between puffs.
He deftly flicked the lighter’s flame out with his thumb. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
And there they stopped and together admired the stars, the light from the boat on the passing wake, and the congenial party atmosphere. There was a glistening quality to her skin: her bare shoulders had a thin line of moonlight that contrasted magnificently with the deep yellow glare from the deck light bulbs behind. The waves of her hair radiated glamour, straight out of a magazine.
“So, Miss Shaw, have you been in America before?”
“Once or twice. My father had business dealings in Boston before the war…”
She began to talk directly, about factories and childhoods and public schools, but he heard very little. In truth he was deeply moved by her charm, her ambiance, her grace and poise – the very air that she exhaled. It had an electric charge to it he found impossible to ignore. It ignited him. In this light she became Lana Turner with the passionate elegance of a single female in her mid-30s. That made him Enzio Pinza.
“Tell me, if you please, why you never married.”
She tilted her head and returned a glance at him, not a smile but merely a thoughtful check. “Oh, I had the opportunity – was engaged, in fact, about two years ago. Lovely man, Bill, and I was just head over heels. But he was shot. Only one more month to go in Malaya.” She stopped and looked forwards, her mouth closed, a set expression of regret upon it.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He paused. “It must have been dreadful for you.” She nodded, but continued to stare. “Look, I’m sorry. Shall we dance? Would you like that?” He held out his arm.
Stepping out from her reverie, she turned to him: “I’d like that very much, Mr Crane.” She joined his arm.
“Joe, please.” They walked together through the heavy deck door and down towards the ballroom where the dancers were applauding Sentimental Journey.
–
He was sure of it – she had definitely winked. They had parted on the best of terms, yes, but there was something else. Only moments before, he had gallantly escorted her back to her port cabin, but wasn’t there something more in the way she held his hand at the end and said goodnight. Was he imagining it? Was she waiting there for him to rap at the door? Perhaps she’d already donned negligee and gown and dimmed the lights. Was she expecting him to turn up now so that they could dive together into a night of unexpected passion? Or was it meant for tomorrow? Should he bide his time? Wasn’t that the more gentlemanly thing to do? What if it was all in his imagination? Would she be offended if he knocked on her door – with only one implication in mind? But wasn’t that what she wanted? If she did give the hint, then would she be offended if he didn’t go to her? Would she think him pushy sleaze if he did, or a prudish stuffed shirt if he didn’t? What should he say if he’d got it all wrong? Would it be a disgraceful thing for her – for him?
The moments passed into minutes. He paced. He leant against the door. He splashed his face with water. He peered down the corridor: the only sound was the eternal throbbing of the engines. He shut the door again and began to sweat. He glanced at his watch: 1:35.
Looking at himself in the door mirror, he steeled. Come on, man! This is the opportunity you’ve been looking for – anticipating, hoping, praying for. Before he could stop himself, he was locking his cabin and sauntering back to the port corridor. He turned the corner and there it was – her door, a small brass 21 beside the lock. He couldn’t mask his smart shoes’ squeaks on the soft carpet as he approached. He listened: yes, he could hear rustling movement from behind the Formica-covered fiberboard. Good – she was still awake, still waiting for him, undoubtedly readying herself.
He gently knocked. The rustling stopped, the occupant unsure if she heard right. To confirm he tapped again. There were soft steps.
“Yes?”
Damn – he had to talk, to announce himself and broadcast to all ears in the nearby cabins that a juicy piece of late-night gossipy entertainment was about to happen.
“It’s me – Joe.”
There was a pause, and then the latch was slowly pulled back. A head peered round, saw it was indeed who the voice said it was, and the door swung backwards. It revealed the pyjama’d and netted form of his evening’s companion. She was shorter, had lost all her glamour, and had white lotion on her face.
“Mr Crane?” She seemed a little put out.
He took one look at her tired face, the unhappy expression of one discovered in distress. She was not the woman of the dance floor, of the martinis, of the smokes over the ocean and the sophisticated discussion on Picasso and Jazz. She was, essentially, just another woman.
“I… I… just thought… I’d… I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed tonight, Miss Turner. Maybe we can do it again. Goodnight.”
His cover blown, he walked away as smartly as he could. “Damn-damn-damn!” he muttered to himself, turning left to rise up the stairs again for another good long smoke. He hit his head with his fist: “I called her Turner…”
For her part, she watched him leave the corridor and pondered, If only he hadn’t taken so long?
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