Chapter One

FRIDAY, AT SEA

It’s two in the morning, and I’m wandering the decks.

I do this sometimes, late at night, after I’ve finished my gig in the TopDeck Lounge. Guitars locked away. Samuel, mopping up the bar, loading the dishwasher with empty glasses. Carla totting up receipts in the alcove off to the side.

It’s lovely, having the ship to myself.

We’re four hours out of Vancouver, meandering along the darkened, forested shorelines of Georgia Strait, our propellers barely lapping in the water. Killing time, really. We could be there in an hour if the captain so wished.

It’s our last night out. The end of a week’s sailing to Alaska and back.

We’ve had our final Bingo and Win-a-Cruise Lottery. And our Farewell Variety Extravaganza in the Showcase Lounge. DJ Pedro’s still hosting his Welcome Back to Canada Party in the Disco, but that’ll soon be winding down, the last of the diehards straggling back to their cabins, drunk and in no shape to disembark in a few hours’ time.

Downstairs, on the crew decks, it’s brightly-lit mayhem. All of the passengers’ bags and cases have been collected and they’re being loaded into wheeled cages for quick offload as soon as we dock at six.

Just ahead, if I lean out over the railing, I can see our sister ship, the Star Amethyst. 92,600 luxury tons, a five star hotel on top of a barge, lights ablaze in the night, heading on the same course. She’ll berth opposite us at Vancouver’s Cruise Ship Terminal.

We’re tiny. Only 28,000 tons. And old. But rather unusual. A refurbished ocean liner. One of the last steamships, in fact, still at sea. Passengers pay a premium to sail on the Star Sapphire.

I run my hand along her teak railing. It’s old, an original fitting, lovingly maintained, polished weekly. Underneath the modern sealant you can still see the weathering from her years on the North Atlantic.

This is her last season. And I’ll be sad to see her go. I’ve worked on board for nearly three years, divided up into six month contracts. It’s not quite the end of her life. But it will be a change. When our last run to Alaska’s done in September, she’ll be retired and sent over to Europe. She’s being bought by a consortium of business partners, renovated yet again, and set up as a hotel and casino. StarSea Corporate’s been negotiating the terms for the past year. None of us will lose our jobs. We’ll be absorbed back into the system. Assignments aboard other StarSea ships. And my lady will live on, with a new lease on life.

With so many other passenger liners sent to the knacker’s yard, obsolete, unable to meet safety standards and unappreciated by a demanding market, it’s the best possible outcome. And I’m certain she knows it.

I’ve done my once-around the Outside Promenade. I’m going inside now. I give my favourite place on the railing an affectionate rub. I’m sure that thumb-sized indentation’s the result of thousands of others saying goodnight to her, just like me.

Downstairs, in the foyer outside the Atrium Room, I walk past a little display with photos of all the ship’s headline entertainers. There's me - Jason Davey - TopDeck Lounge, performing all your vocal and instrumental favourites, 8 til Late. It’s a terrible picture. Makes me look like the second last act in a 50’s variety show featuring dancing elephants and fire-eating hoop jugglers.

I'll forgive you for thinking you might be reminded of The Love Boat, that American sitcom from about 30 years ago, where passengers and crew weekly embarked upon romantic adventures and humorous storylines. We have DVD's in the Officers' Club, largely unwatched. And I really hate the theme song. Though if you ask me to sing it this week in TopDeck, I will.

Once.

I take one of the forward passenger lifts down. It’s nicer than the crew lifts, which are tiny white boxes with open cage doors, so you can see the cut-away steel plates of each of the ship’s decks going up as you go down. Passenger lifts have mirrors on their walls, and plush blue carpeting on the floor, and disembodied female voices telling you what deck you’re on and please mind the doors.

The lift stops on Deck 5, Baja, and the door slides open. For no apparent reason, as there’s no one waiting to get on. But then... I smell something. It’s only a tiny whiff. Electrical. Scorched wires. That smell you can taste in the back of your throat.

This is not good.

I’m off the lift and hunting for the source. Tracking it forward.... There. Showcase Lounge. There’s a haze in front of me, and it’s being fed by little tendrils, wisps of smoke snaking out from underneath the closed doors.

It takes a second or two to hit home. And then - panic.

Fire Alarm. Where? Where?

Found it. Pull down hard on the bar. Silent alarm. But there’s an audible up on the Bridge and a red flashing light on the Fire Panel. Next - next - next -

I’m not good at this. I’m the last person this should be happening to. I’m trying to remember the drill.

Small fire: make one attempt to put it out with an extinguisher.

I don’t think it’s a small fire. And I’m not going to check.

If smoke's coming from under a door...leave it alone. Close the Fire Door.

I disengage the locks that keep the heavy Fire Doors open on both sides of the Lounge. Slam them shut, isolating the bow from the rest of the ship.

Evacuate the area.

There's no one to evacuate. It’s two in the morning. Our passengers are all in bed. Asleep.

Wait for the Evaluation Team.

I wait. Coughing. Heart beating. Cold sweat, fighting the need, the absolute primordial fight-or-flight need, to run away and be as far away as possible. Finally, the Bridge responds. It’s only 20 or 30 seconds since I turned in the alarm. It feels like half an hour.

I hear four Big Ben bongs over the PA, and then the matter-of-fact voice of the Watch Officer with the coded announcement that means Emergency: “Your attention please. This is the Bridge. Evaluation Team to Baja Deck, Deck 5, Showcase Lounge, port side. I’ll repeat, Evaluation Team, please, to Baja Deck, Deck 5, Showcase Lounge, port side. Thank you.”

We invent dire disasters each week for Crew Drills. We go through our paces. We practise responses til they’re automatic. But drills are one thing. Real fires don't follow handbooks. I want to be anywhere but here.

Wait for the Evaluation Team.

They’ve got security cameras in Showcase. They can see what’s behind those doors. I have to stay to tell them what I know. I’m counting the seconds.

Stay calm. You are in no immediate danger.

There’s a fire raging out of control ten feet away from me and I'm meant to believe I'm in no immediate danger.

Two minutes. Here they come, arriving from three directions at once. Chief Purser, Safety, Security, Engineers, Bridge Officers. All with radios. A ten second assessment and the Safety Officer’s relaying orders and Chief Purser's on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“Forget about Crew Alert,” he says, to me. “This is a GES.”

A full-scale GES is what we practise with the passengers at each week before Sailaway. It involves lifejackets and serious thought. It's not the signal to abandon ship. But it might as well be. Bells are ringing. Seven short, one long. Passengers are coming out in their pyjamas. There’s panic. Confusion. They can see the smoke. They can smell it. They know it’s not a drill.

Chief Purser’s shouting at them to go to their muster stations. He wishes he was already there himself.

“Upstairs! Everybody upstairs. Muster Stations on Promenade Deck. Now!”

In a well-planned paper emergency, passengers are organised, by location, in the public rooms. From there, they can be led out in an orderly fashion to the lifeboats. In a well-planned paper emergency, there is no chaos. There is no panic. But the area around the forward stairwell’s rapidly deteriorating into chaos. Passengers are crowding onto the stairs, clutching their lifejackets. Passengers are pushing forward, trying to run.

I’m paralysed. My legs won’t move. Chief Purser gives me a push. “Off to your Muster Duties. Go!”

Every member of the ship’s company has a function to perform in an emergency. Contract musicians are Crew. No different from cabin stewards and bartenders. I’m away at last. Relieved. Afraid. My throat and lungs are beginning to hurt. I’m fighting that fight-or-flight panic again. And the bells have stopped.

“Your attention, please, this is the Bridge. Fire party and boundary cooling party to the Showcase Lounge, Baja Deck, Deck 5, port side, forward stairway.”

Fuck. It’s spreading.

“Your attention, please, this is the Captain. This is an announcement to all passengers and crew. What you’ve just heard is the General Emergency Signal. Would all passengers and crew please collect their lifejackets, dress warmly, take all necessities, and proceed now to your muster stations. I apologise for the lateness of the hour and the inconvenience. This is a precautionary measure only, at this time. Again, I’ll repeat, this is Captain Callico....”

I’m trying to get down the Crew stairs to my cabin, which is on A Deck, one below the last passenger deck, Caribe. They’ve shut down the ship’s ventilators. It’s hot and airless in this stairwell and I’m battling other crewmembers who’re desperate to get topside with their lifejackets.

Finally. A Deck. My cabin. My home. I run cold water in the sink and splash it into my mouth and eyes and over my face. I grab my lifejacket and pull on my CREW baseball cap. I hook my laminated picture ID and safety instruction card off the magnet clip beside my bed.

“Your attention, please. This is the Bridge.”

I lean my head against my open cabin door, heart pounding.

“Zone parties to Fire Zone #1, Baja Deck, Deck 5. Zone Commander, Zone 1, evacuate Deck 5.”

Jesus fucking Christ. I'm out of here. I’m in the corridor. Nearly colliding with Chris, from the Engine Room, in his white boilersuit, and DJ Pedro from the Disco.

“They’ll be handing out free cruise certificates from now until next Christmas over this one,” Pedro says, cynically. “See you on Twitter.”

“That’s not funny,” I tell him, slinging my lifejacket over my shoulder.

§

My assigned post is Deck 7, Promenade, aft Atrium Room entrance. I’m there to help look after the passengers who use it as their Muster Station. I’m not happy being above the fire, even though it’s at the forward end of the ship. I’m trying not to let my fear show. But at least they’re there, fighting it. And we’ve had reassuring announcements from the Captain, keeping us all informed about what’s apparently happening. And we’re close to civilisation. Not out in open water. The shoreline is near. I could swim there if I had to.

“Don’t let your lifejacket belts trail on the floor,” I tell a passenger, who’s become a one-man tripping hazard.

One of the Pursers is here with me. His name’s Quentin and he’s new to the ship. He came aboard last month. Before that, he was on the Amethyst. Which has a spotless safety record.

“I suppose now is not the time to inquire whether you’ve had prior experience at this sort of thing?”

I cinch the belts of my lifejacket tight around my chest and waist. My adrenaline’s still surging, and my throat and lungs are aching from the smoke I've breathed in. I cough it up. Tastes awful. Passengers are looking at me. I smell of the fire.

“Not with a real fire on a ship, no.”

“I suspect I’ll be relying heavily upon your expertise in the fine art of abandoning a vessel at sea, as I’ve never actually bothered to learn how to swim.”

He makes me smile.

“Where do I go? Help me - where do I go?”

She's appeared from nowhere, woken from sleep, lifejacket on, tapes trailing. Elderly, unsure. She clutches my arm, her confused eyes filled with panic.

“You’re here,” I say, gently. “This is Muster Station Number Two.”

But she’s frozen, incapable of moving or thinking clearly. “Are we sinking? Did we hit something?”

“It’s just a small fire,” Quentin says, trying to be reassuring. “Nothing to worry about.”

Wrong, wrong words.

“A fire? Oh God. Oh my God.”

I take her hand. It’s clammy and shaky. I help her inside, and to a chair which is occupied by an 11 year old boy I’ve grown to dislike all week.

“If you wouldn’t mind giving up your seat....” I suggest, after he proves to be immobile as well as unobservant, his nose buried, as it is, in Nintendo.

He looks to his dad - who’s more concerned with keeping Twitter updated - and then to his mum - who responds begrudgingly.

“Move.”

“Sure,” the kid says. “Here you go, Granny.”

He kicks the chair at us, and sits on the floor, engrossed once more by Pokemon.

“You need to wait here until you’re given further instructions,” I tell the frightened lady, wishing I didn’t have to leave her at the mercy of this family in particular. But Joannie, one of the other Pursers, will be around soon to keep an eye on her. I go back to my post at the door, and Quentin.

“They warned me this ship was an accident waiting to happen,” he says, nervously.

“Who did?”

“My colleagues aboard the Amethyst. She’s an antique, they said. Things happen. Fires. Breakdowns. Her fuel lines pack up in the middle of the night and her generators go dark. She was in drydock for a week four months ago - one of her boilers exploded. Killed three engineers.”

"I know,” I tell him.

It happened while I was on my break. Sally - the Captain’s Secretary - emailed me all the details. It was horrific.

“Hi, guys.” It’s Jemima Vickers. Our Cruise Director. My boss.

“Deck 7, Promenade, aft starboard pax stairway, clear,” she says, into her radio.

“Is it within your powers to tell us what’s actually happening?” Quentin asks.

“There’s a lot of smoke, but it’s mostly just on Baja. The fire’s out.”

Jemima’s from Melbourne. I love her accent. And the fact that she lets me call her Vicks. With utter affection. And my stress levels just went down about 200%.

“It’s out?”

“It’s out. They had to hack away part of the ceiling. And it smells pretty foul down there. At least this happened at the end of the bloody cruise. There’d be hell to pay if we’d cancelled La Gran Stupenda and Her Unfailing Knives.”

She has me smiling again.

“So we won’t be abandoning ship,” Quentin says. He seems almost disappointed.

“No, love. Not this time.”

I can feel my legs beginning to shake. All of me, actually.

Jemima gives me a hug. “You did all right here.”

“Thanks, Vicks.”

And she goes inside.

§

The worst of it’s the smoke, which has crept insidiously into everything aft of the fire on Baja. Passengers will be issued apologies and credit vouchers. On the whole, we seem to have come out of it OK.

I’m reading Twitter now, before I try to get a few hours’ sleep.

Crew were lovely, so professional. No panic. Just like Lifeboat Drill.

I thought we’d have to abandon ship. Engines stopped. We were very very frightened.

OH forgot his meds but officer wouldn’t let him go back to cabin. Was most annoyed. Will definitely complain to cruise line.

We’re underway, at full speed, towards Vancouver. I never want to go through anything like this again. Ever. There's nowhere to run if your ship's on fire. And it's not the flames that’ll kill you.

It's the smoke.

Chapter Two

SATURDAY, VANCOUVER

I’m dreaming.

She's disguised, masked head to foot in layers of transparent white gauze, gliding towards me, silent. I'm expecting emptiness when her arms embrace me, the weightlessness of eternity. But there's warmth. And gentleness. And an unexpected sense of touch. And her scent.

She draws me into the folds of gauze. I part the layers, searching for her face. But I never see it...she never lets me. Her lips touch mine, the tip of her tongue. I will myself motionless, wanting her but not daring to move. If I do, I will find only emptiness. She’ll disappear.

She's making love to me, slowly, tantalisingly. Teasing me. Her fingers tracing pathways down my chest, lingering....

“Jason! Morning! Turnaround!”

It's Quentin, on a break, banging on my cabin door.

“Fuck.”

My dream vanishes in a flutter of scented white netting.

“What time is it?”

“Eight fifteen,” Quentin says, helpfully, through the door. “Rise and shine.”

“Fuck. Thanks.”

“You're entirely welcome,” Quentin says, and I can hear the humour in his voice.

Bastard.

§

The Purser’s Desk is on Deck 6, Aloha, Forward, and the Entrance Hall is full of passengers anxious to get off. This, in spite of the fact they've been told to wait in their cabins. Or the public rooms. Or anywhere except the Entrance Hall on Deck 6, Aloha, Forward.

But they’ve got tours to join and flights to catch. And after last night’s events, they’re hyped up and tense. They’re standing around in restless little groups, wearing the same clothes they came aboard in last Saturday, talking, texting, tweeting.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the young gentleman from the Atrium Room, in baggy shorts and a backwards baseball cap, conducting a sly reconnaissance. Looking for trouble, something to pilfer. Last Saturday, after Sailaway, in what now seems an ironic turn, he pulled a fire alarm, thinking he'd have some fun. But no bells sounded, no sirens. Because the alarm was silent, he assumed his attempt had failed, and so he did a tour of the decks to satisfy his craving for anarchy. And on his fifth try he was caught - by me - nabbed in the act. His principal reaction was to laugh. I don't suppose he expected me to collar him and march him off. Not generally within my remit, really, to act as Law Enforcement.

But collared he was, and hand-delivered to Kevin, Chief of Security, who subsequently informed Laughing Boy’s parents that if they weren’t prepared to exercise control over their maleficent progeny, the entire family would be escorted off at our next port of call, and left to find their own way home. No wonder, really, that he wasn’t best pleased to see me again last night.

Here comes Laughing Boy’s mum, to harass Quentin.

“Listen, I don't understand why it was so necessary for us to have our bags packed and outside our cabin so early last night.”

“Yes, we’re terribly sorry about the inconvenience.” Quentin has it down to a fine art. He's Scottish. A practised touch of empathy, at the same time maintaining a distant tone of absolute authority. I could never be a Purser. “But we do ask for your patience and understanding. We have 800 passengers on board, which does mean around 1,500 pieces of luggage we needed to move, sort, store, and offload first thing this morning. I'm sure you can appreciate the situation.”

Laughing Boy’s mum is wearing a white baseball cap and too-tight yoga togs. I've watched her on deck all week, complaining about everything from the meal times to the absence of Oprah on her cabin TV. Not our typical Sapphire passenger. Down market, downscale. She should stick to theme parks and hotels that are just like home.

“You know what? We had no hot water in our cabin for two days. Then the air conditioning didn’t work. My husband threw up after lunch yesterday. And to top it all off, that fire. This boat is a piece of junk. I'll be blogging about this.”

Quentin is unmoved. He blogs too. Under a pseudonym.

“If you’d care to put your comments in writing for us...” He checks her name. “...Mrs. Brinkman - as opposed to online - we’d be quite happy to pass them along to our Head Office for you.” He hands her a Passenger Questionnaire. “Your husband has my sympathies.”

Laughing Boy’s mum balls it up and leaves it on the counter as she marches off.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before we cruise with you again,” she adds, over her shoulder, as her evil progeny joins her, with a dozen ship’s maps stuffed under his shirt.

“Promise?” Quentin remarks, pleasantly, under his breath.

“May I have your attention please.” One of the other Pursers is doing the disembarkation calls from the back office. “This is the first announcement for all passengers holding Number 14 Blue baggage tags. Would you please now proceed to the gangway located forward on Aloha Deck, Deck 6, starboard side. Thank you and we wish you all a safe onward journey and thank you for choosing StarSea Cruises.”

My turn at the Desk. “How do I disembark, Quent?”

Quentin’s looking at me. “As in... getting off and not getting back on again?”

“Yes. That.”

“Three years aboard - you should be telling me.”

“It’s never come up before.”

“I imagine you’d have to take it up with your next-in-charge... but if it’s anything like us, there’s forms to fill out and notice to be given. I don’t think it’s at all instant. Plus you’d need your Passport, and Crew Purser’s not likely to surrender that without a struggle.”

He can see I’m not happy.

“Is it to do with last night’s events?”

“A lot, yes.”

“Well, I wish you luck. Though I’m fairly certain you’ll have all this week to change your mind.”

§

Lido Deck’s deserted, all the wooden replica steamer chairs stacked on top of one another along the side, a few reluctant passengers lingering for a few moments more, taking pictures, unwilling to abandon the Sapphire’s quiet, pampered world for the downtown busy-ness of Vancouver on a Saturday morning.

I help myself to two mugs of coffee from the always-on machine, add cream and sugar, and carry on up the exterior stairs to Sun Deck. I walk past a painter touching up rust spots at the base of our massive navy blue funnel, and along the narrow open companionway, where another crewman’s working on the davits holding one of the tarp-covered lifeboats aloft. Through the door marked CREW ONLY.

The Captain's Secretary's office is tucked in behind the Bridge, at the forward end of Sun Deck. I suspect it began life as a large storage cupboard. It now houses a desk, a chair, a PC and printer, and, jammed into the corner, a tall metal cabinet which holds a good deal of the ship’s files and spare stationery. The walls are papered with notices and bulletins. I'm not generally meant to be here, but I have an honest face, and the Captain likes my musical arrangements.

Sally's kneeling on the floor, sorting Passenger Questionnaires, her shoes off and kicked out of the way against the wall. Otherwise, she's all business in her black uniform skirt and white regulation shirt with its Officer shoulder tabs.

"Hello, you. I’m dying for that coffee. Fabulous timing."

I place one of the mugs, and three Green & Black’s from my fridge, on her desk.

She gets up to inspect my offering of chocolate.

“Ginger. Lovely. You know me so well, Jayse. What do you want?”

“Honestly? To go home.”

“What, seriously?” She’s looking at me. She can tell I’m not joking. “Twenty-four hours advance notice required for crew disembarkations, Jayse. Plus you'd be breaking your contract, and I think Jemima would have something to say about that.”

“What about in Juneau?”

“You’d be a British subject on American soil. US Immigration’s involved... and flights connecting back to London. It’s complicated. But not impossible. Do you want me to start the paperwork?”

I’m perched on the edge of her desk, staring at her stack of Passenger Questionnaires. Last night was beyond terrifying. Last night was my worst nightmare come true.

"They think it was faulty wiring in the sound booth that caused the fire,” Sal tells me. Trying to make me feel better. Inside knowledge.

“Old,” I say, absently, still looking at the stack of papers.

“Nothing at all to do with old. Everything was installed new during her last refit, two years ago. Faulty.”

“Even worse.”

“Are you going to speak to Jemima?”

I look at Sally. “I love this ship. I love this life.”

“Go ashore and have some breakfast,” Sal suggests. “I’ll have your file on my desk if you still want to pursue it when you get back.”

§

Breakfast done. And provisions bought for the upcoming week. I’m walking back to Vancouver’s Cruise Ship Terminal, earbuds in, iPod on. You can see us on the east side of the pier, a perfect jewel, her livery gleaming white and polished navy blue. Dwarfed by the Amethyst, on the west side, rising up like a multi-storey condo development.

I can’t leave the Sapphire. I won’t.

The minute we docked this morning, a team of fire investigators came aboard, along with decorators, electricians and refitters. They’re spending the day ripping out fixtures, replacing ceilings and carpets, eliminating every trace of the fire, including the smell. If all goes well, we’ll sail out on time, at five this afternoon.

I trudge down to the underground part of the Terminal, where the taxis drop off their fares and the buses unload their tourists. The gentleman I've just walked past is angry and loud and incredibly annoying. He's arrived in a cab, and he's issuing edicts to the driver, a patient little Indian of advanced years who's struggling to unload his numerous bags. I can see the man’s colour-coded luggage tags. He's coming aboard my ship. I'll have the pleasure of his company for the next seven days.

He's English. On the grey side of 70, and to his credit, he's still got most of his hair. He's also got a lady, half his age. She's taller than him, too much makeup, hair an exorbitant cut and colour that couldn't possibly have come from anywhere except one of those top-end London salons where they have black capes and serve you expensive coffee in very small cups.

"Come on, mate - we ain't got all day!"

The little taxi driver's smile never wavers as he accidentally lets a Duty Free bag from Heathrow slip through his fingers. It crashes to the curb, and after the smash, there's a satisfyingly predictable puddle.

Angry Man is incandescent. Expensive Lady wisely removes herself. "I'll just go and find a porter, darling."

§

Inside the Terminal, hundreds of passengers have already begun to queue in a snaky line defined by velvet ropes, though they won't be allowed to board for another two hours. Meanwhile, over at the far end, the lineup at Crew Embarkation consists of three Indonesian cabin stewards (their earthly possessions jammed into bursting cardboard boxes tied together with tape and string), two female dancers (neither of them will speak to me, therefore not on radar), and the ship's Chaplain (smells strongly of gin). It's usually a short wait. In the meantime, Angry Man and Expensive Lady have made their way inside, and heads are beginning to turn.

"Oi! You, mate - where's the VIP entrance?"

He's buttonholed Doris, one of the nicest red-jacketed volunteers I know, 72 years old, bursting with the energy of someone half her age.

"If you'd just like to join the end of this line..."

"Bollocks! Who else can I talk to?"

"I'm afraid I don't -"

"Listen, I know the bloody CEO! He was at my wedding!"

I can see one of the StarSea Reps, coming back from her break.

"You might want to have a quiet word with that one," I suggest, helpfully. "He and Mr. StarSea are like that." I waggle two of my fingers together, side by side.

Earbuds back in, iPod back on. Kiss Me, Sailor, by Susan Maughan. Love it.

§

I wasn’t wrong. Ten minutes, and we’re through. Shopping bags on the conveyor at Security, body through the scanner. We pre-clear U.S. Customs and Immigration here in Vancouver. My picture ID matches my Crew Card. The authorities have no further use for me. Up the crew gangway... and I'm back aboard.

This is the part of the cruise our passengers never see - empty cabins with their doors wide open, stewards cleaning, hoovering, new soaps, new towels and sheets, lifejackets laid out on beds. Up an aft Crew stairway... and out into the public areas again, past secret nooks and empty bars, through the Atrium Room, where someone's tuning the grand piano, and someone else is replacing all the flower arrangements with fresh extravaganzas from tropical greenhouses. Through the Shopping Arcade, all the glittery fripples and expensive pong locked up til we're at sea. Outside again, and up, and once around the Outside Prom, stopping here, and there, to touch the familiar places on the railing, to reassure my lady that I haven’t abandoned her. I won’t abandon her. I’ll stay with her til the end, when she proudly sails out of Vancouver for the last time, to reposition for her refit, and her new life.

They’re doing regular port maintenance while we’re docked. Scrubbing her down. Painting over the age spots. Beside us, in the water, a barge is pumping fuel into our storage tanks. Below, on the pier, drinking water’s being piped on and sewage is coming off.

I can see boxes of provisions being loaded onto the conveyor - pineapples and heads of lettuce, garlic and apples and oranges, milk and eggs, enough to feed 1200 people three times a day for a week. It would be positively biblical, if it weren’t for the scene over on the other side of the pier, where they’re loading enough groceries to feed three times our number.

The Deck Attendants on Lido are setting up the wooden steamer chairs in neat rows. They’re not actually all that comfortable unless you’ve got a nice padded cushion underneath. But our passengers love them. It’s part of the ambience, the packaged experience. Capturing the leisurely, exclusive essence of a time long past.

Up the stairs... and along to Sally’s office.

The Passenger Questionnaires are now sorted into neat piles on her desk. Overwhelmingly positive. Overwhelmingly negative. Neutral. The positive stack’s always the biggest.

“I take it you’ve decided to stay?” she says.

I hand over six pairs of black stockings and three jars of large brown pickled onions. Sal prefers stockings over tights, and English pickled onions are a delicacy sorely missed in the Officers’ Mess.

“Something must be done about the noise,” I say, reading off one of the negative Questionnaires. “There is too much vibration in the walls. I could not cope and my wife found it necessary to take sleeping tablets, fearing the ship would capsize in the night.”

Sally slaps my hand and whisks the form away. “Good thing they filled it out before the fire. And passenger comments are confidential, Mr. Davey.”

“Can I have a look at this week’s pax manifest?”

“Over there.”

It's still on the printer, under end-of-cruise reports from the ship's doctors and engineers, hotel correspondence and confidential memos from the Bridge. And rather a lot of extra paperwork having to do with the fire.

“Any VIP's?” I ask, as I flip through the pages.

Last week we entertained a forgettable D-list tv actress and her overly-blinged BFF. They drank themselves silly in the TopDeck Lounge before walking out in the middle of my set, arguing with each other in loud voices about colonic cleanses. The week before that, it was an American singer who'd topped the charts in the 1970's. A beautiful soul, dying of cancer. The cruise was her final wish. My last memory of her is the two of us, sitting together on deck at dawn, my guitar and her still exquisite voice. She was able to walk off the ship when we docked in Vancouver the next morning, but three days later the internet buzzed with news of her passing.

Three days after that, in Skagway, I received a package. Inside were five G&B Maya Gold's, a thank-you card, and beautiful book of poetry, inscribed to me in her hand.

“Diana Wyndham,” Sal says.

Diana Wyndham. The name stops me cold.

“You must be joking.”

Sally’s looking at me. “No. Why? Do you know her?”

“I may ask you to start that paperwork after all.”

Sal opens a folder on her desk. There’s a flattering headshot of Diana and a brief biography.

“‘Diana prides herself on her amazing collection of stuffed toy monkeys, and keeps 200 plaster gnomes in her garden, all of them birthday gifts from adoring fans.’ She’s a bit eccentric, then.”

“Just a bit.”

“Do you know her?” Sal asks again.

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

“Well, try and be nice to her. Or stay out of her way.”

“Easier said than done, Sal. In both cases.”

“There’s a second VIP. Can't remember his name but he's already been on to Passenger Services demanding a private audience with the Captain and a guided tour of the Engine Room.”

"Rick Redding," I say, as my eyes confirm his name, and his cabin number, on the manifest.

“That's him. Is he a real VIP or someone who only thinks he is?"

"He's a musician."

"Ah," Sally says. “Nothing further to explain, then.”

She gives my forehead a kiss.

“I’m so glad you decided to stay.”