Alice-Miranda at Sea (12 page)

A
dmiral Harding's inspection of the doctor's records took considerably more time than Nicholas Lush had hoped. Fortunately his methodical attention to detail had paid off and the admiral had nothing but praise for his work. At the same time, First Officer Whitley Prendergast and he began their stocktake and ended up spending over two hours checking off a long list of medical supplies, noting how many of this and that were available, down to the last bandaid. Admiral Harding had long gone, telling the pair that there was a severe storm warning and the passengers might expect to be confined to their cabins for the evening if it turned out as badly as the forecast predicted.

Prendergast, with his constant jolly banter, had soon gotten on Nicholas's nerves. A never-ending list of questions spewed from his mouth. ‘So, what do you use this medication for?' ‘How long does it take to knock someone out with anaesthetic?' ‘How many operations have you performed?' The fellow had drivelled on and on until finally Nicholas could take it no longer and asked him to keep quiet.

Prendergast's demeanour seemed to change instantly. He shut up all right but he was broody and sulky and very deliberate when putting the stock back in its place.

Nicholas hadn't seen this side of the young man before. Frankly, until now he'd rather reminded him of that ridiculous child he'd just removed the splinter from – always smiling and cheerful with nothing too much of a bother. Perhaps he was seeing the real Whitley.

When finally the pair had finished the task, Whitley Prendergast shoved the inventory list under the doctor's nose and demanded that he sign it so he could get it back upstairs to the admiral.

Lush did as he was asked, but laughed when Prendergast snatched it away.

‘What's got into you?' he asked.

And then as if someone flicked a switch, Prendergast was back to his usual chirpy self again.

‘Nothing, doctor, nothing at all. Thank you for your assistance. I know it wasn't what you'd have liked to be doing this afternoon. Have a good evening, Dr Lush,' Prendergast gushed and then he was gone.

Nicholas was left wondering if he shouldn't consult one of his psychology manuals about what he'd just witnessed. It seemed very peculiar indeed.

There had been several things on Nicholas's mind during the stocktake. He'd been thinking about dinner and hoping that the gorgeous Ambrosia Headlington-Bear was sitting at his table as he had requested with the purser that morning. He was trying not to think about the earlier phone call but was feeling quite sick about it. ‘If anything were to happen to her,' Nicholas murmured.

And there was the curious mystery of the young lad occupying Neville Headlington-Bear's suite which deserved some attention right away.

Dr Lush locked the infirmary and made his way downstairs to the Gallery Deck. He reached the Albert Suite and knocked gently at the door.

‘I've come to check on Master Neville,' he called. He was expecting the steward to open up as he had been instructed to sit with the lad but there was no reply. Nicholas fumbled in his pocket for the master key but realised with some irritation that he'd left it sitting on his desk.

Neville Nordstrom had heard the voice outside and crept into the entrance hall to listen. He was about to open the door when Dr Lush shouted, ‘I don't know who you are, lad, but I know that you're certainly not Mr Neville Headlington-Bear and you are most certainly not meant to be occupying this suite. I'll be back soon with the admiral. I hope you have a good explanation for impersonating a very well-respected business man.'

With that, Nicholas turned on his heel and headed back to his office to retrieve the missing key.

Neville froze. Henderson had gone to make some arrangements for some woman he'd been babbling on about. He had mentioned Neville's mother more than once too, which was very odd. His mother was not on board, but what if Henderson and Lush both thought he was somebody else? He also had a niggling feeling that something wasn't quite right about the ship. There were an awful lot of royal crests on everything, including the soap. A hot, sick feeling began to rise up his throat. What if he was on the wrong ship? Neville felt faint. The fact that the ship was rolling about in the waves was not helping.

He gathered his wits about him and decided then and there that he needed to go, before the doctor returned with the admiral. If he was in the wrong room and they thought he was impersonating someone else, he might even go to prison. Beads of perspiration formed a wet moustache on Neville's upper lip.

He raced into the bedroom and grabbed his kit bag from the wardrobe. It was a jolly good thing he hadn't allowed Henderson to unpack it. As he snatched it from the floor, Neville noticed a piece of white string poking out from a shelf above. He reached up and felt around to see if it was attached to anything. Neville's hand landed on what he thought must be a laundry bag. That was odd. He hadn't even thought about sending out any washing. He gave the string a sharp pull and the bag and its contents hit the floor with a dull thud. Whatever was inside didn't sound like dirty underpants.

Neville wasn't a nosey boy – not usually. But he was curious to see what the bag contained. He undid the string and prised open the bag.

‘Oh, my goodness,' the nervous boy gasped. ‘That's not mine.'

Fumbling about, all fingers and thumbs, Neville retied the string and placed the bag back on the shelf. Except that he couldn't remember if it had been on the very top or the second from the top. His cut was throbbing and he felt like he might throw up. The doctor would be back any minute. Neville grabbed the laundry bag and threw it to the top shelf. ‘No, that's not where it was.' He reached into his pocket for his inhaler, took two short puffs and then climbed onto the bottom shelf to try to find the laundry bag. But it was too far in and he couldn't reach it.

Neville's head was spinning. He leapt to the carpet, slammed the wardrobe door and then snatched up his kit bag in one hand and his trumpet case in the other and headed for the door. He pressed his ear against the timber and listened, then checked the peephole; as far as he could tell there wasn't anyone close by. Trembling, he opened the door slowly and poked his head around. Then he ran as quickly as his legs could carry him to the end of the corridor where another staircase led up and down. Neville decided down was a better option and fled as quickly as he could down two flights, all the while wondering where he would end up. His mind raced. He already knew he'd be in huge trouble with his parents, but that might be the least of his worries.

M
eanwhile, Alice-Miranda made it out of her suite to look for Millie and Jacinta. As she passed the staircase leading to the Gallery Deck she decided she should take the opportunity to stop by and see Mr and Mrs Headlington-Bear. As she descended the flight of stairs she caught sight of a snowy-haired boy running, another deck below.

‘Neville!' Alice-Miranda called. The boy stopped and looked up. His eyes were huge, like two lollipops on sticks.

Neville waved Alice-Miranda away.

‘Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost,' Alice-Miranda asked.

Neville ran as quickly as his feet could carry him while the ship lurched and rolled beneath them.

Alice-Miranda didn't like what she had seen. Something wasn't right. The poor lad seemed terrified. She took off after him, limping down the stairs. When Alice-Miranda reached the very bottom she realised that the opulent wallpapers and plush carpets had been replaced by an industrial decor. At the end of a fluorescent-lit corridor, there was a huge steel door with a round porthole at the top – far too high for her to see through. Sounds of whooshing and clanking behind it had replaced the muzak which flowed through the upper decks via unseen speakers.

‘Neville,' Alice-Miranda called over the machinery. ‘Where are you?'

Neville stood quivering like a five-foot blancmange in a storeroom not far from where the tiny girl was shouting.

‘Neville, I'm sure that we're not supposed to be down here. Even though Aunty Gee gave us the run of the ship, she did mention that it would be best if we steered clear of the engine room, and I suspect that's where we are now. She said it's a little bit dangerous. Are you all right? Maybe I can help you?'

Neville's head was hurting and he wanted that girl to stop shouting at him. Without another thought he opened the door.

‘In here,' he squeaked.

Alice-Miranda turned and raced inside to join him. Neville hastily pulled the door shut and turned the lock on the inside.

Perspiration was trickling down his brow and the bandage covering his wound was soaked with sweat.

Two dim wall lights shone a sickly yellow glow around the room, enabling Alice-Miranda to see that they were in some type of storeroom. It contained all manner of things, including a row of foldable beds, piles of linen in plastic packages, and several writing desks and chairs similar to those in the suites. They all appeared to be brand new.

High shelves with open mesh doors lined one side of the compartment, loaded with cutlery and crockery, candelabra and other silverware. A strong smell of mothballs made an assault on Alice- Miranda's nostrils.

She was about to speak when the ship pitched steeply and she was thrown into one of the chairs. The plastic wrap clawed at her bottom, sucking her onto the seat.

‘Oh!' she exclaimed. ‘That's better, actually. Why don't you sit down too, Neville, and tell me what it is you're doing down here? At least if we're sitting we have less chance of falling over.'

Neville steadied himself on the arm of another chair and slid into its seat.

‘It's a really big storm out there,' Alice-Miranda noted. ‘I hope there aren't too many people feeling seasick. I've only ever felt seasick when it's been very calm with a big swell. I don't mind the waves, actually – there's something quite fun about them. But you don't look like you're having any fun at all. What's the matter?'

Neville looked at Alice-Miranda with his big blue eyes, like pools of indigo ink.

‘You have to promise not to tell on me,' Neville finally whispered.

‘What do you mean, tell on you?' Alice-Miranda asked.

‘You have to keep anything I tell you a secret,' he tried again. ‘I think I'm in trouble.'

‘Trouble?' Alice-Miranda quizzed. ‘Why would you be in trouble? Where are your parents?'

‘At home,' Neville wheezed.

‘What do you mean, they're at home?' Alice-Miranda tapped her finger against her cheek. ‘I don't understand. I thought your parents must have been friends with Uncle Lawrence because I don't think they're friends with Aunt Charlotte or I would have met you before now.'

Neville's eyes were wide. ‘Who's Lawrence?' he asked.

‘Aunt Charlotte's fiancé of course. ‘Who are your parents?'

‘Leonard and Sylvia Nordstrom,' he mumbled.

‘Oh, I don't think I know them at all,' Alice-Miranda replied. ‘And you say that they're at home? Forgive me for asking, but why did they send you on your own?'

Neville shifted in his seat. ‘They didn't. I just came. Because I had to,' he replied.

‘Well, that's lovely, Neville, that you felt so passionate about the wedding,' Alice-Miranda smiled.

Neville shook his head. ‘I'm not here for a wedding. I'm going to New York to meet someone. On the
Oceania
,' he squeaked.

‘New York?' Alice-Miranda frowned. ‘I don't think so.'

‘Why not?' Neville looked at her, his eyes filling with tears.

‘Because you're on the
Octavia
and we're going to Venice,' she replied.

N
icholas Lush returned to his office to find the master key. The message light on his telephone was blinking. He rather hoped it was his idiot brother telling him that she'd been located and all was well. They'd come too far to lose her now. Alas, it was Admiral Harding, and irate wouldn't have gone part-way to describing the manner in which he delivered his message. Apparently the admiral had received more than twenty calls for assistance with seasickness as a result of the storm and as Lush was nowhere to be found, he had despatched Whitley Prendergast to begin delivering medication around the ship. Nicholas was under strict instructions to call the admiral the moment he arrived back in his office.

With some trepidation he picked up the handset and dialled the bridge.

‘Lush, where on earth have you been? There are people on this ship suffering and you go and disappear. I suspect you were out schmoozing women in the bar – don't think I didn't notice your over-attentiveness with
so
many of our female guests last night. You will need to find Prendergast and see who he has already attended to,' Admiral Harding barked. ‘Thank goodness he offered to do the rounds.'

‘But, sir,' Lush began.

‘What is it?' snapped the admiral.

‘I think I might have uncovered a stowaway,' Lush replied.

If Lush thought this news would distract the admiral from his irritation, he was mistaken.

‘A stowaway? A
stowaway
? What a lot of nonsense,' said Admiral Harding dismissively.

‘But, Admiral, this morning I attended to a young boy in one of the suites and I'm sure his name wasn't on the register when I came to write up his report.'

‘Was there anyone with him?' the admiral demanded.

‘Yes, a steward,' Lush answered.

‘Well, don't you think that my stewards would know if they were attending to the right person or not?' The admiral was sick of Lush and his histrionics. ‘I am sure there are no stowaways on this ship, and if there were, I'd be the first to know. Now, you need to find Prendergast and get this seasickness under control. I will not have guests of Her Majesty losing their lunch because my doctor is on some wild goose chase looking for stowaways.' With that, Admiral Harding slammed the phone down.

Teddy Harding fingered the note which had just been delivered to the bridge. He had far more important things on his mind than looking for alleged stowaways. The fates of more than five hundred people rested in his hands.