Here Come the Girls (25 page)

Ven’s confidence slipped down a few notches when she stepped out into the corridor and heard the Irish Captain’s voice boom over the Tannoy, warning passengers not to buy any foreign medicines from foreign pharmacies, and that trustworthy help for stomach-aches and sea-sickness was available from the Emporium, or the sick bay if more severe.

‘Just think,’ put in Frankie, trying to help, ‘you may have prevented lots of other people from falling down the same hole.’

Ven nodded, wanting to turn back and hide, but she knew that she couldn’t stay in her cabin for the rest of the cruise. Best to face the world. And hope to God she didn’t run into ‘Captain Ocean Sea’.

Luck was not on Ven’s side, as far as that was concerned, though. Halfway up the stairs, Frankie doubled back to the cabin for her watch, and Ven went on ahead up to the Buttery to find them a table. She took one step inside the restaurant, only to find Nigel striding towards her. She did such an obvious about-turn that she almost toppled over. Her cheeks had raced from a shade of pale and interesting to burned tandoori by the time Nigel had caught up with her.

‘Good morning,’ he said, voice overflowing with gallant Gaelic concern. ‘And how are you feeling today, Venice?’ He looked freshly shaved and pristine and she caught a whiff of his aftershave which had a deliciously fresh tang.

‘Oh, hello! Er . . . I’m fine, thank you, much much much better,’ said Ven. Her cheeks were boiling hot. One of the chefs could have used her as a stand-in for a George Foreman grill.

‘I am so glad,’ said Nigel. ‘I went down to the sick bay to find out what that medicine was you got from Corfu. Your friend kindly brought it down to Dr Floren. Very strong stuff. Best let us dispose of it safely, I think.’

‘Yes, yes of course,’ said Ven, trying hard not to get eye-contact.

Then Eric and Irene, complete with matching
Mermaidia
-logo-ed baseball hats and thick-soled walking boots on, appeared as well.

‘Hello, my love,’ said Irene, eyes full of sympathy. ‘Are you all right this morning? Eric and I were so worried.’

‘Yes, yes I’m fine,’ said Ven, trying not to go any redder.

‘No buying any foreign medicines today, young lady. If you need any sickness or diarrhoea medicine, come and find Irene or me,’ said Eric far too loudly. ‘We always bring lots of first aid with us for any eventuality.’

‘That’s right,’ said Irene. ‘And it’s from Boots so we know it’s okay.’

‘Anyway, I must away to the bridge,’ said Nigel. ‘Glad you’re fit and well. I shall see you all at dinner, if you’ll permit me to join you again.’

‘Lovely!’ said Ven. At least that way she could be on her best behaviour and prove to the Captain that she was quite normal and not a drug addict really.

‘So you all have a nice day now. Are you going ashore?’ Nigel asked.

‘We most certainly are,’ said Eric. Ven nodded too, as Nigel looked for her answer also.

‘Remember – plenty of suncream on. It’s going to nudge the high nineties,’ said Nigel, giving her a friendly salute and a smile warm enough to nudge the high hundreds.

‘I will,’ replied Ven. ‘Bye, Captain Ocean-er . . . nessy.’

As he turned to go, Ven could have sworn she saw Nigel repeat the words ‘Ocean Sea’ and grin to himself.

Ven spotted Olive, chewing absently on a piece of toast at a table by the window. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn’t even notice Ven until she had sat down opposite to her at the table.

‘What’s up with you?’ asked Ven.

‘Nothing,’ said Olive, too quickly. ‘More to the point – how are you?’

‘Right as rain. Thank goodness.’

‘Good, I’m glad,’ said Olive, her face a mask of stress.

‘Come on, out with it,’ prodded Ven.

And, without further prompting, out it all came. ‘Oh Ven, Roz and I had words last night. Big ones and many of them. And I told her about Frankie. I couldn’t help it. She was going on about her and Manus again, and I lost it and told her the lot and I walked off and left her. I’ve had a shit night’s sleep because—’

‘Ol, Ol, shhh,’ Ven interrupted, squeezing her friend’s hand. Olive was on the verge of tears. ‘Do you know what? I’m glad.’

‘Are you?’ asked Olive, not convinced that Ven wasn’t just being her nice, kind self.

‘I am,’ replied Ven. She didn’t say any more because coming into the restaurant, behind Olive, were Frankie and Roz. Together. ‘Bloody hell, Olive. What have you done?’

‘What?’ said Olive, turning to see what had made Ven go so wide-eyed.

‘Morning, you two,’ said Roz with a smile. ‘How are you feeling, Ven?’

‘I’m not well and hallucinating,’ said Ven.

Olive couldn’t meet Frankie’s eyes. Frankie knew why and ruffled up her hair.

‘I’m sorry I opened my big fat mouth,’ said Olive. ‘And I’m sorry to you as well, Roz. I was out of ord—’

‘Ol, shush,’ said Roz. ‘I’ve been a bit of a twat, haven’t I?’

‘I think that honour goes to me,’ said Frankie, speaking directly now to Ven and Olive. ‘Ol, you did the right thing last night.’

‘If only you stood up to the Hardcastles like that,’ said Roz, and winked. ‘I didn’t know you had it in you.’

‘Thank God it’s all out in the open,’ Ven sighed, feeling the weight of four long years fall from her shoulders.

‘Anyway – less of that. Frankie and I had a mega talk while you were snoring, Ven,’ said Roz.

‘We had to have a half-time break and ordered chocolate fudge cake from room service at quarter to one,’ laughed Frankie.

‘We’re sorted,’ said Roz. ‘We’re all sorted, I hope.’

Ven burst into tears and threw her arms around Frankie, then around Roz.

‘This is the best birthday present I could have wished for.’

‘Oy, it’s not your birthday till tomorrow,’ said Roz. ‘Anyway, how are you feeling, Amy Winehouse?’

Ven didn’t care any more about what had happened last night. It faded into oblivion beside this. All she cared about was the here and now, Frankie and Roz friends again.
Froz
was once more an active term. And the Fabulous Four were reunited.

‘I honestly and truthfully couldn’t be better,’ she replied.

Chapter 41

Dubrovnik promised to be very busy. There was a huge Italian ship berthed at the side of them, plus a Norwegian one and three massive American ships nearby. And another little vessel in the distance just sailing in which was probably huge but, when compared with the moored giants, looked diddy.

‘Royston and Stella are off to a beach today,’ announced Frankie, approaching the breakfast-table with her bowl of Granola and side order of two hash browns. ‘Roz and I passed them on the stairs on our way up here. He’s got nice sober navy-blue shorts on. I nearly didn’t recognise him.’

‘Don’t swear,’ said Ven. ‘I’m declaring the word “stairs” illegal.’ She had been determined to walk up and down them instead of taking the lift, but her resolve was getting weaker and weaker each day.

‘What shall we do?’ said Olive. ‘We are getting off, aren’t we? I’m dying to see the city.’

‘Me too. Apparently it’s lovely,’ said Frankie.

‘It’s going to be heaving,’ said Roz, calculating that if these ships had at least two thousand passengers each, then that was an awfully big influx on a port.

There was a shuttle bus at the portside to take them to the old city walls of Dubrovnik. It was a pretty drive there. The bus rose up a steep road flanked by lush green hills which were crowded with orange-roofed dwellings and shops. Narrow twisty lanes veered off at either side, crying out to be explored.

Fifteen minutes from the harbour, the bus deposited them alongside the old city walls, which looked remarkably intact and impenetrable. Ven would have liked to have dragged a certain firm of tradesmen out here to see what good craftsmanship meant after they made such a cock-up of her fireplace.

They walked over the slatted wooden drawbridge to one of the city entrances – the Pile Gate – where two brightly dressed sentries stood in ceremonial guard stance and silently withstood the photographs being taken of them. It was very busy with all nationalities of visitors: lots of Americans and Japanese tourists strung with cameras like comedy caricatures, and Italians with loud expressive gestures.

There were two parts to the Pile Gate, they discovered. After they had passed through the outer arch, there was an inner narrow gate which was very busy with people both entering and leaving. It took a frustratingly long time to step through as the crowds shuffled forwards, but it was worth it to see the city stretch out before them. Whilst Ven was appreciating the lovely Onofrio Fountain, Frankie and Roz were giggling at a waterspout-gargoyle set low into a nearby wall which looked the spitting image of Bruce Forsyth. There were no cars in the Old Town, which was just as well because there was no room on the road with the number of tourists who were sightseeing.

They wandered slowly down the main street – the arterial Stradun which was apparently under the sea until the Middle Ages, its stone cobbles polished by years of tourist-shoes to marble smoothness. To the left, a narrow road led off to a high bank of intriguing steps that Olive wanted to explore, but it was far too hot to climb up to scary heights. Olive said it looked like Harry Potter’s Diagon Alley, but still no one volunteered to go with her and discover if there was a Flourish & Blotts present there.

The British tourists were obvious from their reticence to push their way through knots of crowds like the other nationalities. Two people shoved in front of Ven in the ice-cream queue and she was too soft to do her British, ‘Excuse me, I think you’ll find it’s my turn.’ Frankie, however, wasn’t. She placed Ven out of the way first then claimed the shop assistant’s attention with a very loud and impossible-to-ignore order. She was smiling when she came out of the shop with the four large cones.

‘I’d forgotten how much fun it was to be bolshy,’ she said. Events of the past few years had made her far meeker than she was ever put on earth to be with Italian blood flowing through her. A few spats with some rude tourists had awakened something dormant inside her.

They sat on the steps of St Blaise Church people-watching for five minutes, whilst they ate their enormous ice creams. Two bronze jacks in the form of soldiers struck the big bell in the clock-tower, resulting in a pretty peal, a lovely sound in the hot, clear air. Then they took photographs of each other outside the Sponza Palace – it took a few attempts as tourists kept walking in front of them. Thank goodness for digital cameras, thought Frankie, as she deleted two pictures of a portly Japanese man’s bum which had got in front of her as she snapped away. They wandered around the labyrinth of alleyways and through a bustling market, where Frankie bought two bottles of grappa for her dad and a huge lavender bag into which she buried her nose. The scent took her back to school Christmases, sewing lavender pockets to take home for presents. She loved the smell – it was so reminiscent of happy times.

The sun was boiling in the sky; Ven half-expected to look up and see it melting. Typically a load of British people she recognised from the ship passed and moaned about the heat, which made her laugh to herself. They came to places like this to be hot then couldn’t stand it, but then went home and bragged about how fabulous the weather had been, and wished they were back here as soon as they sniffed winter.

It was difficult to find anywhere to eat as all the cafés seemed full. And the shops were bulging with visitors so it was hard to get in them and look around.

‘Slow walk back to the shuttle bus, anyone?’ suggested Roz, as she had seen everything she wanted to. She was greeted with a flurry of yeses.

They were strolling back to the Pile Gate entrance when a familiar, ‘Hello,’ halted them in front of a café. Under a bright stripy canopy, Eric and Irene were tucking into big plates of pasta and glasses of plum brandy.

‘Drinking at this time, you two?’ teased Frankie.

‘We deserve it,’ said Eric.

‘We’ve just walked around the city walls,’ added Irene, raising her glass and wishing them
Cheers
.

‘What the hell for?’ asked Roz, wiping the drips off her forehead. ‘Are you mad?’

‘We did it to prove that we could,’ said Eric. ‘See you later, girls. Formal tonight! Best frocks on, remember.’

They wandered off smiling, leaving Eric and Irene to enjoy their well-earned pasta. The nearer they got to the Onofrio Fountain, the thicker the throng of people became. They joined the queue of tourists trying to get out of the city through the inner Pile Gate. The trouble was, there were as many people wanting to come in – and suddenly the crowd became a crush where no one was moving any which way. Ven pushed back against some big bloke pressuring her forward where there was nowhere to go. Roz noticed Frankie’s arms forming a protective cage over her breasts and tried to reach her. It was even scarier for Frankie being short and unable to see over people’s heads. She yelped as someone stepped back and elbowed her in the chest.

‘Roz, I can’t move,’ she cried out.

Roz stumbled and was pushed further away from Frankie by a large, wimpy bloke who was saying, ‘I feel sick, I have to get out of here,’ and flailing his arms like a big girl. Roz wanted to kick him, the selfish bastard. She couldn’t see Frankie at all now but she heard Ven shout, ‘Roz, are you there?’ Thanks to Wimp Man, Roz was now nowhere near her friends. She caught a flash of Frankie swallowed up in the crowd and knew she’d be breathless and panicky. Polite English voices were saying ‘This is ridiculous,’ amongst louder ramblings in other languages.

In the worst of the crush, Frankie was crying. Everyone around her was at least a foot taller and too intent on getting themselves out of the city to acknowledge anyone else’s vulnerability. She was pressed between two solidly-built men and she didn’t have the strength to stop the one behind squashing her chest further into the one in front. Suddenly there was a very English, ‘Whoa whoa whoa!’ and three tall male figures cut between the crowd with determined and considerable force to move the outgoers to the left, the incomers to the right. Two Frankie recognised immediately as men in Vaughan’s party – Freddy and his father. The other, head and shoulders above even the tall bloke in front of her who’d have the imprint of her boobs on his back for a few hours to come, had a cleanshaven face, give or take a thin line of beard at the jaw, gelled-back, shoulder-length fair hair – and a magnificent Celtic tattoo. It was Vaughan.