S.O.S. by Joseph Connolly

I
sort
of see a lot of things, and I so don’t care about practically bloody all of them. ‘Another large Grouse, please, Jilly. You kids all right? Yup? OK. Just the Grouse, then.’
    â€˜When do we
eat
?’ went Rollo – smiling briefly in Jilly’s direction because he thought he maybe half caught a glimpse, there, of her briefly smiling at him – but of
course
(he now saw) it wasn’t that at all, was it? Oh God how
embarrassing
. All it was was a polite and simple acknowledgement of Dad having ordered a drink – that she had taken in the words and their meaning and would now turn around and jam the glass against the optic (as, indeed, she now was doing. Mm. She’s got a lovely arse on her, look at it. Mm).
    â€˜Up to your mother,’ sighed David. ‘She’s changing. I said to her where we’d be. Yeh – pretty hungry, actually.’
    Yes indeed: up to your mother. I don’t, you know, say this with any regret or sense of belittlement, not any more I don’t. There was once a time, of course – way back – when I would breed and then feed deep resentment for anything at all that could be up to your mother because, yes, that’s partly me – but also my generation, you see: I’m the man, is how the thinking goes, and so it’s very much up to me. But that was then – oh, so much
then
. Now, well – now I’m all for anything whatever being up to your mother or, failing that, anyone else at all who’s passing. Which maybe, at work, is beginning to show: never ever put myself forward, you see – don’t want to be responsible for anything, do I, because then what it is, what it becomes is my responsibility, doesn’t it? And that is not at all what I want, because in truth – if I really am about to come clean, here – I’m not actually a responsible person. Not any longer. I am responsible for nothing, and that is the way I need it to be. All it really is, I suppose, is that sometimes when one thingor another fairly naturally occurs and I just happen to be around, yes? Well, if that thing, that thing – whatever – that has just occurred, is generally perceived to be
good
, to be
positive
, and if such a result is attributed (almost always misguidedly – all I do is nothing, now) to, um –
me
, well – well then, fine (oh good). But if people are pointing the finger – if what they are actually saying is Oh Dear Me: here is a
bad
thing … and further, if such a result is attributed (almost always misguidedly – all I do is nothing, now) to, um –
me
, well – well then, shame (too bad).
    Anyway, anyway … as soon as your mother, as I say, has got changed (not changed out of the outfit she finally elected to wear for the travelling down here, you understand – oh good Lord no. That particular outfit was discarded within minutes of entering the cabin in favour of some sort of wide-legged and not unshiny trousers, maybe pantaloon sort of efforts – suitable, she said, for lounging in one’s berth; yes really – she truly did say that). But now that berth-lounging is out and Captain-meeting followed by Duchess Grill dining are next on the agenda, so does Nicole, your mother, find herself hanging up with care the Pierrot or Harlequin number, and easing herself with yet more of that very idiosyncratic care of hers (she has care to spare, Nicole – she is concealed from view from behind a scaffolding of care, it sometimes seems, though there’s none of it there for me) … easing herself, as I say, into whatever svelte and chic and just-so thing she deludedly imagines to be eye-catchingly correct for shaking hands with a glorified bloody sailor (who will smile, incline his head, and fail to catch her name). This is, of course, always assuming – and it is