April 2010
The cruise date drew near but as I tossed in bed, waiting for sleep or dawn, I felt only apprehension. Oh for the adventurous spirit of childhood. Years fell away as I recalled that morning when, as a five year old, I had shouted with glee . . .
‘We’re going to France’.
We were to be tossed across the Channel to Boulogne in a paddle steamer but to my tender years the expectation was tantamount to the promise of an Atlantic Cruise.
The little boat lurched as people hurried aboard and the vessel plunged dangerously, it seemed, once free from moorings. Faces turned pale, then green as passengers went below, but when they were pre-occupied, I escaped up the steep iron stairway to the almost deserted deck. The wind hit my face and blew hair into my eyes and mouth. I clung to the rail not daring to move and watched the waves leaping like monsters as the paddles plunged the rough sea.
Suddenly, above the noise of elements and engines, I heard gay music. Forgetting my fears, I followed the happy sound until I found the music-maker, a little man strumming a banjo; his audience, a young couple swaying to rhythm of music and sea. The lurching vessel ceased to worry me and the boards threw back an exciting sound as my feet tapped them. My limbs were undisciplined but I let my body move the way the music dictated and twirled and whirled as if driven by a force over which I had no control.
‘Can you do the Hornpipe, Girlie?’ a big bearded man was asking. I hadn’t seen him come on deck.
‘Oh yes’, I replied excitedly. An enthusiastic aunt had once tried to teach me.
Unfortunately the tune was a little beyond the music maker, but people began clapping and singing. In my excitement I had not noticed passengers gathering on deck or that the sun was peeping, and the sea calmer.
It was only when the music stopped that I became aware of those things and the hand that led me away; the lady offering sweets, the beard which frightened as the owner bent down to thank me.
‘Come back again, Girlie’ he called as I was being led away by my father who had left my suffering mother below deck. He was not pleased with his exhibitionist daughter.
The time spent in Boulogne left few lasting memories. Bottles of brandy and scent were bought - exquisite stoles and other gifts. There was a meal in a restaurant where I was bewildered by the language. All the time I was longing for the return journey and, on board, searched for the music man.
Alas the return crossing was to the sound only of wind, sea and those noisy paddles, but it had been a very memorable day.