Land Ahoy

I opt to take a morning boat to Southampton rather than wait for the cruise ship to get there later and as soon as I land, I’m relieved to be back on terra firma.

I go straight to the hospital and sit in the waiting room alongside weary-looking relatives bearing carrier bags of food. It seems the sick these days would rather have chocolate and Coke rather than grapes and flowers. I wonder whether I should have brought anything. I can’t think what would be appropriate for your ex – especially one who’s had a heart scare.

Visiting starts in twenty minutes and I’ve had a call from Zoe to say her flight from Manchester has landed and she’ll be with us soon. Amanda has been out a couple of times to tell me that he’s stable; it feels extremely odd hearing news from someone else but I need to be civil for Zoe’s sake.

At that moment, my daughter bursts through the door as if she’s appearing in ER and gives me a big hug. The clock hits the appointed hour and the whole waiting room disperses down the various corridors. We find Alan in a private room hooked up to monitors and machines. Zoe rushes to him in tears.

‘Oh Dad, what were you doing?’ she asks.

Amanda stands aside; it’s as if there’s a new hierarchy being established. I might be behind Amanda but Zoe is definitely in front of her when it comes to Alan’s affections.

‘Reliving my youth,’ answers Alan, his pale face showing genuine joy at the sight of his daughter. ‘You’d have been ashamed of me.’

Zoe takes both of us by the hand.

‘You two need to stop doing this,’ she smiles. ‘I can’t cope with my unruly parents.’

She looks to Amanda. ‘If you keep him under control, I’ll sort her out – deal?’

‘Deal,’ we all say.

At that point a nurse walks in and hands Alan the Southampton Gazette.

‘Look at that, I’m more famous than you now,’ he says.

Alan spreads the paper out to show a front-page headline of a dramatic rescue at sea. It’s a fantastic photograph of his stretcher being hoisted into the helicopter against the landing lights and the shadowy silhouettes of the crew.

‘I don’t want either of you famous, I want you alive and well,’ scolds Zoe, still more grown up than either of us.

Visiting time is nearly over, so I ask Amanda if I can have a word with Alan. She leads Zoe out of the room.

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him, ‘I didn’t want my last words to you to be “drop dead”.’

He takes hold of my hand. ‘Thanks to you, they weren’t your last words and my last words won’t be abusive either. I think you’ve been brilliant this year.’

‘Do you think we could be friends?’ he adds taking me by surprise.

‘I’m not sure yet,’ I say honestly, ‘but we can always try.’

We peck on the cheek and I say my goodbyes.

I need to get back to Mercury Travel as Charlie will shortly be off on the wine tour. With assurances that they’ll keep me updated, I head for the train station. I must sleep for most of the journey as I remember none of it; my rolling head jerks me awake when we reach Piccadilly and then I get a taxi home. Despite all of this sleep, the god Morpheus blesses me for another nine hours when I finally put head to pillow in my own bed.

Heaven is indeed a place on earth.

Flat dry land feels strange after the trip and the office even stranger, familiar yet new. We’re busy from the moment we open the doors thanks to a local follow-up article about Alan’s rescue.

In this interview he tells them about the cruise and how he was having the time of his life. There he is in his hospital bed holding up a T-shirt which says, ‘Old Guys Still Rock’, loving the attention. He’s mentions Mercury Travel and praises our handling of things; he couldn’t have given us a better advertisement. Our website traffic is through the roof and with the flux of customers it’s created, I have to reacquaint myself with the job quicker than I’d anticipated on my first day back. I have to do without my usual hour of coffee and gossip.

‘Are you sure you can cope?’ asks Charlie.

‘Josie is going to come in full-time and I’ll just work longer hours, answer the online queries at night. You never know it may die down in a couple of days.’

‘I hope not,’ he says reading my mind too.

This level of busy is exactly what I need for the next few weeks while both Charlie and Patty are away. The contrast of the busy cruise liner I’ve just left and the quiet starter home I go back to will be even starker without them.

Yes, busy is good.

We make hay while we’re all here to man the pumps and convert huge numbers of enquiries to sales; many people are asking about next year and we haven’t got that calendar planned yet. As well as customer enquiries, we have emails from venues and tours that would like to be part of the Mercury Travel Club. That’s another task for the next few weeks, to take all of these ideas and have a draft calendar ready for Charlie and me to review together.

Busy is very good.

Later, a local journalist comes in following up on the story; he’s heard about the magician too and wants to make this a wider piece about high jinks on the high seas. I have Zoe’s voice ringing in my head, ‘I don’t want either of you to be famous’, and quite frankly, I don’t want to be either. Instead, I suggest the names of some customers that he can talk to. As anticipated, the customers embellish the details, provide personal photographs and enjoy their fifteen minutes of fame. They call to reassure me that they’ve said nice things and to make sure they’re on our mailing list. It seems everyone wants a little piece of Mercury chaos in their lives.

Busy is exhausting.

Mum calls while my dinner is rotating in the microwave. I dread it pinging during our conversation, confirming all of her comments about my cooking, but sod’s law, it does.

‘I was just telling Moira that businesswomen like you just don’t have time to cook,’ she says. ‘I bet that Mary Portas doesn’t cook when she’s finished sorting out people’s shops.’

‘Moira?’ I interrupt ignoring the flattering Portas comparison.

‘She hands out the samples in the supermarket. They had their new fancy range out yesterday and I was telling her that it would be perfect for a businesswoman like you but I would have to try them out first. I showed her your picture in the paper.’

Mum is even dining out on Alan’s heart attack.

‘We both agreed that you’re a real hero. Moira said she wouldn’t rescue her ex if he were choking on one of her ready meals.’

‘She sounds lovely. Anyway, how’s Dad?’ I ask.

‘She wants to know how you are,’ she yells at him and there follows a mini row with him telling her not to shout and her saying she’s not. The usual exchange; I wait until they remember I’m still here.

‘He says he’s very proud of you,’ Mum says, ‘we both are.’

The power of the media and as Mum calls them ‘proper newspapers not internet things’. They can be folded up, stuffed into handbags and then handed out to shop assistants, hairdressers and a host of people who didn’t want them in the first instance. And in the hands of my mother they can be used for bartering and scrounging.

‘The man in the pub gave Dad a free pint when I showed him your article.’

‘That’s very generous,’ I say.

‘Well, I said I might be able to get him a discount off one of your holidays,’ she confesses.

By the time I’ve finished paying for all of Mum’s freebies I’ll be bankrupt.