Cruising with the O’Maras (The Irish Guesthouse on the Green #17)

Chapter 13

M aureen was hiding beneath her sunhat and sunglasses, wearing her caftan over her swimsuit as she slunk into The Retreat. She’d a bag containing sunscreen and E45 cream because you never knew when you might need them, and she’d picked up a book at the airport bookshop. This was her first chance to open it. She’d fully intended to dive into the bestseller on the flight from Dublin to LA but was easily distracted, and there’d been too much going on. The introductions to their travel companions seated across the way, in front and behind, for one thing. By the time they were all on a first-name basis, the meal was being served, and lovely it was, too. Herself and Donal greatly enjoyed the cheese and crackers with a complimentary glass of wine. Of course, it was essential to keep the circulation going, so she'd headed to the back of the plane for a round of lunges, leaving Donal to his film. Before she’d known it, the seatbelt sign had come on for landing.

Now, she planned to lose herself in the pages, whiling away a few hours reading, getting swept up in someone else’s fictional drama, and perhaps taking a dip in that invitingly blue water. Exhausted after the table tennis match, Donal had opted to relax back at the cabin. He knew where to find her later. The other lads had said they would hunt down the hay bales for the show in the Havana Lounge later and get it set up. Maureen had wished them luck but had no intention of helping. She needed to keep a low profile for the next few hours, and carting hay bales about the ship would not be conducive.

Her reason for venturing into the adults-only pool and bar area had nothing to do with wanting peace away from the squeals of exuberant youngsters – that was a sound she didn’t mind in the least as a nana – but came back to the business of keeping a low profile after the ping-pong match shenanigans. Shenanigans she fervently hoped wouldn’t reach the ears of Captain Franco because, for a while there, she’d lost her head and forgotten she was crew, as had Donal.

Things hadn’t gone well for them and she felt like she’d a sign pinned to her back that said, ‘When Ping-Pong Goes Bad.’ Suppose the girls knew their mammy and Donal had received a lifetime ban from the table tennis tables aboard the Mayan Princess ? In that case, she’d never hear the end of it. They’d not be hearing it from her. Her lips were sealed on the subject. Sure, hadn’t she been telling Noah just a few weeks ago about the importance of being a good sport when he’d taken the modified hurling with the softball to the next level? Today, she hadn’t led by example.

It was Christie, the Director of Entertainment, who’d slapped them with the ban, saying Maureen’s behaviour was conducive to inciting violence which, as a crew member, was utterly unacceptable. While Donal had knowingly and wilfully destroyed cruise property. Maureen strongly suspected Christie might be a law school dropout.

She sighed, picking up a striped towel from the pile reserved for the pool area, casting about for an empty sun-lounger in a shady spot. She supposed they were lucky Christie was a Kenny Rogers fan and had decided to keep the matter in-house or on deck or whatever. Basically, she’d said she wouldn’t take things higher up the cruise food chain on the condition Maureen and Donal gave the table tennis tables a wide berth for the duration of their natural lives and that The Gamblers played her favourite Kenny song, ‘Daytime Friends’, dedicating it to the Director of Entertainment whenever they played in the Havana Bar. Despite getting off relatively lightly, the whole episode had been traumatic, made worse by an overheard commentary about her from the sinewy, Eastend manchild. Oh, how she wished she could wipe it from her memory like that yoke Noah could draw on and then zip-zap the slate clean.

Spotting a lounger that would do her nicely, she passed by the busy bar area where people were relaxing at tables. Mercifully, they were too busy whiling away a lazy afternoon drinking in the sunshine to notice a sheepish Irish woman in a big hat skulking past. Maureen negotiated the sprawl of loungers, clearing her throat loudly as she passed by an amorous, bronzed couple squeezed onto one sunbed. The pair looked like someone had drizzled a bottle of cooking oil over them, she sniped silently. Sprinkle salt and pepper on them, toss them on the barbeque, and Bob’s your uncle, she thought. Her lips pressed together because the woman’s string bikini bottoms looked like they’d have to be surgically removed at some point. Note to self, she thought, be sure to tell the girls that the ship enforced a strict swimwear code. She mentally wrote down: the bikini must cover the bottom at all times . A complete fib, of course, but given her current mood, she didn’t care.

Maureen was disgruntled and mortified, to say the least. Not a good combination and, flapping the towel out like she was battling gale-force winds, she lay it over the sunbed and settled herself in for the next few hours. Instead of opening her book, however, Maureen decided the pranayama breathing would help lift her mood. It was a shame to be in foul humour when she shouldn’t have a care in the world. As such, she put her all into a round of controlled breathing exercises. She was concentrating intensely on her inhale of four counts when a voice made her lose her place.

‘Ma’am, are you alright?’

Maureen blew out through her mouth in a noisy whoosh, lowering her glasses to peer over the top of the chunky black frames.

A young man in the ship’s hospitality staff uniform, polo shirt tucked into a pair of smart shorts, was bending down to pick up the glass with nothing but melting ice cubes floating in the bottom alongside a nearby lounger.

‘I’m grand, thank you very much.’ She hoped she didn’t sound short, but he’d interrupted her flow.

‘It’s just I get the asthma too. Mostly in winter, which isn’t a problem on this cruise route, but it played up when I was working the Alaska itinerary. Anyway, I always keep an emergency inhaler on hand.’ He held out a blue Ventolin puffer. ‘I’ve another one back in my cabin. You’re welcome to have this.’

Maureen was touched. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer, and thank you for your concern,’ she squinted at his name badge, ‘Tad, but it’s not asthma. I was practising a special yoga breathing technique.’

‘R—ight.’ He said slowly, and then it was his turn to squint intently. ‘Hey, you know you look familiar. Have you sailed with us before?’

Maureen swiftly slid her glasses back into place and explained that she hadn’t. She gave him the lowdown on being part of a band contracted for three months to the Mayan Princess .

‘Kenny Rogers, you say. My folks are big fans, but I’m more a hip-hop man myself.’

The unmistakable sound of a glass breaking brought the conversation to a close as Tad hurried off to help clean it up before he had a blood bath on his hands.

After forgetting about the yoga breathing, Maureen picked up her book again and closed it minutes later. She’d read the first paragraph so many times she could stand up and recite it like a sonnet. Her mind had kept returning to the tournament, playing it out like a film on the television set. A terrible, bad film you knew you should change the channel on, but you couldn’t stop watching even though it would give you nightmares.

Donal had made it through to the table tennis final to be pitted against Bat Woman, as Maureen had predicted at the start of the tournament. The woman might be getting on in years, but she had more fancy footwork than Michael Jackson in the ‘Beat It’ video; Patrick had loved emulating the moves, too, when he was younger. She’d wiped the floor with her opponents thanks to a mean side spin serve, hoisting her slacks even higher, which hadn’t seemed possible but clearly was, between games and in the end that serve had taken Donal out too.

Unfortunately, Maureen wasn’t there to witness the last five minutes of the final, having been manhandled away from the tournament area by Christie’s side-kick. It was the bubbling internal volcano’s fault because as the match turned in the Bat Woman’s favour, the thought of Donal not winning the Mayan Princess drink bottle prize had been too much for her and the volcano had erupted like Vesuvius. The words as she’d stood in the crowd watching the little woman do her worst had flown from her mouth in an unstoppable force.

‘Smash her, Donal!’ Swiftly followed by, ‘Take her down!’

Not her finest moment.

The next thing Maureen knew, Christie was giving her a warning about inciting violence. She was marched off by a young woman in a similar uniform whose name she didn’t catch but who did have a walkie-talkie. She was told to stay away from the tournament area. She hadn’t; the stakes were too high and, waiting until the coast was clear, Maureen crept back to lurk in the fringes of the crowd, trying to see over the top of a sea of heads. Hearing the strident Eastend accent drifting through the gathered spectators, she immediately recognised it as belonging to the sinewy manchild.

‘You know, Gina, it’s not just you girls that get hit on by the passengers. I was in the lift earlier alone with that woman. The one who just got kicked out of the tournament a minute ago.’

‘The mad Irish woman?’ a female voice replied. 'What did she do?'

Maureen’s ears and face were burning. Yes what did I do? She was rooted to the spot like a tree.

‘Well, she made it obvious she was interested. She put on this “I’ve been smoking too many cigarettes” voice, think car driving over gravel, and started singing about how we’ve got tonight. I mean, it was clear what she was angling at.’

‘OMG, that’s terrible, Tony. And you were alone in the lift. Vulnerable.’

‘I was vulnerable, yeah. The woman was a proper cougar.’

‘We shouldn’t have to put up with that sort of stuff. Sexual harassment isn’t part of our contract. Are you going to report her?’

‘No. But if it happens again, I will.’

Maureen wanted to shout, ‘It won’t happen again!’ and simultaneously tap him on the shoulder and say she’d only sung the Kenny-Sheena hit to annoy him. He’d got the wrong end of the stick. But then she remembered she wasn’t allowed to be here and, not wanting to create a bigger scene than she already had, Maureen decided it might be best to wait out the end of the match a safe distance away by the ship’s railings. She’d get hold of yer man later and tell him it was a misunderstanding.

The sea breeze hadn’t done much to cool her reddened cheeks, but it wasn’t long before there was a round of applause, swiftly followed by a gasp from the crowd. What was going on? She didn’t dare go back and check for herself and, craning her neck, she couldn’t see a thing. A minute, maybe two passed and then Donal emerged flanked by John, Davey, Niall and Carole. He was like a boxer being led through the crowd; he wasn’t in those silky boxing shorts but he was in a comfortable blue pair of walk shorts with useful pockets that had flaps on either side. He wasn’t clutching a Mayan Princess drink bottle either, and her heart sank at the realisation he’d lost. Donal McArthy was her man, though. Win or lose, as such, she’d stand by him. She waved out.

The party of five made their way over to Maureen.

‘They’re calling me the John McEnroe of the ping-pong world, Mo,’ Donal said forlornly.

While Maureen asked what had happened, Niall and Carole peeled away to get drinks to lift their spirits.

‘I held my own right to the end. I fought the good fight, Mo, but yer woman sent one too many side spin serves my way and took me out. I lost it.’

‘He threw his paddle down so hard he snapped it,’ Davey added.

‘Oh, Donal, no. Not again.’

‘I’m afraid so, Mo. I’m not proud of myself.’

‘Tell her the rest,’ John said, tearing his eyes away from a fella rolling a cigarette nearby.

‘Yer Christie, Director of Entertainment and Table Tennis Tournament Referee, told me I’d caused wilful damage to cruise property. The replacement cost for a new paddle will be debited from our account.’

Davey piped up again, ‘And, she said you’re both banned from playing or being near the table tennis tables for life.’

‘Tis true, and I’m sorry I behaved so badly, Mo. I don’t know what came over me.’

‘Me too, Donal. It’s not in my nature to go around inciting violence, but—’

‘Say no more, Mo. I think it's best we put the whole sorry saga behind us and never mention it again.’

‘I think that’s wise, Donal.’ She didn’t have it in her to confide the misunderstanding between herself and the sinewy manchild. The best thing they could do was lie low for the rest of the afternoon before their evening performance in the Havana Lounge.

‘Do you mind if I join you, Maureen?’

Maureen, who’d been lost in thought there on her sun lounger, startled and then seeing it was Carole who was busy apologising for sneaking up on her, told her not to be silly and that she’d be most welcome to join her on one condition.

‘And what would that be?’ Carole asked.

‘There’s to be no mention of the table tennis tournament.’

‘Deal!’