DIP IN THE POOL

By Roald Dahl

THIS story was first published in 1952, when business was booming for cruise ships. To alleviate passengers’ boredom — and to give them an idea of their position in a vast and featureless ocean — the captain would run a daily auction in which passengers bid for the nautical mileage they believed the ship would cover that day, based on the captain’s guess. After a bidding war, the player who came closest would win 90 per cent of the pot . . .

ON THE morning of the third day, the sea calmed. Even the most delicate passengers — who had not been seen since the ship sailed — emerged from their cabins and crept up on to the sun deck.

The steward gave them chairs and tucked rugs around their legs and left them lying in rows, their faces upturned to the pale, almost heatless January sun. It had been moderately rough the first two days, and this sudden calm and the sense of comfort it brought created a more genial atmosphere over the whole ship.

By the time evening came, the passengers, with 12 hours of good weather behind them, were beginning to feel confident, and at eight o’clock that night the main dining room was filled with people eating and drinking with the assured, complacent air of seasoned sailors.

The meal was not half over when the passengers became aware, by a slight friction between their bodies and the seats of their chairs, that the big ship had started rolling again.

It was very gentle at first, just a slow, lazy leaning to one side, then to the other, but it was enough to cause a subtle, immediate change of mood over the whole room. A few of the passengers glanced up from their food, hesitating, waiting, almost listening for the next roll, smiling nervously, little secret glimmers of apprehension in their eyes.

Some were completely unruffled, some were openly smug, a number of the smug ones making jokes about food and weather to torture the few who were beginning to suffer.

The movement of the ship then became more and more violent, and only five or six minutes after the first roll had been noticed, she was swinging heavily from side to side, the passengers bracing themselves in their chairs, leaning against the pull as in a car cornering.

At last the really bad roll came, and William Botibol, sitting at the purser’s table, saw his plate of poached turbot with hollandaise sauce sliding suddenly away from under his fork. There was a flutter of excitement, everybody reaching for plates and wine glasses. Mrs Renshaw, seated at the purser’s right, gave a little scream and clutched that gentleman’s arm.

‘Going to be a dirty night,’ the purser said, looking at Mrs Renshaw. ‘I think it’s blowing up a very dirty night.’ There was just the faintest suggestion of relish in the way he said it.

The excitement subsided and most of the passengers continued with their meals.

A small number, including Mrs Renshaw, got carefully to their feet and threaded their ways with a kind of concealed haste between the tables and through the doorway.

‘Well,’ the purser said, ‘ there she goes.’ He glanced around with approval at the remainder of his flock, who were sitting quiet, looking complacent, their faces reflecting openly that extraordinary pride that travellers seem to take in being recognised as ‘good sailors’.

When the eating was finished and the coffee had been served, Mr Botibol, who had been unusually grave and thoughtful since the rolling started, suddenly stood up and carried his cup of coffee around to Mrs Renshaw’s vacant place, next to the purser.

He seated himself in her chair, then leaned over and began to whisper urgently in the purser’s ear. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but could you tell me something, please?’

The purser, small and fat and red, bent forward to listen. ‘ What’s the trouble Mr Botibol?’

‘What I want to know is this.’ The man’s face was anxious and the purser was watching it. ‘Will the captain already have made his estimate on the day’s run — you know, for the auction pool? I mean, before it began to get rough?’ THE purser, who had prepared himself to receive a personal confidence, smiled and leaned back in his seat to relax his full belly. ‘I should say so — yes,’ he answered.

He didn’t bother to whisper his reply, although automatically he lowered his voice, as one does when answering a whisperer.

‘About how long ago do you think he did it?’

‘Some time this afternoon. He usually does it in the afternoon.’ ‘About what time?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know. Around four o’clock, I should guess.’

‘Now tell me another thing. How does the captain decide which number it shall be? Does he take a lot of trouble over that?’

The purser looked at the anxious frowning face of Mr Botibol and he smiled, knowing quite well what the man was driving at.

‘Well, you see, the captain has a little conference with the navigating officer, and they study the weather and a lot of other things, and then they make their estimate.’ Mr

Botibol nodded, pondering this answer for a moment. Then he said, ‘Do you think the captain knew there was bad weather coming today?’

‘I couldn’t tell you,’ the purser replied. He was looking into the small black eyes of the other man, seeing the two single little sparks of excitement dancing in their centres.

‘ I really couldn’t tell you, Mr Botibol. I wouldn’t know.’

‘If this gets any worse it might be worth buying some of the low numbers. What do you think?’ The whispering was more urgent, more anxious now.

‘Perhaps it will,’ the purser said. ‘I doubt the old man allowed for a really rough night. It was pretty calm this afternoon when he made his estimate.’

The others at the table had become silent and were trying to hear, watching the purser with that intent, half-cocked, listening look that you can see also at the race track when they are trying to overhear a trainer talking about his chance.

The slightly open lips, the upstretched eyebrows, the head forward and cocked a little to one side — that desperately straining, halfhypnotised, listening look that comes to all of them when they are hearing something straight from the horse’s mouth. MR BOTIBOl went on: ‘ Suppose you were allowed to buy a number, which one would you choose today?’

‘I don’t know what the range is yet,’ the purser patiently answered. ‘They don’t announce the range till the auction starts after dinner. And I’m really not very good at it anyway. I’m only the purser, you know.’

At that point Mr Botibol stood up. ‘Excuse me, all,’ he said, and he walked carefully away over the swaying floor between the other tables, and twice he had to catch hold of the back of a chair to steady himself against the ship’s roll.

‘The sun deck, please,’ he said to the elevator man. The wind caught him full in the face as he stepped out on to the open deck.

He staggered and grabbed hold of the rail and held on tight with both hands, and he stood there looking out over the darkening sea, where the great waves were welling up high and white horses were riding against the wind with plumes of spray behind them as they went.

‘Pretty bad out there, wasn’t it, sir?’ the elevator man said on the way down.

Mr Botibol was combing his hair back into place with a small red comb. ‘Do you think we’ve slackened speed at all on account of the weather?’ he asked.

‘Oh my word yes, sir. We slackened off considerable since this started. You got to slacken off speed in weather like this or you’ll be throwing the passengers all over the ship.’

Down in the smoking-room people were already gathering for the auction. They were grouping themselves politely around the various tables, the men a little stiff in their dinner jackets, a little pink and overshaved beside their cool, white-armed women.

Mr Botibol took a chair close to the auctioneer’s table. He crossed his legs, folded his arms and settled himself in his seat with the rather desperate air of a man who has made a tremendous decision and refuses to be frightened.

The pool, he was telling himself, would probably be around $7,000. That was almost exactly what it had been the last two days, with the numbers selling for between 300 and 400 apiece. It being a British ship, they did it in pounds, but he liked to do his thinking in his own currency.

Seven thousand dollars was plenty of money. My goodness yes! And what he would do, he would get them to pay him in hundred-dollar bills and he would take it ashore in the inside pocket of his jacket.

No problem there. And right away, yes right away, he would buy a