Mary Dances

IN NORMAL TIMES Mary used to catch glimpses of the dancers. On his cigarette break from his work in the galley, he liked to station himself on the promenade deck outside the large porthole with its closed ruched curtains, and watch snatches of rehearsals. That was a new word for him. Amongst the many languages of the service decks, English was the one in which orders were communicated but the word rehearse was not in the kitchen vocabulary. Karim said to him one day, ‘It’s a rehearsal,’ and, ‘They’re rehearsing,’ and he gradually understood that it was to do with practising the dances and songs that were part of the twice-daily shows. The kitchen staff didn’t come into contact much with the dancers, although three of the troupe, Patsy, Greta, and Abdul, had been assigned duties serving cabin meals to passengers who were too lazy or too old to have their meals in the restaurants.

Looking into the Moonlight Lounge through the complicated folds of the curtains, he started to get an idea of what these rehearsals were. The boys and girls were usually in ordinary clothes but as soon as the playback started beautiful smiles appeared on their faces. Sometimes the Boss stopped the playback in the middle of a song and made them go back to the beginning. Once Greta and a boy he didn’t know were chosen to show the steps to everyone else. Another time poor Abdul was chosen as he was doing it wrong and he had to do it again and again in front of the rest of them until he got it right. Mary thought he saw Abdul looking at the porthole where he was stationed and wondered if he’d seen him there outside, watching.

The boys and girls in the kitchen had given him his new name, Mary. He liked being called Mary. The Blessed Virgin had always been important to him and his family, and in his space in the dark bowels of the ship, his only contribution to its dismal look had been an embellished photo of a statue of Our Lady, which made him feel better every time he caught sight of it.

When coronavirus happened everything changed. No one quite knew what was going on, but after several days of trying unsuccessfully to put into various ports, eventually Empress of the Oceans docked in Lisbon and all the passengers and most of the crew were tested and taken off. Mary stayed on as for some reason his work in the galley, washing-up and cleaning, was considered essential. He was moved from his dark quarters in the hold to a cabin two decks above, from which he had a view of the docks and the city of Lisbon. His family back in Manila kept him informed of what was going on at home via Skype and their lovely faces on the tiny screen made him happy. They told him Portugal was a Catholic country and he was pleased to see the white bell towers of churches that were not completely unfamiliar and heard their bells ringing out across the city and the river.

But the rehearsals had stopped since the pandemic and when he went to take his station outside the porthole for a cigarette in a break from his much-reduced duties, there was nothing to see except the dimly lit stage and the empty seats. Not a soul was dancing or singing.

Abdul had also been kept on for some reason and was assigned the cabin next to Mary’s. He was Algerian and although not Catholic or even Christian, they had a lot in common. For the short time before everything changed he had enjoyed doing the shows and learning from the Boss and the other dancers but, as he confided to Mary, he had always felt a bit of an outsider.

As days turned into weeks and the virus continued to keep the world in stasis and the tethered ship immobile, the empty city of Lisbon, sunlit, rain-swept or ghostly through the morning mists, continued to feature outside their windows, and Mary and Abdul became friends. The almostdeserted ship became their universe. They talked, in English mostly, though with bits of French, Tagalog and Spanish thrown in, about food and their families, yes, but mostly about dance moves.

Abdul was happy to share with Mary what he’d learnt from his short time as a dancer. The Boss had gone, but he’d left Abdul the key to the Moonlight Lounge. Abdul would put on some lights and the playback, and to the sounds devised for the pleasure and nostalgic recall of elderly North Americans, he showed Mary the moves he’d learnt. They kicked, they twirled, they leapt, Abdul lifted him and he felt wonderful.

In the inactivity and fearfulness of these virus-hit days, the two of them were happy to have something to do, dancing while the huge ship around them echoed emptily and without purpose. The docks were deserted and grass was starting to sprout between the paving stones, but the monstrous white hulk of Empress of the Oceans loomed over the city and its broad river. Apart from the thin muffled beat of recorded music the ship was quiet and dark.

When Mary and Abdul finished their rehearsal of I Will Survive, Abdul went to where the Boss used to sit. Mary went over to the porthole and looked over the silent and deserted city through the lavender haze of the curtains. He could hear the distant bells clanging for a Sunday evening mass that was not going to happen. When he looked down at the quay there were two men with a dog, looking up at the lit porthole of the Moonlight Lounge.

To read the second runner-up entry, Thirty Minutes to an Hour, by Abi Silverthorne, a heartbreaking story about a father and daughter battling Covid, visit telegraph.co.uk