A Bit of a To-Do!
(Story continued from… Last Month)
I've often read that there was some question about whether the Caronia really was as luxurious as either of the two Cunard Queens. Although I'm obviously a little biased, I'd have no hesitation in contending that yes, the Caronia was the more luxurious.
The reason being that the crew to passenger ratio on the Caronia was such that you had the time and the wherewithal to meet virtually every whim of your passengers. They were indeed, travelling in the lap of luxury!
Our two elderly sisters, always the very first ones in for luncheon - not for them the hurly-burly of the deck buffet - would often have a salad that either my mate or I prepared for them, with various choices of ingredients to their specification.
We could do this because we had the time, for example, to peel and slice the oranges, or to hand-prepare whatever else was requested. On either of the Queens you would have had to be pretty well-in with one of the pantrymen to do it for you, because you certainly would not have had the time to do it yourself.
With our station having to handle both the very first and the very last couples to enter the restaurant for Dinner, we had to find some way of compensating. There was very little point in both of us finishing so late on every evening at sea. After all, it didn't need two of us to be there to serve just two bloods both at the start and at the end of dinner service.
So, turn and turn about, my mate and I would either do an early shift to be there for our early arrivals and then finish once our other deuce and 4-table had finished. The other would have his dinner then arrive later to serve the 4-table and our two late entry diners.
Mr & Mrs Handlebar had a 4-table on our station, a conscious decision on their part, because it meant that they had to traverse the whole restaurant to arrive at their table. They were allocated a 4-table because they often entertained another couple for dinner.
The strangest thing about this being that their guests never turned a hair at arriving at their hosts’ table early, sometimes a very long while before their hosts. At least the Wine Waiter was kept busy!
A pattern during this World Cruise was that there were several “hate weeks”; usually there were no more than two. These were periods of 7 or more days unbroken at sea, often with clocks going forward an hour on several consecutive nights, involving some loss of sleep.
The result was that nerves aboard could get a bit frayed, especially if the sea was anything less than calm and inclement weather kept everyone from venturing onto open decks for long periods. This was the second of the hate weeks on this cruise as we steamed the 4,253 miles from Durban to Fremantle.
Typically as the log abstracts below confirm, the Southern Ocean wasn't to be becalmed just because Caronia was riding its waves! So, on the Saturday night ahead of our Monday morning arrival in Fremantle, Mr. & Mrs. Handlebar have invited guests for dinner. They are having a strictly kosher meal, with some of it prepared at table by the Restaurant Manager.
I'm on the “late shift” and the first course is Borscht - cold beetroot soup. As ever, despite it being “Beachcomber Night”, Mr. & Mrs. H have arrived at table in all their finery. On this occasion Mr. H is sporting white twill trousers, white dinner jacket and dress-shirt with a deep red bow-tie.
Now of course, no matter how bumpy the ride might be, there is only silver-service in the Balmoral Restaurant! In my left hand is a silver salver with a silver tureen placed on a dampened napkin to prevent it from slipping. In my right hand is a silver ladle.
So without any ado, I serve Madame Guest, Mrs. H, Mr. Guest and then I get to Mr. H., who is busy talking, but has nevertheless seen me serving everyone else at the table.
I've described Caronia's motion in rough seas elsewhere, and on this particular evening she really was dancing to the tune of the never-ending choppiness of the Southern Ocean! By this time, Victor Henley, the Restaurant Manager has arrived and is preparing his trolley, making sure that the thing is well anchored. Being on 4 castors, they were prone to creeping.
Meanwhile, I have the soup ladle mid-way between tureen and Mr. H's soup plate, when he decides to reach across for butter to put on his bread roll. Time for a very quick decision, a bit of rather nifty footwork and hopefully no spills. I made it - well almost…
The decision had been to return ladle to tureen, the result being the tiniest single pinhead drop of Borscht landing on Mr H's bright white trousers. A lucky escape, or so I thought for just a brief moment.
On seeing this, Mr H. erupted! The flow of expletives he uttered to describe me would have severely tested the patience of any hardened sailor! I could barely believe either my eyes or my ears. The look on his guests’ faces were of complete embarrassment and surprise. They had thought he'd had a lucky escape!
There's a strict lore at sea that deems use of the word bringing your target's parentage into question as a complete no-no! Careless use of that personal abuse would almost certainly lead to a bloodied nose, or worse! I had no option but to quietly walk away, go down below and get my mate to come up.
Luckily, the Restaurant Manager had witnessed the whole thing, and after the meal he made a point of coming down to see me in the crew mess. This was highly unusual; normally you would be summoned to go and see him! With my back to the messroom door, I can still remember turning round, reacting to the hush that had descended as he'd walked in.
Nevertheless, I made my position very clear - I'd not serve him again until I got some form of apology. Having interrupted his meal, I think Mr. H. also got pretty short shrift from my mate (as far as he could without leaving room for him to complain).
He wasn't that fond of either our two old-dears or this extravagant couple. I think he found this cruise very difficult as, like me, he was tied to serving these same people for a full 3 months. I often found myself trying to lift his mood.
This episode was quite mind-boggling and it led to my being told about the effects of “hate weeks” by the older hands. Apparently there were others to come, both to and from Yokohama. Eventually, I did get the call to the Restaurant Manager's desk.
When I got there, I was informed that Mr. H. wanted to see me and that he'd also like me to be serving him again. An apology, along with an envelope well padded with greenbacks, was proffered. Peace being restored.
