Free Cabaret by Lily Prior Page B

accommodation was to be a shared internal cabin without facilities, in the third-class portion of the vessel. So much for the lost world of luxury and refinement. A steward conducted me to my cabin, where I found the lower birth already occupied by a flabby girl of indeterminate age named Clodia, who, I was surprised to see, had a mechanical hand. I had never seen one in my life before, and yet now, within the space of ten minutes, I had seen two.
    It later transpired that Clodia’s mother had been the one who joined my farewell party on the quayside. Her nearsight-edness made her unable to perceive anything but blobs at a distance, but her vanity wouldn’t allow her to acquire glasses.
    Thus, and not altogether flatteringly, she had mistaken me for her daughter, and waved at me until her mechanism seized.
    Clodia was quick to demonstrate with pride the many features of the hand (it certainly was a top-of-the-line model), but I was slightly worried when she drew up the coverlet to reveal under her bunk an enormous tank of spare petrol. The one disadvantage of the hand was its heavy consumption of gas. My only hope was that she didn’t smoke. But all too soon she was lighting up king-size cigarettes of full strength, which filled the tiny cabin with a choking smoke. We didn’t even have a porthole.
    As Clodia puffed, I unpacked. There wasn’t a closet, just a couple of metal hangers on the back of the door. In the confined space, I had to stand in my suitcase in order to unpack it. I was horrified at what I found inside. I hadn’t really been paying attention when I had been shopping with Fiamma, but even if I had refused some of the items, she would have bought them anyway. She had always had the upper hand.
    I knew I wouldn’t be able to wear half these things. They just weren’t me at all. I couldn’t appear in public dressed like this: everything was tiny, tight, and bright.The cruisers—and more worryingly—the crew, would surely think I was solicit-ing. As I was examining the flimsy scraps in the light of the bare bulb that lurched with the motion of the ship, I became aware of Clodia’s eyes bulging.
    “Cor,” she said eloquently, “what beautiful things you have. Mother won’t let me have anything nice. All I’ve got is this…”
    She unzipped her holdall and pulled out a number of sensible Crimplene housedresses in somber colors. Not brilliant by any means, but they would have to do.
    “All right,” I said as though I were doing her an enormous favor, “I’ll swap with you.”
    Clodia’s eyes bulged further.
    “For real?” she exclaimed.
    “For real,” I confirmed.
    Quickly we climbed into each other’s clothes. She was approximately twice my size, but I tied the belt of the dress tight, and didn’t think it looked too bad. At least it was decent, which was more than could be said for the hot pants Clodia had struggled into. There was a degree of stretch, but not enough (these were the days before Lycra, after all), and the fabric, strained into submission, had become obscenely transparent. Below, above, and in fact, all around, rolls of white flesh burst out like Hydra’s heads, and writhed for su-premacy over their neighbors.
    “Fantastic,” she said.
    I then set off to take a look at the facilities, such as they were, with Clodia waddling behind. The bathroom on our deck was intended for use by all eighteen internal cabins, and a long and desperate line was wriggling through the cramped passage, and this was even before the attack of dysentery broke out.
    The third-class dining room was evidently not that featured in the brochure. It was painted a nauseous green and had flourescent strips instead of chandeliers. The gilt wood chairs with pink velvet upholstery were only available to the first-class bottoms; here there were wooden benches like those in school. The air was stale with unpleasant odors: grease, garbage, and greens. Through the back, in the galley kitchen, the unappealing