Page 100 - Michael Frost-Voyages to Maturity-23531.indd

But life had to go on. The next day dawned bright and warm, but the mate had
some work for us to do for the greater part of the day, work that I actually found
a bit of a relief after the previous day’s disappointments. The evening, of course,
was occupied in more leisurely activities, which I decided to start with the first-
class ballroom event. And there, seemingly awaiting me, was a young lady, all
alone and wistful. A vision of blonde perfection, I quickly found her fascinating;
she had finished her History ‘A’ level (as had I two years before) and was looking
forward to going to London University (therefore there was no ‘age’ problem).
Carole was her name, and at once it was apparent that she would be a popular
young lady, though one little cloud on the horizon was a rather homunculus-like
fellow whom she, and a number of other young ladies there that evening, seemed
to find unusually compelling. I could see that he had none of the overt charm of
Stuart, but that he was equally adept at attracting pretty well anyone that he chose.
In fact, as the days passed, I realised what I had not before fully appreciated,
which was that England was still very class-ridden and that this ordinary guy
had the assurance of his class, and that on this particular cruise there were a lot
more passengers ‘of his class’ than I had experienced before in my life, and that
he operated on the basis of literally ‘knowing’ that he could get what he wanted.
Therefore, given his accent, subtle but seemingly evident to all, little stood in
his way; I could see that Carole, coming from Bedfordshire, a somewhat ritzy
county, felt a magnetism that was quite foreign to me. It is at such times, along
with the misplaced consciousness of persons such as Basil, that awareness arises
as to the deep divisions in British society; the cricket match between Gentlemen
and Players (amateurs v. professionals, in common parlance), so discreet but so
profound, had gone the way of the dodo, or, probably more accurately, of the
coelacanth. But the chasm, I suggest, survives.

Dubrovnik beckoned. This time there was no need for any arduous work for
the two of us as the quartermasters were running the tenders. This unfortunately
meant another eight hours on the bleak jetty directing tender traffic that needed
no directing, and I had time to think about where we were (this time there
wasn’t even the odd slivovitz to provide some solace). The thought occurred
to me that the geographical position of the Dalmatian Coast was so similar to
that of Italy, which lay only a few miles across the Adriatic, that it ought to be
similar in other respects. Yet it was not. The country was simply old-fashioned,
the city itself being more suitable for a film-set than a place to work, and despite
an educated populace and weather that paralleled Italy, the economy was more
akin to India than to the West. True, the country was more mountainous, and
it was, of course, a communist state, but it seemed that the difference lay in the
‘Cockpit of Europe’ heterogeneity of its peoples, languages and religions. As
David was later to begin his studies at Southampton University, I asked him
if he knew of a ready source of knowledge for Balkan enlightenment. Indeed,
he said, there is one; a professor of Eastern European history at Southampton
recommended ‘The Balkans since 1453’ by Stavrianos. I later bought the book;
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