by C S Gibbs
The pair picked up a bag each – he a large suitcase that seemed to give him no trouble at all and she a vanity case (red, of course) – leaving one other case for the chauffeur, then linked their free arms and made for the gangplank. Both strode like a pair of dancers making their way to the middle of the floor – it was as if all the brightness of the morning had focussed itself to give them a spotlight. Some of the ship's junior officers tipped their hats to the glamorous couple as they made their way aboard and the couple responded with an air of familiarity.
As with the stevedores, Ben's stare was detected by the star couple, both of whom met and returned the look. But this return gesture was simple and kind, a pair of pure and honest smiles: from the man, an acknowledgeable nod and a subtle raising of the corners of the mouth; from the lady, a Cheshire cat grin from ear to ear, of pearl-white teeth framed by full, strawberry red lips.
This time, Ben felt that he could smile back and then gaze on across the harbour without too much of a guilty conscience. The duo waltzed past and onward to their, no doubt, first class cabin. As he made his way back to his cabin, he wondered who that couple were and what it must feel like to give off that level of confidence – and where one could acquire such a thing.
Chapter Nine - An Innocent Abroad
The next day, Ben was the early bird at the breakfast buffet – the Portuguese did not have to endure rationing as the British did and the opportunity to get such a good feed every day was not going to be wasted, despite the fact that these Portuguese did not seem to know how to do a fry-up. “When in Rome, I suppose . . .” Ben told himself, as he lamented the absence of sausage, bacon, eggs and toast, washed down with industrial quantities of well-stewed tea.
Never mind, though, there were plenty of other items here that rationing had made in to edible gold: bananas, pineapples, oranges, honey, scrambled eggs made from real eggs and not that powdered rubbish, not to mention the bounteous butter dish – were the crew mad to leave this much food unattended? How on Earth could they spare all of this? Ben devilishly considered how he could stash some of this bounty in his cabin.
Passengers were slowly starting to drift in as Ben, with his plate precariously piled high with enough food to make him a wealthy black market spiv back home, made his way through the dining hall to a table by the window. He was by no means tired of looking at the sea, yet.
“That's a big plate of food, my friend. May we join you?”
Ben whirled around to see who was speaking to him in perfect English, albeit with a deep, refined accent. There stood the elegant man from the gangplank, dressed in smart, blue trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt, open at the collar.
“Er . . . yes, feel free.”
“Thank you. My wife will be joining us just as soon as she has got her coffee how she likes it,” said the man as he placed his bowl of fruit and cup of coffee on the table and sat down, facing Ben.
“My name is Hector, Hector Hernandez,” he said as the two men shook hands and Ben introduced himself – Hernandez's grip was a firm and assured one. “And this, finally, is my darling wife, Veronica.”
“Please call me Vero,” said the lady as she arrived right on cue and placed herself in the seat next to her husband, “We have made this trip quite a few times and saw that you were all on your own. We thought that you might need some company.”
This was the first time that Ben had actually seen Vero's face – the previous day she had been harder to identify by her hat and sun glasses, but now he could see her strong features, plumpish cheeks which ran down to a chin which protruded only slightly and was defined by a hint of cleft, the wide-nostrils and the round, dark eyes which shone past her long lashes.
“My name's Ben – Ben Hutchinson.”
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, are you from England?” asked Vero.
“Yes, on my way to Argentina.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Hector, “A most fortunate coincidence, for we are heading home to Buenos Aires. What takes you to our beautiful city? No – wait, it must be the railways?”
“Aye . . . I mean, yes, that's right. I'll be working for the Buenos Aires Great Southern Railway in the workshops.”
“I know those people very well. We do business together.”
“Hector is a farmer,” Vero cut in, “Our beef goes on the Great Southern to Buenos Aires and then on ships to you in England!”
“So you put the bully beef in my sandwiches, back home?” chuckled Ben.
“And in many other places, too! Are you travelling alone?”
“Yes, just me.”
“Well, that won't do for such a long journey. It is just your luck,” said Hector, “That you now have someone with whom you can converse, rather than just being all alone. You will find that Vero can talk enough for both of us!”
Vero giggled like a little girl, then jovially rounded on her husband, “Life would be so dull without engaging conversation, my dear, and this is the first Englishman we have met on our travels for quite a while. He clearly needs a little guidance on how to feed himself – and we can begin with getting him a proper coffee. Come and join me and I'll show you how to ask for one.”
Vero ushered Ben out of his seat and over to the buffet. Vero continued.
“We don't serve that watery English tea, here – coffee is our breakfast drink and we like it strong. That way, we can start the day with a bang!” Finding a gap in the diners, she caught the attention of a waiter and gave him quick-fire instructions in Portuguese which was every bit as confident as her English. The waiter nodded and swiftly prepared what would be Ben's first ever espresso.
The espresso cup and saucer seemed Lilliputian to Ben – how was he supposed to get a decent drink out of that thimble? Vero escorted him back to the table whilst Hector poured a glass of water, which he passed to Ben.
“Once you have finished your food, then have the coffee – down in one,” he instructed.
“That's never going to wash me food down – there's barely a mouthful in that cup!”
“That is what the water is for. You English intrigue us with your bulky food and drink – if you will let us, we will show you how we eat and drink properly.”
In between copious gulps of food, Ben got to know his new-found acquaintances, that they had married young and that Hector was originally a 'gaucho' (Vero defined this as 'a sort of cowboy, but better looking than the ones from the movies!') who worked his way up to become the owner of a large cattle farm, which was a couple of hours' drive out from the city. The pleasantries lasted long enough to see Ben clear his plate and be left with no choice but to face the black as pitch espresso.
'When in Rome,' thought Ben once again and he knocked back the coffee in one. He winced as the first sensation reminded him of the first time he had spent a whole day in the machine sheds in Derby, and struggled to get the taste of iron filings and oil out of his mouth, but then the concentrated caffeine hit raced through his beleaguered bloodstream, which through three years of rationing had been deprived of any genuine sensation of taste or vitality, and he felt alive – supercharged, in fact, like one of his railway engines. His eyes lit up and he grinned at the Hernandezes like a little boy who had just learned to tie his shoe laces.
Hector and Vero laughed. “Not bad for starters,” said Hector, “Just wait until we start serving you maté!”
“'Mar-Tay'? What's that?” asked the baffled Englishman.
“One thing at a time, my dear,” said Vero, “For now, I am going to have a little read, then I am going for a swim. Will you be joining me, darling?”
“Perhaps – I have some contracts to read through. Will you be swimming, Ben?”
“Oh, no . . . er . . . I mean . . . well, I can't actually swim.”
“You can start learning, today!” Exclaimed Vero. “There is an instructor on the ship – we know the crew of this ship very well. I can arrange lessons for you!”
Ben was
overwhelmed, but Hector cut in, “Vero, give the young man a little time to find his bearings – he is a long way from home and has only just met us. Ben, would you care to join me by the swimming pool in an hour? You can tell me all about your steam trains – I find such things fascinating.”
“I'd love to. I'll see you then.”
With that, Ben made his way back to his cabin.
SS Mouzinho,
en route to Africa
November 15th, 1942
Dear Mr Carruthers,
This is my first letter to you since I left Derby. You will be pleased to know that I have already written to Mum and I have just sent that one away for posting in Lisbon.
As I write, we are now underway again, on the way to some place called Lobito, which is in Angola, so one of the officers tells me, and that is where I will post this letter.
Just seeing Lisbon has been an eye-opener, not to mention seeing people from other countries – they all look so different, but I keep telling myself that they are just like you and me, really.
I have just had breakfast with the most remarkable couple – Hector and Vero Hernandez. They seem to have taken a shine to me and are being very kind and hospitable. It's reassuring to have some company on the trip as I was feeling a bit lost on my own. I have a feeling that they are truly as nice as they seem.
I have been going through the plans that you gave me of the engines that the Buenos Aires Great Southern uses – they look pretty much like what I am used to and I think I'll be able to cope with overhauling anything that they have got. I'd better get stuck in to learning some Spanish as well, so that I can get along with everyone there.
Apparently I'm going to learn how to swim whilst I'm on this boat. The pool looks very nice and they have a teacher. I don't know what I'll do for a swimming costume, though. I'll let you know how I get on.
Please say 'hello' to all of the lads at the works and stay out of Jerry's way.
Best wishes,
Ben
All around the SS Mouzinho was blue. The perfect azure sky was contrasted with the lapis lazuli ocean, and between the two was the turquoise of the swimming pool on the centre deck. Making her second dramatic entrance in as many days was Vero, this time in a one-piece swimming costume in lilly white, sporting an embroidered marigold on the crest of her curvy left hip. Her onyx black mane of hair had been coaxed in to a matching cap, also offset with the marigold motif. She made her way along the diving board with equestrian grace, before executing a perfect dive and surfacing to continue with a faultless breast stroke.
“Just look at her, Ben,” sighed Hector as the two men lazed on poolside loungers, “Thank God she only swims like Johnny Weismuller!”
“Yes, she's quite a lady, your wife.”
“And I know it! I am the luckiest man alive to have her by my side. She gave up everything to be with me, so I try to give her everything I have in return.”
“What do you mean, Mr Hernandez?”
“Call me Hector, Ben. We have been together for nearly twenty five years, would you believe? I was a worker on a cattle farm when I met her – the farm was owned by one of your English lords – back then you English ran half the farms in Argentina. We were very profitable and I was working my way up as one of the managers. Vero's father owned one of the other ranches on the plains and was hoping that she would marry an Englishman's son. But I had seen her first and I had other plans!
“Fate smiled on me at this huge agricultural fair – she was with her father and lots of other well-to do people, all on horseback – when her horse suddenly bolted. I, too, was on horseback and I saw my chance. Now, I was born in to the saddle and had been herding cattle as soon as I could sit up straight, so those English boys could not match my riding skills – I jumped my horse over two fences and caught up with her – once I had got her horse under control, I could finally look in to those beautiful eyes and introduce myself.
“I tell you, Ben, there is such a thing as love at first sight – I know, because that's what we felt. That was the easy part – her father was furious that she would choose a gaucho like me over a well-bred gentleman's son, so he forbade us from meeting. Well, taming a horse is one thing, but taming a woman is another altogether – her father soon found out that Vero was not for breaking. We would ride our horses out to the Pampas so that we could meet in secret – this went on for months, until we could stand it no longer and she and I eloped.”
“How did you get away with that?”
“Ah, well fortune truly does favour the brave, you know. This was the time of the Great War and the old English lord's son had gone off to fight in France. He did not return and the old man's heart broke in two. He lost interest in the farm and left the running of it to me – he had always treated me and my family well and showed me the ways of the English gentleman. By the war's end, he had gone back to his estate in England and left me in sole charge of the farm. A few years later, he died and left it all to me in his will, so Vero did get to marry a man of the landed gentry, but her father had already disowned her and she has not spoken with her family since then.”
Ben had been listening with fascination, having long since consigned to his lap the rather dog-eared, second hand copy of Teach Yourself Spanish.
“That's an incredible story, Hector. You were so brave to stand up to Vero's father.”
“Ah, yes, I won her for myself, but it came at a price – there shall be other times to talk of that, though. Look, here comes our Olympian!”
Vero approached, towelling herself after her daily work out.
“Ben, I spoke with the instructor and he will see you in half an hour – there is a class for beginners.”
“I'm not really sure if I should,” mumbled Ben.
“Don't be shy – you should have a go – it is free of charge.”
“Well . . . I've got no swimming costume . . .”
“Ah, that is nothing,” proffered Hector, “You can borrow mine – we are about the same size. Come, we will go and fetch it and you can change in your cabin.”
Half an hour later, Ben emerged by the pool side, clad only in Hector's trunks and an old football shirt which he always wore when he was doing chores at home – it had seemed a good idea to bring it for when he would do the same chores in Argentina. Needing some encouragement, his eyes searched across the pool to Hector, who had returned to his lounger and looked up from his paperwork to give Ben a nod and a grin.
He took his place along the side of the pool with the other beginners: two old Spanish ladies who could have been politely described as full-figured, but to Ben's eyes, when they stood side by side, they embodied the 'two fat ladies' of bingo fame: number eighty eight.
The instructor was a handsome fellow, with the same size and build as Hector – perhaps even the same barber, it seemed. He peeled off his vest to reveal a torso normally reserved for Greek statues, taking a moment to enjoy the thrill he was giving to the eighty eights, who sighed and then quietly but ravenously feasted upon the view.
“Please, Señor, you must remove . . .” the instructor pointed to Ben's shirt.
With some hesitance and apprehension, Ben complied. The eighty eights made the most of a second opportunity for unabashed ogling and scanned the lily white English flesh before them: certainly, the physique was not quite up to the standards of antiquity (another legacy of rationing) but the slender frame was toned thanks to three years of hard work in the engine sheds. There was an exchange of opinions and then some lewd Spanish cackling, which prompted Hector to look up from his paperwork for a second time and offer a Spanish retort, fixing them with a shame inducing stare.
The eighty eights fell silent for a moment, but Hector carried on.
“My friend, they say you are . . . anaemic!” He laughed.
“Tell 'em that we're all this colour where I come from!”
Hector obliged and the eighty
eights responded with another cackle.
“And now,” grinned Hector, pointing first at Ben, then at the instructor, “They say that they like chicken just as much as they like beef!” One of the eighty eights flirtingly stroked Ben's arm and engaged him with a doe-eyed look.
“Well that's lovely . . . just as long as they don't expect me to lay 'em an egg!”
With that, Ben held his nose and plunged feet first in to the shallow end of the pool.
***
Dried, rested and now thoroughly exhausted by his swim and yet more study of the workings of North British Locomotive Company steam engines, Ben joined the Hernandezes at their table for dinner. In the corner of the dining hall a pianist issued forth with a steady stream of tangoes, interspersed with a healthy quota of George Gershwin and Cole Porter tunes more akin to Ben's ears. Fresh from finishing (and liking) his first ever avocado, Ben posed a question to Hector.
“So, apart from England, who else buys your beef?”
“Well, a lot of it goes to England – we signed a contract with your government just under a year ago – but there is still some more to go around and business is business, so we look for other markets.”
“Such as where?”
“Oh, Hector,” cut in Vero, “We sell to the Germans – they like our beef, too. That's why we are on this trip. We met with some people in Spain and they will ship our delivery on to Germany.”
Ben looked aghast. “Good grief, you're feeding the Germans?”
“Listen,” Hector's voice was calming yet authoritative, “We are not at war with anyone. Look around you . . . no-one is at war, here. Do you think we are selling beef to Herr Hitler himself? Of course not! The Germans are people, just like you and me, who all need to eat. They want our beef and we welcome their money.”
“But . . . how can you . . ? It's keeping their army going . . . if they ran out of food, the war might end sooner . . .”
“The soldiers will not go hungry, Ben,” said Vero, “It is the women at home and their children who will starve. Would you like to have that happen? What have those children done wrong that they must go without food?” She stopped and gave a sigh of self-restraint. “Forgive me . . . I shall go and lighten the mood – I will be back soon . . .” She made off in the direction on the pianist.
