by Pete Adams
‘So do I,’ Michael said.
‘Seafood, darling, I know how much you like it,’ Jack answered, giving his son a look.
‘You like it, I’m okay with it,’ did she notice Colleen’s eyes go to the ceiling just then? ‘Okay, seafood, whereabouts, Jack?’
‘A surprise.’
‘I bet.’
‘Sorry, Michael, and are you rolling your eyes Colleen?’
‘I’ll check the front window for the cab,’ Jack said, ducking for cover.
Michael sidled to Mandy, ‘You love my dad?’
‘I confess I do,’ Mandy answered nervously.
‘Then hang onto that thought this evening, he has a knack of screwing things up.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Mandy laughed, but did she really?
Fifty-Seven
The Camber is a picturesque combination of Old Portsmouth working quay, and leisure area, at the mouth of Portsmouth Harbour; fishing fleet, Isle of Wight Ferries, private boats in the harbour and stacked on the quayside. “Nice pubs and okay restaurants,” Jack would say. It was a warm evening, the buildings tinged red with the setting sun, and Mandy nestled into Jack, happy to walk, enjoying the moment. A girl, fifteen or so, dressed to kill, sashayed, ‘'Allo Jack,’ she tip toed, stretched and kissed him on his dodgy eye, ‘noyce t’see yer,’ and skipped off.
‘Close your mouth,’ Jack said. Mandy said nothing, she was processing information. ‘I love it here, the sight, the smell, the people, the real ones not the wealthy buggers in their matchbox townhouses.’
‘Admiring the view, Jack.’
‘Fatso.’
Mandy followed Jack’s eye to the fishing boat, low in the water beside the quay, ‘Someone’s shouting at you?’
‘That’s Fatso.’
She looked again, a scrawny man, probably fiftyish, tanned leathery skin, wrinkled face set with sparkly blue eyes, was grinning through a Spartan set of teeth, but seemingly distracted, intent on cleaning the deck like his life depended on it. ‘Didn’t expect you so early, I have to clean up, you know how Maisie can get.’
‘I do, Fatso.’ Mandy looked down to the working boat, to a joyful Jack, confident his nice surprise was filtering through, ‘Freshest fish in town sweet'art, from the net to the pot, to the plate, no sauces, just good fish; sublime,’ and he put his fingers to his mouth and kissed them away.
She was going to repost as soon as her speech faculties returned, looked down again at Fatso, two teeth visible in a black hole. ‘Sorry,’ he called out, ‘Maisie’ll be here soon with my clean vest.’ Mandy only then noticed Fatso wore a formerly white vest, the material just managing to hold together, thick tufts of black hair sticking out through vast tears and sagging armholes; a gorilla, a thin one she thought, but a very close relative of the apes, nevertheless.
‘Didn’t tell yer, did he, honey?’ A short, stout, matronly woman appeared, bottle legs planted akimbo, arms folded, just missing the rolling pin. She had a grimy apron over a black dress, but it was her hair on top of the round outdoor face Mandy noticed first; short, black, dressed like a man in the forties, slick with Brylcreem, she thought again, it was Hitler’s haircut. As Jack lowered his head in what seemed like an accepted ritual, Mrs Hitler spoke, ‘He’s a daft bugger,’ and she kissed him long and hard on his gammy eye. Jack looked nervous, a Mama-Mia holding her errant grown up child. Jack’s face, still clasped, the woman turned to Mandy, but spoke to Jack, ‘I know who this is, seen her on the telly, but, Jack, introduce me or I’ll bat you into the harbour.’
‘Maisie, this is Amanda Bruce,’ he said, hesitantly.
‘Amanda, Fatso and I welcome you, and more so because you mean so much to Jack. I think you’d better come with me,’ Mandy was speechless, but Jack could see how much she was enjoying herself. Maisie tugged Mandy’s hand as three teenage girls, teetering on unfeasibly high heeled shoes, in turn, kissed Jack’s sunken eye, “Hoi, Jack” and they clacked and wobbled off, giggling and gabbling, strong Pompey accents, short skirts and skimpy tops.
Jack shouted after them, ‘You’ll get pneumonia of the arse dressed like that.’ They looked back, giggled and wiggled their fingers. Mandy, trancelike, walked on with Maisie, Jack spoke to Fatso, ‘Pint? The deck looks lovely, no need to get the Hoover out.’
Fatso nimbly scaled the rusty steel ladder fixed to the harbour wall and appeared at the top as Maisie and Mandy were disappearing into one of the large working sheds. ‘Be in the Bridge, babes,’ Fatso Shouted. The Bridge was the local pub named after a bridge that formerly crossed the harbour at this point.
The voluminous shed had a lofty ceiling, tin walls, slick concrete floor and expansive shallow china sinks; the smell more than suggested it was the fish gutting space. Pinching her nose, Mandy ducked into a changing room, ‘Get that gorgeous dress off darlin', the boat’ll not be as clean as it should.’ Mandy stood her fishy ground as Maisie produced a set of overalls the same hue as Fatso’s vest. ‘I’ll put the dress in this locker,’ and Mrs Hitler had her undressed before Mandy could think, Isle of Lesbos? Boiler-suited and shod in huge trainers Maisie said were her little son’s, did she say little, and looking like Coco the Clown, she followed Maisie. Despite assurances of cleanliness, the overalls stank of fish, diesel and male body odour, and a nauseous Mandy waddled after Mrs Hitler as she headed for the pub.
Jack’s raucous laughter greeted Mandy and Maisie, he was at the bar with Fatso and six working men; this bar was for the Dockers in their working clothes. The tarts, as Jack called them, were in the other bar. Jack whistled, ‘Here she is, better in real life than on the telly my girl.’ Mandy admired his confidence, my girl. Eight men faced Mandy and grinned. Although she was about to chuck him in the harbour, she felt pleased Jack had the most teeth. The door swung and a Jack-the-lad and his girl bounced in, the man shook Jack’s hand, Jack put his hand on the man’s wrist, they exchanged a glance and the girl kissed his eye.
Maisie looked at Mandy, ‘You need to be told a thing or two about your man, drink?’ Before she could say, Maisie had ordered two port and lemons. Mandy thought, Port and lemon, boiler suit? There’s never a hedge around when you want one. Strangely she enjoyed the port and lemon, and the edge, though not the hedge, was coming off.
‘Having a good time sweetie; good,’ Jack, oblivious of the chaos he was causing around him. ‘Off for a gypsy’s kiss, then something to eat I think,’ he rubbed his hands, looked at Maisie.
‘Got your favourite, Jack.’
‘Lubbly stuff, Frau Fuhrer.’
Mandy thought, he calls her Mrs Hitler, am I thinking like him already? Oh please, no, a tiny despairing sigh picked up by Maisie who took her by the arm, ‘Come on, they’ll be some time weeing on each other’s shoes,’ and guffawed, more teeth than Fatso but not many more.
The tide was right out and it was a long way down the ladder. The combination of the port and lemon and clowns shoes meant she had to go very slowly, struck by the verticality. She rubbed her red rust hands on the overalls and felt instantly guilty; these were clean. Maisie was already down in the lower cabin, Mandy followed, impressed at how clear and clean it was, cosy, polished timber lined, but even Dolly’s polish could not disguise the odour; fish and diesel. Mandy started to ask Maisie about Jack, but the clanking and rasping laughter suggested he was coming down the ladder.
Maisie signed, ‘Tell you later’ and took a call on her mobile. ‘Darlin', you had a score yesterday. Come to the boat and get a tenner off your dad, he’s had a few drinks with Jack.’ She listened, ‘Yes, here, and guess what, he’s brought the girl off the telly. Clear as daylight darling, learning impaired, she’s besotted with him,’ Maisie laughed and hung-up. ‘She said you should have gone to Specsavers,’ Maisie said, as Jack and Fatso squashed themselves around the table, Jack beckoning Mandy to sit with him. She was not sure why, but she went, and he let her scoot across the bench seat and tuck herself in.
‘Was that Dottie?’
Maisie busied hersel
f, calling back, ‘She’s coming to see you, but just wants to scam a tenner off her dad and probably look gooey eyes at you Jack. He’s a sucker Mandy, must be worth a tenner,’ she carried on in the galley.
‘Is he?’ Mandy felt the boat move as another craft went by.
‘Alright, babes? Wait till the Isle of Wight ferry, rocks like young-en then.’
‘Oh great,’ Mandy thought, definitely no hedges on board, she’d looked.
Maisie plonked down bowls of deliciously smelling mussels. Jack, using an empty shell as a tool, picked one which he proffered to Mandy, and like a child in a high chair, she opened her mouth and he dropped it in; minus the choo-choo train noise at least. She was taken aback, ‘Gorgeous, eh?’ Maisie enquired. They were; chopped shallots, white wine and steamed. She savoured the mussels and Mrs Hitler’s warm smile. Jack rested his hand on Mandy’s thigh and she picked it up and put it back; these were clean overalls.
‘Sea Bass next, Jack, your favourite.’
This sorted his disappointed, bewildered face, ‘‘Andsome Fatso.’
Mrs Hitler mooned over her men; what is it with this ugly bloke, Mandy thought, I’ve got to get out of this. The boat swayed responding to a clumping on the deck, ‘That’ll be Dottie,’ Maisie said, as the cabin door opened and down the narrow steps came a slim and beautiful young woman. Mandy thought early twenties, same dark hair as Maisie, but piled up on top, back combed, then dead straight to the sides, clearly the frame of Fatso but not the body hair, which Mandy was sure Dottie would be grateful for. She teetered in, pushing a barrage of perfume in front of her, clad in very tight jeans, a leather biker jacket and a Metallica T-shirt, high heel shoes; how did she get down the ladder?
‘Mom, Dad,’ and Dottie went straight to Jack, swivelled her hips and sat on his lap and kissed his eye. ‘Oncle Jack,’ broad Pompey accent; Oncle? Mandy thought, same as Alice says it.
‘Dottie, this is Amanda,’ Jack said from behind a cloud of lacquered beehive hair that tickled his nose.
Dottie leaned and shook Mandy’s hand, ‘Saw you on telly, didn’t I?’
‘Yes,’ Mandy smiled, thinking why am I jealous?
‘You look lovely, but Ted’s overalls?’ and she giggled, didn’t wait for an answer, looked towards Fatso, her mission recollected, ‘Dad, lend me a tenner please?’
‘Lend?’
‘Give, Dinlo,’ and she tittered.
Fatso gave her a tenner and Dottie lifted off Jack’s lap so he could get a tenner out as well, ‘There you go, and don’t get pissed.’
‘Jack, you daft bugger, this is for cocaine,’ and she pocketed the money and wiggled her fingers goodbye and was off up the stairs, and Mandy could not help envying her youth and her bum, looked at Jack; I’m off to the Isle of Lesbos, pretty sure Jackie would take her.
Maisie told Jack to sit next to Fatso then squashed in beside Mandy and pointed to the stair, ‘That, sweet’art, is why Jack is here, and why he has only one eye.’
‘Maisie, shut-up being a drama queen and get the sea bass, me taste buns are going on strike waiting.’
Maisie ignored him, ‘Buds, and, Mandy, you need to fall in love with a man like him, warts, gammy eye and all. He’s a royal pain in the arse but will always be welcome here. He saved that girl and got his eye for the pain.’ She pointed to the stair again, ‘Our little Dorothy, from the Yellow Brick Road, love that film, don’t I, Fatso?’
Fatso had a hopeless expression. ‘She does, drives me up the bleedin’ wall, but there’s no doubt she loves it,’ he looked glum at the prospect of watching the film again.
Ignoring that the film was The Wizard of Oz Mandy looked at Maisie, averting her eyes from Jack, ‘Was he not glassed in a pub fight?’
‘Is that what he told you?’
She looked taken aback, and not for the first time that evening, ‘Err, no, it’s what is said. I’ve known Jack for nine years, well, you never ask do you, and that is what I thought, or was told.’ She felt nervy, the ground shifting below her feet, which was the Isle of Wight ferry leaving.
‘Darlin', I’ll cut a long story short,’ and Maisie put her fat arm around Mandy’s shoulders, very familiar, and Mandy stiffened.
‘Please, Maisie.’
‘Shut-it, Jack,’ Maisie’s watery eyes looked directly at Mandy. ‘Dottie would’ve been twelve,’ Fatso nodded. ‘A serial rapist was attacking young girls in Portsmouth and Jack was on the case.’ She picked up the corner of her grubby apron and dabbed her eyes, ‘Well, as I say, long story short, he had our Dottie in that shed,’ she pointed to where Mandy had just changed. ‘Jack got to him before he could do anything, praise God,’ they both crossed themselves, and Mandy thought more bloody Catholics, they’ve all come out of their priest holes lately.
‘Jack got Dottie away, but it turned into a very nasty fight, rolling out onto the quay; you know about Jack and when he blows?’ Mandy nodded. ‘Well, eventually they fell off the quay and onto the deck of our boat, and before Jack could do anything the bastard had his eye out with a boat hook. God knows where Jack’s strength came from.’ They crossed themselves again, mentioned Mary and Joseph. ‘Jack was still going at the bloke, stir crazy, beat the man terrible and threw him overboard and blow me down if the bugger couldn’t swim; he drowned. Divine justice is what Fatso and I call it, but Jack dived in and tried to find him even though blinded in one eye. So there you have it sweet’art, and that’s why, whenever he comes down here, and whenever he meets a woman from the fishing families, they kiss his eye, as revolting as that is,’ and she screwed her face up in mock distaste. ‘It’s our way of thanking him, as is this little meal, many before and I hope many to come, with you as well, but maybe dressed for it next time?’ she smiled, it was warm and caring.
It remained quiet around the table for what seemed like an age, then Jack piped up, ‘Well, so much for Jackanory, where’s the fish?’
Maisie got up slowly and as she went to the tiny galley, she allowed her hand to stroke Jack’s eye and looked at Mandy as she did it. Mandy could say nothing, looked at Jack, and he did a, So what can I tell you shrug; Gallic? Who cared, she was fed up with fucking shrugging as well. Mandy followed Maisie, there was barely enough room for the two of them in the galley, comfortable with silence, but eventually Maisie spoke in a gentle voice that belied her frame, ‘He’s brought you here because he wants us to meet you. That makes you special, even Kate didn’t come here, but by then she was fed up with him being a copper. Still, he could have said you were going to dine on a fishing boat, and I suspect you wouldn’t have worn that dress, but if I’m any guess of a man, and I know our Jack, he thinks you’re gorgeous in Ted’s overalls.’
Still Mandy said nothing, helped to carry the sea bass to the table. Steamed, simple as Jack had said, with salad. She would never have believed this or anything like it had you told her beforehand, but she enjoyed the fish and the conversation, drank the wine that had miraculously appeared; it was good, dry, and crisp. She was well and truly lost for words, could only listen and admire the effrontery of Jack, conversing as if nothing had happened, conscious that all the time she was watched by Maisie; weighing her up. The conversation ranged from Jack lambasting the government, naturally, to the state of fish prices, fish stocks and the Solent generally; the amount of dickheads that should not be on the water. Mandy gathered Fatso was the latest in the line of many generations of Fatso fishermen.
Mandy only spoke when Jack asked about Tracy Island. ‘Tracy Island, that’s Thunderbirds isn’t it?’
Jack elucidated, ‘It’s what the local fishermen call Spitbank Fort sweet’art, because of all the comings and goings, helicopters, speedboats, the lot.’ He explained, ‘Spitbank Fort is the first in a series of Napoleonic Forts outside the harbour, in the Solent. We’ve looked at it as we’ve walked the seafront,’ she was dumbstruck, which Jack mistook for the need of further explanation. ‘Over the years it’s been various things, but now it’s a conference centre, retreat type of place, ap
parently doing well.’
Fatso joined in, ‘It’s not Spitbank that concerns us, it's No Man’s Land fort.’
And for the benefit of Mandy, Jack explained, her eyes not having to travel far to reach the cabin ceiling, ‘A similar fort, but further out to sea, about a mile, you can see it but it’s not as prominent as Spitbank, converted into a house wasn’t it Fatso?’
Fatso nodded, ‘Dead luxy an all, two helicopter pads and everything. Word is the bloke went bust, it’s on the market, but that’s where the activity is. We don’t mind, but it’s the eejits don’t know the water and the rules. Doesn’t stop the helicopters though, they go in and out as frequently as they do at Spitbank, probably doing another conference thing, if the other one is successful.’
‘Probably,’ and Jack leaned back, put his arms out, stretched, retracted them and rubbed his belly, ‘bleedin’ ‘andsome Maisie, enjoy that, luv?’
Mandy had regained some of her composure, managed a stare at Jack that would tear yer skin off that miraculously morphed to a sweet smile when she turned to Maisie. ‘I did, it was delicious, Maisie.’
‘Well, you’re welcome anytime, preferably without Jack,’ and she guffawed along with Fatso. ‘We’ve another bottle of wine?’
‘Perhaps not, Maisie, we had a skin full at the Pugwash do last night,’ Jack said, yawning.
‘That bloke’s a maniac, Jack, watch him. We could have a word if you like?’
‘I’ll do the watching, Fatso, and you’ll have to line up behind Kipper.’
They went up to the quayside, the ladder a lot shorter, the tide had risen. Jack hugged and kissed Maisie and went to Fatso who was talking to the cab driver. Maisie looked at Mandy nodding towards Jack, ‘Lot to take in?’ Mandy nodded back. ‘Give him time, despite all you see, he’d rather not have the attention, well not in the way you’re thinking. He’s a tosspot bloke, and that is how he wants to be. He can come down here and be a tosspot, because all the blokes down here are tosspots; fits in perfect, know what I mean?’
