by Terry Waite
‘Capital, Captain,’ boomed the Admiral. ‘Quite excellent. We want our clients to have a new experience and yet to feel secure in memories from the past, evoked by the ship’s artefacts. What about the rudder?’
Here a cloud seemed to pass across the face of the good Captain, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
‘A few problems at first,’ he said. ‘Initially it had the unfortunate habit of sticking in one position so that for several hours we went round and round in circles. I think the ship is seaworthy now.’
‘Well,’ said the Admiral, always quick to turn a misadventure into an opportunity, ‘if that happens on the voyage, it will give our passengers a three hundred and sixty-degree view of the territory they are exploring. Thank you, Captain. Most satisfactory.’
The Admiral made several notes in his Missions to Seamen diary and turned towards Mr Bigatoni.
‘Now sir, what are your plans?’
For the past several weeks Enzo had been perusing the London Telephone Directory in a vain attempt to remember lists of names. Faces? No problem, but where he had seen the face and to whom it belonged defeated him. He produced a simple paper-covered book from his pocket.
‘This, sir,’ he said, ‘will provide us with the highlight of the cruise.’ He handed the Admiral a volume entitled A Visitor’s Guide to the French Language.
‘I have similar volumes in Italian, German, Spanish and Albanian. Each morning at the prime time of eleven I intend to conduct a language class, when I shall read a word to the passengers and they will repeat it back to me. We want there to be an educational element to the cruise, Admiral, and I am sure that my classes will provide just what is needed.
‘We have also been fortunate to secure the services of two world-renowned lecturers. Sir Horace Beanstalk will talk at six o’clock each evening in the space available before dinner at seven. He will address the passengers on the flora and fauna of the Isle of Man. The attendance may not be too great at this hour, but I have asked Sir Horace to have cyclostyled copies of his text available, and that, together with a set of Magic Lantern slides, will be available in the library. The other lecturer, Dr Ludwig Bernstein, will speak at ten thirty each evening on the music of Stockhausen.’
‘This gets better and better,’ said the Admiral, beaming brightly. ‘I can’t wait to listen to these two esteemed gentlemen. What about a quiz, Mr Bigatoni? Passengers love that sort of thing.’
‘Ah.’ said Enzo, with obvious delight. ‘I have already thought of that.’ He produced a very large box labelled Piddling Pursuits. ‘This box, Admiral, contains five thousand questions, together with answers - and I alone have the key to it! Each day at a prime time in the afternoon I intend to have a team quiz with prizes for those who complete the course.’
The Admiral nodded in satisfaction at the innovative skills of his new team. Harry had certainly chosen well.
‘Now, Mr Duvet, your turn. What have you to report?’
If the truth were known, Mr Duvet’s purchasing experience was rather limited. He had in the past made a bi-weekly journey to the local supermarket in Scarborough to purchase breakfast cereals and the ingredients for a Full English Breakfast, and on the Cross-Channel ferry all he had to do was to pop a cheese or ham sandwich under the grill. But he had spoken with a friend who at one time served in the Army Catering Corps and was now in charge of catering at Durham Jail, and had received invaluable advice.
‘Think big’ was the gist of it. Mr Duvet did just that and ordered massive tins of baked beans and sacks of powdered milk. He was able to buy at a reduced price some out-of-date provisions from a charity food store and dozens of cases of powdered egg. For the cabins he obtained a huge quantity of Army-surplus blankets.
‘The kitchen is equipped,’ Mr Duvet said, ‘and the larder is virtually ready. As for the cabins, as I speak an army of volunteers are assembling some excellent flat-pack furniture from a well-known store that recently went into liquidation. All I need now is a quick visit to France to collect some duty-free wine - and I shall buy a lot as I know our passengers love a drink - and of course there will be a vast mark-up for the company.’
‘Gentlemen,’ declared the Admiral, ‘I am proud of you all. You have certainly got the situation well under control and there is not the slightest doubt in my mind that we will enjoy a cruise that will be an unforgettable experience for all who take part.’
He stretched out his hand and grasped hold of a small rope, hanging beneath a polished brass bell. He tugged it, sending a deafening noise throughout the study.
‘Onward ever!’ he cried. ‘And now for some tea.’
7
For the second time in a week Albert Hardcastle found himself in the private office of the Manager of the Yorkshire Prudent Bank - Grimsby branch. This time the Manager’s chair was occupied by none other than Darren Worthington who, following the rapid departure of his predecessor to unknown territory, had received swift promotion.
‘I am delighted to see you again, Mr Hardcastle, and under much happier circumstances. I should inform you immediately that the lottery money is now safely in your joint account, and a cash sum has been transferred to Mr Jason Smith to ease any inconvenience he may have suffered as a result of the bank’s error. Of course we have asked him to keep this whole matter confidential, and Mr Smith has no idea that the money belonged to you. We are strict on confidence at the Prudent Bank, Mr Hardcastle, very strict.’
‘Well, thank the Lord for that,’ said Albert. ‘You gave me and the missus a nervous moment, I can tell you. Do you know that Jason Smith, thinking he had won millions, actually phoned the Head Office and told them what to do with his job? Had he not had a drink or two which befuddled his reasoning, he would have been in real trouble. As it was, he mistakenly got through to the Co-op Funeral Department, who thought someone was ringing to arrange Jason’s funeral. His wife herself nearly died when the Funeral Director called round with his little black book.’
Mr Worthington maintained a discreet silence and jotted something down on a pad before him. He looked up and addressed Albert once again.
‘I well understand you wanting to keep the fact that you have won a substantial sum of money secret, Mr Hardcastle. As we are all aware, this whole affair has caused so much speculation in Grimsby that I would advise you to say nothing further and to keep your head down. Perhaps get away with your wife for a week or so. After all, you have now retired and no one would think anything of it if you went on an extended holiday. As it might cause comment if we were seen lunching together, I have taken the liberty of ordering a light lunch here in the office. Some smoked salmon and just a glass of champagne.’
‘Very considerate, I’m sure, but I would prefer Brown Ale,’ said Albert, unwilling to change the habits of a lifetime.
‘Brown Ale it shall be,’ said the ever-tactful Manager - and smoked salmon and Brown Ale it was!
Albert arrived home that afternoon after what he considered to be a most insubstantial lunch. He had no love for brown bread at the best of times, especially when it was cut so thinly that the slightest draught would have blown it off the plate. As for the salmon, it tasted like no salmon he had ever come across. Often his wife would open a tin of sockeye red and that, together with lettuce, radishes and sliced hard-boiled eggs was the sort of high tea he knew. That was real salmon, not the uncooked muck he was obliged to swallow at the bank. However, it was a kindly gesture even if, throughout the meal, Mr Worthington made several attempts to get him to transfer the six or so million pounds out of his current account into ‘something more suitable for such a large sum’. Albert was having none of it. The money stayed where it was and he would draw on it whenever he might need it.
Alice was doing the ironing when he entered the kitchen through the back door.
‘Wipe your feet, Albert!’ she cried. ‘I’ve just swabbed the floor and I don’t want you messing it up with your great clodhoppers.’
Albert did as he was bid, w
andered into the living room and sat in his chair by the fire. Casually he picked up a copy of the Grimsby Soapbox, a newspaper he had known since he was a lad. Clearly they were struggling to find fresh news for this edition. The story of a local MP, who in an attempt to gain popularity took on ‘Bruiser Barlow’ in a local fairground and had still not recovered consciousness three days after the bout, continued to run. Otherwise fish, or the shortage thereof, dominated the columns.
Turning the pages, he could not fail to see a large advertisement headed by the picture of a Naval Officer in full ceremonial rig.
Golden Oceans, he read. First World Cruise. See the world in luxury. First come, first pleased! For Albert, whose horizons were limited indeed, this was heady stuff. A chance to see the world. A chance to see for himself what this world had to offer. The wonderful thing was that he had the cash. The sum required to pay for two on this exotic journey of a lifetime would hardly make a dent in his six million.
‘Alice,’ he called out. ‘Come here, luv.’
His wife appeared from the kitchen.
‘Have you seen this?’ he asked, holding out the newspaper.
‘Of course I haven’t,’ she replied indignantly. ‘Do you think I’ve nothing better to do than gawk at the paper? It’s a rag anyway. I hear Jimmy Ockshott is still unconscious. As he spent most of his time in Parliament asleep, it ought not to make much difference to him anyway.’
She took the newspaper from his outstretched hand, adding, ‘Well, what’s so important?’
‘Look,’ he urged. ‘The World Cruise.’
‘World Cruise,’ she repeated. ‘World Cruise. Who in their right mind would want to spend God knows how much being seasick and eating foreign muck?’
‘I think this might be different,’ said Albert hopefully. ‘If you read on, it says that there will be traditional British home cooking and that the modern ship is equipped with all the latest devices they can afford. They even have balconies.’
Alice read on. ‘Aye,’ she murmured. ‘They do make some claims, of that there’s no doubt.’
Her husband cut her short.
‘If we went, Alice, we could visit Cousin George in Australia.’ He was getting more enthusiastic by the moment. ‘We’ve not seen him since he left on a ten-pound passage years ago. He were but a lad then.’
‘It’s a lot of brass, Albert,’ Alice said with her customary Northern caution. ‘A lot of brass.’
‘Against six million it’s nowt,’ replied Albert. ‘Nowt but a trifle.’
To make such an assertion indicated a major move in his thinking. Within twenty-four hours, Albert and Alice Hardcastle had sent off for a brochure containing complete details of the journey of a lifetime.
8
Harry Parkhurst was a happy man. Since placing the advertisement in The Times and having had it picked up by virtually every local paper in the British Isles, applications for brochures had flooded in. He was especially gratified when a travel piece he had written, under the pen name of Bryson Paxman, appeared in a popular magazine. He deliberately chose the surnames of two well-known personalities in the hope that members of the public might think that the piece had been written by one or other of these two discerning gentlemen and thus have gravitas.
What could be more delightful, began the blurb, than to relax on the balcony of your suite, under a tropical sky with a refreshing drink in hand. A gourmet dinner awaits, followed by the best entertainment money can buy. All this and more with Golden Oceans, the Line everyone is talking about.
The piece went on to describe the new Flagship of the Line, and to make special mention of the fact that the company enjoyed the expert direction of a retired Naval Officer, of the most senior rank, whose experience of matters nautical was unrivalled.
Captain Sparda, ‘a jovial and seasoned sailor’ was praised for his hospitality on board and his skill when facing the elements.
During the sea trials of the Golden Handshake, wrote the spectral Bryson Paxman, I had the pleasure of dining at the Captain’s Table. An honour indeed and one that will be accorded to all passengers who book a Balcony Suite. Never have I experienced such charming and wise company. Alas, the occasion went far too quickly. It was an evening to remember. A magical evening.
Judging by the number of applications received for Balcony Suites following the publication of this piece, there were plenty of prospective passengers who desired to dine with the former Master of the Messina ferry. Harry was delighted. Bryson and Paxman had done them proud.
9
Down in Southend-on-Sea, Radley Duvet was feverishly provisioning the ship for the first leg of the World Cruise. He seemed to have acquired an extraordinary quantity of baked beans and milk powder, but had been assured by his ex-Army friend that he would never regret having these two faithful standbys in his locker.
‘Everyone likes baked beans,’ he was informed. ‘As for milk powder, it is invaluable when mixed with dried egg to form scrambled eggs. Cheap, nourishing, and served with a sprig of parsley it is very appealing.’
The Golden Handshake was moored at the end of the pier reputed to be the longest pier of its kind in the British Isles. Harry, with the permission of the local Council, had pitched a reception marquee on the promenade and had been able to staff it with several elderly ladies who always volunteered for anything and everything in Southend. Several years previously they had named themselves ‘The Southend Sea Belles’ and their prime mission in life was to be helpful to everyone and anyone who visited the town. They were determined to correct the erroneous image of ‘Essex Girls’ and replace it with a positive picture which more accurately reflected the true character of this delightful county.
Enzo Bigatoni, the fledgling Cruise Director, had written to, or emailed, each person who had booked for the voyage and asked them to send him a passport-sized photograph. He felt that if he could see the face of the individual then it would be a relatively easy matter to match it to a name. What he failed to take into account was the vanity that afflicts most of the human species. Almost without exception, the photographs he received were totally useless. A seventy-year-old passenger sent in a faded picture taken at a formal dance sometime in the nineteen nineties! Since then he had increased in weight considerably, and his now wrinkled face bore little resemblance to the individual posing next to all Master of Hounds. Another showed a Mr Robert Jones, now aged eighty-six, dressed in a cricket blazer at a match he had played in 1979. The Brylcreemed hair he then possessed had now departed, leaving his head as smooth as a billiard ball. Enzo silently cursed the vanity of the cruising public and resumed the arduous task of attempting to commit to memory the passenger list.
During the last few days before departure, Captain Sparda, the Master of the Handshake was nowhere to be seen, having been locked in urgent discussions with the Chief Engineer. The two of them spent the better part of each day in the engine room. The engineer appeared at odd intervals when he was seen frantically ordering large quantities of engine oil, which was swallowed up as soon as it arrived. A fisherman, enjoying an afternoon’s sport at the end of the pier, swore that he witnessed Captain Sparda leap over the stern of the ship and spend at least half an hour wrestling with the rudder. This assertion was vehemently denied by the Captain but, when he developed a very heavy cold, suspicions were aroused.
Meanwhile, Admiral Benbow Harrington had visited the Naval outfitters in town and ordered a full set of whites for each of his senior crew.
‘My little gift for you all,’ he had said. The gesture was much appreciated, even though some alterations were required as the Admiral had, in fact, bought a job lot which had been ordered by the Navy of a far-away country where the largest sailor was barely five feet tall!
‘Thank God for the Southend Sea Belles,’ said the Admiral, as he handed across several dozen whites for alteration. These were quickly converted from long white trousers into shorts by the ever-helpful Belles.
On the day before departure the Adm
iral and Lady Harrington arrived in Southend where they had booked a room at a leading hotel. Lady Harrington had wisely decided that she would not join her husband on this voyage; her past experiences of life at sea had completely cured her of any desire she might have once had to see more of the world.
That evening, there was to be a pre-cruise reception, to which local dignitaries had been invited. The Admiral had hoped that a royal personage might attend the reception but, as the Princess Royal was visiting a cat-food factory in Liverpool and the younger members of the Royal Family were busy shooting up bad men in far-flung parts of the world, or more domestically, changing nappies at home, it was left to the Chairman of a nearby local Council to do the honours. Councillor Paddy Patterson and his partner Bernie Bollinger were duly booked. The Band of the Royal Marines were invited to play but, alas, cuts in the Defence Budget prevented this and so the Featherthorpe Secondary School Brass Ensemble under the direction of Rodney Stope MA stepped into the breach. Specially invited passengers were to attend the reception, and the main body of travellers would arrive the following morning ready for an afternoon departure.
The evening went pleasantly enough. As the Admiral had instructed that whites would be worn for the reception, he was the only person to arrive in long trousers. The other senior staff turned up wearing shorts, which caused some comment as spring had not yet arrived and the evening was a little chilly, to say the least. Unfortunately, due to the Education Secretary ordering Featherthorpe Secondary School to convert into a night school, most pupils were occupied with their studies and only three members of the Ensemble were able to be present, a trombonist, a tuba player and a percussionist who was learning to play the triangle. The latter was not always heard above the general chatter of guests and the playing of the brass, but he did well enough and was roundly applauded at the conclusion of the evening. Rodney Stope, who had missed his bus, arrived much to his disappointment just as the guests were departing. However, the Admiral promised him a free cruise around Poole Harbour, which somewhat compensated him. The Chairman of the Council made an unusual speech about the merits of Gay Marriage, which greatly angered the Admiral and Lady Harrington, who did their best to try and cancel his appearance at the departure the following morning. Alas, there was nothing they could do at such a late juncture and so the arrangements went ahead.
