The Voyage of the Golden Handshake

by Terry Waite

  On the sea day, when the happy ship was steaming full speed ahead for Messina, Enzo summoned passengers to rush from their suites and cabins for an important announcement. They gathered expectantly around the Information Points and the familiar voice of their Cruise Director came over the loudspeakers.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your Cruise Director, Enzo, announcing a very special event today. Piddling Pursuits this morning at eleven o’clock will be the Speciality Session with an enormous prize worth five hundred pounds going to the winner. There will be only one or two Speciality Sessions each cruise, so do come along. See you around the ship and have a wonderful day.’

  At the appointed time, rather more passengers than usual made their way to the venue and were given a paper and pencil by Angela Fairweather, the social hostess. Sir Archie was amazed that Lady Veronika decided to accompany him that morning. Normally she disdained the game, but there was no telling with his unpredictable wife and so, wearing her distinctive Mongolian knitted jacket, she made her first appearance.

  A beaming Enzo greeted the assembled competitors. He instructed them that as this was a session with so much at stake, the rules would be strictly enforced and his word was final.

  The group waited anxiously to see what the speciality subject would be, and when he announced it was ‘yaks’ a huge groan went up around the room. One or two passengers got up at that point and left, but the majority stayed behind although they realised that they were probably doomed from the start. Sir Archie could not believe it. He knew of his wife’s Intelligence background, of course, and marvelled that in some way or another she had been able to discover the subject for this demanding quiz. His respect for her ability increased dramatically.

  Enzo called for absolute silence and produced his little red book.

  ‘Question one,’ he announced solemnly.

  ‘How high can a yak climb without experiencing any problems?’

  There were various wild guesses. Toby Troy, who claimed to have visited the habitat of yaks many times in his life, did a few quick calculations in his head and scribbled a number on his paper. Lady Veronika, impassive as ever, noted something down.

  ‘Question two,’ he declared. ‘What is the name given to the cross between a yak and a bison?’

  ‘A bloody freak!’ shouted some wit from one of the groups.

  Enzo looked sternly at him. ‘Remember the huge prize on offer,’ he said, ‘and please try to take this seriously.’

  By the time Enzo had arrived at the final question, deep gloom had settled on the group. Apart from the subject being so specialised, the questions were obscure in the extreme and it would be nothing short of a miracle if all the correct answers were given by one person.

  ‘Question twenty-four,’ said Enzo with a confident air. ‘What is the connection between Chinese Opera and yaks?’

  ‘Their tiny feet are frozen,’ shouted the same comedian who had interrupted before. Enzo ignored him. ‘Kindly fold your papers and hand them to Angela, please,’ he said. She will mark each one, and in a few moments we will see if there is a winner.’

  Confident that no one would ever get twenty-four correct answers, Enzo strutted around the room smiling at passengers whose names he had yet to remember, but whom he recognised. He was talking pleasantly to an elderly lady who was telling him of her life as a missionary in India, when Angela beckoned him over. She looked concerned.

  ‘Someone has won,’ she muttered in a half-whisper. ‘They have all twenty-four questions correct.’

  Enzo sat down heavily on a bar stool.

  ‘What?’ he gulped. ‘Impossible. Give me the papers.’

  Angela duly handed them across and Enzo, peering through his bifocals, studied them carefully. He went pale.

  ‘This is correct, he muttered. A yak can indeed climb to 20,000 feet. How could a passenger know that? She even knew that the hairs from a yak’s tail are used to make beards in Chinese opera. What a situation! Five hundred pounds and I didn’t clear this with the Hotel Manager.’

  Angela remained silent.

  Enzo pulled himself to his feet and, summoning all his strength, put on his best Cruise Director’s smile and said, ‘Wonderful news. Lady Veronika Willoughby has got twenty-four carats and thus has won the magnificent prize. Well done, Lady Veronika.’

  As a final intervention, the budding comedian brayed like a donkey, which again engendered much merriment. Lady Veronika glowered from behind her tortoiseshell spectacles as Sir Archie applauded loudly, to be sportingly joined by others in the room, while Enzo reluctantly departed for what would be, at some point, a tricky meeting with the Hotel Manager.

  Messina, sometimes called ‘the gateway to Sicily’, hove into sight. Captain Sparda felt a wave of nostalgia sweep over him as he viewed Villa San Giovanni on the port bow and Messina on the other. These were the treacherous waters he had sailed for many years, and a host of memories returned as on his new command he sailed them yet again. It was here that the legend of Scylla and Charybdis originated, Scylla on the Italian side being an outcrop of rock and Charybdis off the Sicilian coast a treacherous whirlpool. The waters were notoriously difficult to navigate and the saying ‘Between a Rock and a Hard Place’ originated from this very spot.

  The Captain scanned the harbour with his brass telescope and could just about make out a group of people who were waving in his direction. He was too far off to distinguish them, but he imagined that it would be his family, who had promised to be there to meet him when he called in at his home for the first time on the Golden Handshake.

  They approached the dock and Sparda could now clearly make out his wife and family who, to his surprise, had been supplemented by Lilian’s family from London. He had not known that there would be such a large party to greet him. By now he could hear their shouts of welcome in Italian from one group and English from the other. Suddenly the helmsman began to struggle with the wheel and, without warning, the ship turned around 180 degrees and began heading away from the dock. He could hear cries of dismay from the shore.

  ‘Hey, come back!’ they cried. ‘Tornare indietro.’

  The helmsman was doing his level best to return to the set course, but it seemed as though the ship had a mind of her own and was determined to head for the rocks on the Italian side. Then it happened again. The helmsman was once more taken by surprise when exactly the same thing took place and the ship began to head back towards the port. On deck, Fred Batty who, in his latest lecture, had spoken of how the Black Death was supposed to have come into Europe from here, now said to nearby passengers that the Captain was simply giving everyone an excellent view of this fascinating part of the world and that was why he was circling. The devoted family party had produced some flags, and as the ship headed back towards them they cheered even louder than before and furiously waved the banners. The melodic tones of Cousin Pedro, the tenor, floated across the water and sure enough, Uncle Giovanni could be heard playing his ancient piano accordion.

  Captain Sparda could not believe it when yet again the ship spun round and once more made for the mainland. By now, family patience was running out and Sparda could hear what he thought was his uncle from Catania shouting, ‘ Stupido’ and ‘Dove stai andando?’ (where are you going?). This was becoming ridiculous and, determined to sort the matter out, Captain Sparda ordered the helmsman away from the wheel and took it over himself. He managed to get the ship back facing towards Sicily, ordered the helmsman to return to his post, commanded the Staff Captain to take over, and rushed outside to greet his family. To shouts of: ‘Bravo’ and ‘Non andare via di nuovo’ (don’t go away again) the good ship Handshake finally docked.

  The Admiral had suggested that all the Sicilian members of the ship’s company take shore leave for a few hours, and they took little persuading. Mr Fennington Barley, not a Sicilian but someone who had had plenty of free time up to this point, was a gentleman host whose prime responsibility was to dance with any lady who requir
ed a dancing partner. He had heard that the International Clog Dancing team were paying a visit to Sicily, and as dancing on board the ship was his speciality, he decided to track them down. Up to this point Mr Barley, or ‘Pearl’ as he was sometimes rudely named by some of the more macho members of the crew, had not been at all busy as there was no band on the ship and the piano was so out of tune that it was virtually unplayable. He was promised that musicians would embark in Messina for several days and that a piano-tuner would come on board and do the necessary.

  Mr Barley was a retired farmer and all his life had had a longing to take up dancing; between milking and bringing in the sheaves, however, he had never had the time to even begin to learn the first elementary steps. When retirement came and the farm was sold, he enrolled at the local dancing academy and quickly became a star pupil as he had a natural ability. Never having travelled, he heard through the academy that, if he was to make a small payment, he could be taken on by a cruise line and be able to dance his way around the world. His job required extreme tact. He was instructed not to enter into any romantic liaison with any of his dancing partners; not to be seen to be dancing too frequently with any one lady; always to compliment the lady on her grace and skill on the dance floor and never ever run the ship down to a passenger. Given that times had changed since ships introduced Gentlemen Hosts, he asked his mentor at the academy what ought he to do if a single male approached him on board ship and requested a dance. Unfortunately he did not get an answer as his teacher had to leave quickly to catch a bus, but the question was always in the back of his mind, and if the occasion arose he wondered what he would do.

  It seemed as though Mr Barley would be kept busy after Messina because the Cruise Director had informed him that the Captain’s Uncle Giovanni would be joining the ship to play the piano accordion, together with a Signor Marko Contoni, who would play the clarinet. Once tuned, the piano would be played by a crew member who normally worked in the kitchen but could be released between shifts to ‘tinkle the ivories’ as the Cruise Director nauseatingly put it.

  Mr Barley spent one of his last free afternoons clog dancing his way through the streets of Messina with the international team, who had joined forces with the Mad Maypole Men, on a tour arranged through the good offices of the British Council. It was a great success and later in the year the clog master was awarded a knighthood for his outstanding work in promoting international relations through the arts.

  Lilian Sparda greeted her husband warmly and, together, they were swept away for a few hours to the family residence where an enormous meal had been prepared. Following the meal, Uncle Giovanni played along with Signor Marko, who had been especially invited to join the party. Cousin Pedro tuned his vocals and led the party in singing a selection of Sicilian favourites, which delighted everyone. Sparda was so impressed that there and then he invited Pedro to join the two others and come on board for some days to entertain the passengers. Pedro, who normally sang in the streets, was overjoyed and agreed immediately.

  The evening grew late and Sparda was just about to say a fond farewell to his wife when one of his half-cousins from Catania sidled up to him and, in Italian, asked if before the ship sailed he might board to conduct a small inspection, ‘for insurance purposes’. Although the good Captain would have been overjoyed to take his family on a tour of the Golden Handshake, time was limited and he knew that one or two of the more distant cousins might want to take some advantage of boarding a ship bound for foreign parts. So, his decision was to keep them all ashore.

  ‘You remember, Peché, of the help you had in Monaco?’ whispered the Catanian. ‘I think you owe us a little inspection, don’t you? You don’t have to come with me, Peché. Just inform Security that your dear cousin will be coming on board for a few moments so that he can assure all the family that you are really comfortable.’

  Sparda remained silent. He had no idea what mischief his half-cousin might be up to, but he was certain that something was afoot.

  ‘I shall be leaving in half an hour,’ said the Captain. ‘When I arrive at the ship I expect you will have departed for home so I shall say goodnight now. Goodnight, Cousin.’

  With that Captain Peché Sparda left to say farewell to his wife.

  Whilst the Captain was occupied with his family, and various other members of the ship’s company were on shore, or fulfilling their duties, on board Harry Parkhurst had not been idle. Gradually he felt the cruise was falling into place. Some of the teething troubles had been attended to, but he was not sanguine and by no means were they through the proverbial woods yet. However, he was reasonably satisfied. The visit to Messina had caused him some concern, for he knew from what he had learned in Monaco that there would be an interest taken by the Insurers in the Golden Handshake and that this interest might result in disaster not only for his dear friend Sparda, but for the Admiral and the whole of the Golden Oceans Empire. As the Insurers tended to spend much time in the South of Italy, and some of them were actually related to Sparda, he was sure they would attempt something or other when the ship was in Messina. What, he knew not. He had had a confidential word with Arthur Chub, the Security Officer, and warned him to be especially vigilant and to keep a close lookout for anyone seeking to gain entry to the ship. When intelligence reached Harry of the impending visit of Sparda’s cousin, his anxiety increased.

  ‘Mr Chub,’ he said urgently, when he called to see the Security Officer who was on duty at the gangway. ‘As you know, the Captain will not be bringing his family aboard this time. I believe, however, that a cousin of the Captain will come on board this evening just before we sail. He has known the Captain since they were together in the Sea Scouts, and out of loving concern for our Captain he wants to be personally assured that all is well on board. Although he is a relative, Mr Chub, I want you to screen him thoroughly. As we are bound for Libya, we cannot afford to take the slightest risk.’

  Mr Chub, who occasionally had to search people before they were allowed into the gasworks, understood perfectly.

  ‘Please treat him with the greatest courtesy, Mr Chub, and warn him that he must be off the ship before eleven this evening, when we sail.’

  Arthur Chub nodded enthusiastically. His job was to keep the ship safe and he would do just that.

  The security staff were kept reasonably busy checking in revellers that evening and, as it was mandatory that all crew members must be on board one hour before sailing time, the hour before sailing was relatively quiet. Chub dismissed all but the card inspection team and stationed himself by the gangway. Exactly half an hour before the time to depart he saw a solitary figure approach the gangway, look around to see if he was being observed and then begin to ascend the steps. When he reached the top, Chub stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said politely. ‘Can I be of help to you?’

  ‘Io sono il cugino del capitano,’ muttered the visitor.

  Chub, who was more proficient in Italian than the Cruise Director would ever be, understood that this was the Captain’s cousin. Welcoming him profusely, he apologised that regulations insisted that everyone, the Captain included, must be searched before entering the ship. The cousin nodded and Chub gave him a thorough going over. Satisfied that he was bringing nothing on board except a greasy comb, he released him, and after pointing out directions to the bridge, warned him that he had twenty minutes before he had to be back on shore.

  The cousin padded in the direction of the bridge and Chub waited for him to return. As the main purpose of this visit was for the visitor to get an idea of the layout of the ship for future insurance purposes, once he had found the steps leading to the bridge he prowled around the deck and then descended into the lower regions of the vessel. As by now activities for the day had closed down, not all areas of the ship were lighted. The cousin felt his way along a narrow corridor and suddenly, to his horror, felt himself falling. He landed with a tremendous crash, severely twisting an ankle as he landed. When, with som
e difficulty, he picked himself up, he discovered, as luck would have it, that he had landed directly outside a door marked Medical Centre. He hopped to the door and turned the handle, which revealed a brightly lit reception area with several doors leading off it. Tottering into the room he called out - in Italian, of course: ‘Anyone at home? Medical emergency!’

  After a moment or so a willowy-looking fellow, wearing a clinical nightshirt, emerged from a side room. As the nightshirt was one of the kind that is slipped on, leaving a gap at the rear, the wearer of this garment kept his back pressed against the wall as though he was edging along a narrow cliff-top pathway.

  ‘Ah, Doctor,’ said the wounded visitor. ‘I need my foot strapping up quickly as I must leave the ship in ten minutes.’

  Little did the cousin know that he was in fact addressing the poor unfortunate chaplain, who had been awakened from his slumbers by the sound of the fall and had been scared out of his wits. As the visitor addressed him in Italian, the chaplain had no idea what he was talking about except that, when he heard the word ‘Medico’, he assumed the visitor wanted to see the doctor.

  Unfortunately, the doctor had taken the night off and was sharing it with a brandy bottle either on shore or somewhere on the ship. The chaplain, having gained a First Aid Certificate when on the East Cheam Ordination Course, recognised that the foot was the problem and motioned for the visitor to take a seat on a low bench. Edging further along the wall and twisting awkwardly, he managed to fill an electric kettle which he promptly switched on.

  The patient shouted at his helper: ‘Non. Io non voglio una bevanda calda. Non c’è tempo!’ Although the injured man had said that he did not want a hot drink because there was no time, the chaplain, when he heard the word ‘calda’ - hot - thought that the word meant cold, and assured him that it was not a cold drink he was getting but some hot water to soothe the pain. The kettle boiled and gingerly the chaplain poured the scalding water into a deep bowl which stood nearby. Grasping the bowl with both hands and keeping his back against the wall, he edged further around the room. He was just passing in front of the doorway when it opened with a terrific crash, sending the chaplain flying and tipping the boiling water over the poor unfortunate cousin. He let out a scream, the chaplain in vain attempted to protect his modesty, and who should enter the room at that moment but none other than Captain Sparda.