The Voyage of the Golden Handshake

by Terry Waite

  In the distance, somewhere on the ship, they could hear the melodious tones of Cousin Pedro giving his first performance. Although it was uncomfortable in the extreme on the balcony, they had to admit there was a certain romance about the whole situation, had they been fifty years younger. As it was, it was pretty terrible. Around four in the morning they managed to catch a few moments of fitful sleep. At six o’clock the coastline of Libya was in view but, alas, the ordeal of Albert and Alice was not yet quite over.

  That night, under cover of darkness, Alice had removed her swimming costume and reluctantly thrown it overboard. It was a one-piece outfit with a very pretty skirt around the bottom and she was attached to it. However, it had got covered in shampoo and had also been torn during the failed attempt to return to the cabin, so overboard it went. To save their own clothes, various items of heavy clothing had been passed to them for the night. Albert received a blue seaman’s sweater with a thick pair of serge trousers, and Alice received a similar outfit. They both got a duffel coat, together with the inflatable mattress and plenty of blankets. Hot drinks were constantly supplied and Albert gratefully received a second bottle of Brown Ale.

  As they approached Tripoli, they heard someone calling them from the porthole. Albert struggled to his feet and saw that it was the Hotel Manager.

  ‘Mr Hardcastle,’ he said with a sheepish look on his face. ‘This unfortunate happening has been most embarrassing for the Golden Oceans Company and for the Golden Handshake in particular. This morning we are due to dock immediately next to one of the cruise ships belonging to Fairground Cruises. If they see you climbing down from your balcony by means of a ladder, I am afraid that our Captain, and the whole Line, will be subject to much ridicule. If you could bear with us, we will stop at a spot just before our assigned dock and let you off there. Our Port Agent will pick you up in a car and take you immediately to a hotel where you can get some new clothing.’

  ‘Well,’ said Albert, ‘if you say so. What do you say Alice?’

  ‘All I want is to get off this balcony,’ his wife said tearfully. The strain was now beginning to tell and she was very tired, having been on the balcony for at least twelve hours.

  ‘Good,’ said Radley. ‘Then that’s settled. Just await further instructions.’

  The ship steamed slowly forward and they approached a dock. The ship drew to a halt. On the dockside they saw a small group of men in Arab dress with a long stepladder which, with much difficulty, they positioned so that it reached their balcony.

  ‘It’s a terrible long way down,’ fretted Alice.

  ‘Don’t worry, luv. I’ll go first,’ replied Albert, not a little fearful himself. Udi had now appeared at the porthole and was peering through.

  ‘Well done, sir. Well done, madam. You OK now.’

  Below, there was a great deal of excited chatter in a language that was totally incomprehensible to both Balcony Suite passengers. Gestures were made from the dockside and Albert, understanding that they were now to leave, stepped over the side and put his foot on the first rung.

  Meanwhile, in the Port Office, Libyan Immigration officers had assembled for their shift. Some were assigned clearance responsibilities at Passport Control. Others were put on undercover duties to keep a watch for suspicious activities. That morning, a senior undercover officer, Mr Zlitni, was required to wear plainclothes and patrol the dockside. He trained his binoculars on the Golden Handshake as she entered the harbour and scanned the ship. As far as he knew, it had never entered Libyan waters before and so he took a particular interest in her. To his surprise the ship stopped before her assigned station.

  This is unusual, said Mr Zlitni to himself.

  He kept his binoculars trained on the ship. Suddenly he observed a ladder being positioned against the side of the vessel, just by a balcony where two rough-looking characters in duffel coats were standing. The smaller of the two stepped over the balcony onto the ladder and was instantly followed by the stout one. Immediately Mr Zlitni pulled out his radio and contacted the mobile patrol car with the information that two illegal immigrants were leaving the Golden Handshake by stepladder and they were to be arrested immediately.

  Albert and Alice continued gingerly down the ladder, frightened rather than encouraged by the shouting from the ground below. They felt immense relief when they both stepped onto dry land, even though they were surrounded by a group of chattering Arabs pushing and pulling to get a better view of the new entrants.

  ‘I wish that car would hurry up,’ said Albert. ‘These trousers itch like mad.’

  No sooner had he uttered these words than there was a wailing of sirens and two large black cars pulled up with a screeching of brakes. Several men in sharp suits leaped out.

  ‘These must be the Port Agent’s men,’ said Albert cheerfully, and both he and Alice without needing any persuasion jumped into the back of the nearest vehicle. Another man got in beside them and they sped off at a tremendous pace. The man next to Albert addressed him but Albert could not understand a word. Albert mumbled something about not understanding and the man gave a dismissive laugh but refrained from asking more questions.

  ‘Is the hotel far?’ Albert asked innocently, after about twenty minutes.

  Both the driver and the man in the back thought this question extremely funny and laughed loudly but did not reply. Another ten or so minutes passed and they pulled up outside a low brick building with armed policemen at the door.

  ‘Funny hotel this,’ said Albert, ‘but I suppose it’s an exclusive place and they have to guard their customers.’

  The door of the car was flung open and the couple were pulled out, rather roughly, Albert thought.

  ‘Hold on,’ he said, ‘we can manage. You don’t have to grip our arms like that.’

  No notice was taken of their protests and they were marched inside, into a room that did not look like any hotel Albert or his wife had ever seen. Uniformed men strolled around and on a bench sat a group of dejected-looking characters wearing chains.

  ‘Funny way to dress,’ said Albert, ‘but one can never tell what these foreigners get up to.’

  After a moment or so, a man in a very smart dark suit with an open-neck white shirt appeared and beckoned to them to follow him. They did as they were told and entered a small room where they were motioned to sit on a bench. The man in the suit sat behind a desk.

  ‘I suppose this is their way of checking in,’ said Albert to Alice.

  ‘Quiet!’ barked the suit. Alice jumped and Albert looked surprised.

  ‘Passport,’ demanded the suit.

  ‘Well, it’s like this …’ began Albert.

  ‘Passport!’ bellowed the suit in an even louder voice. Both Balcony Suite passengers looked vacant. Their passports were with the ship, as were all their possessions. Albert spread his hands to indicate they had no documents with them. The suit wrote down something on a pad and then looked up at Alice.

  ‘You, Mister. Name.’

  Alice was completely taken aback. Never in her whole life in Grimsby had she been called Mister. Mister, indeed. She stood up and thumped the desk.

  ‘I’ll have you know I am Alice Hardcastle from Grimsby and I am a Balcony Suite passenger and this is my husband Albert.’

  The suit appeared surprised at the violence of the reply and stood also. He pressed a bell on his desk and two armed policemen entered. He motioned towards the Balcony passengers.

  ‘Take away,’ he said, and with those two words Albert and Alice were led to the cells.

  Back on the ship, rumours circulated quicker than the waters at Messina.

  The British Secret Service had landed two agents in Libya, went one.

  Two Balcony Suite passengers had frozen to death on their balcony, went another.

  The loyal crew refrained from telling passengers what had actually happened but precautions were taken and Captain Sparda confiscated the large spanner marked Balcony Suites so that no one would now be able to actually get
onto their balcony. They would still, however, have the prestige attached to the fact that their suites were Balcony Suites at the very top of the ship and that, reasoned the Hotel Manager, was what was important.

  Down in the depths of the ship, the poor chaplain continued to struggle with his sermon in the cramped conditions of the sickbay. He seemed to have had nothing but difficulties since he was persuaded to stay on board and, frankly, he was fed up. He hardly knew anyone apart from the Captain and the doctor, and they did not seem to have much time for him. As for the passengers, they had no idea that he was on board to assist them with their spiritual needs. He had no clothes, apart from his clerical suit and a pile of disposable nightshirts. No one had thought to tell him where the ship was going and when or where the ship docked. Fortunately, in order to board the ship with the Councillors’ party, he had had to bring identification and thus was in possession of his passport, so he could leave the ship and go home if he could find enough money for the fare. He was feeling very sorry for himself when the doctor breezed in.

  ‘Hello, old man,’ he greeted him. ‘Said your prayers yet?’

  The chaplain managed a weak smile and continued to study a sheet of paper on which he had written some notes for his sermon.

  ‘This is a cruise and a half,’ the doctor continued. ‘Rumour has it that a couple of Balcony types tried to jump ship to avoid their bar bills and have landed in prison.’

  The chaplain looked up. ‘Where are we?’ he enquired.

  ‘The land of liberty,’ replied the doctor. ‘Libya, old boy. Just the place to land in jail, what?’

  Libya rang a bell with the chaplain. When he was studying at the East Cheam Ordination Course, a fellow student, Guy Raleigh, tried to get him interested in sailing. As East Cheam was hardly the centre of the yachting world he went with Guy to Norfolk, where the bitter winds and dampness put him off sailing for life. The chaplain had little interest, and even less flair, for the activity and so that was that. Years later, it came as no surprise to him to hear that Guy had joined the ranks of the Society for the Protection of Underprivileged Fisherfolk and Ancient Mariners, and had been sent to man their outpost in Libya. He mentioned to the doctor that he actually had a clerical friend in Libya, but Doctor Hackett made no reply and so the chaplain did not explain further.

  The doctor continued to sort out a pile of prescriptions on his desk.

  ‘These damn ships,’ he muttered. ‘Colds, flu, Novovirus. It’s like a zoo for ailments. Every disease known to man resides here, with one man to deal with them all. Me.’

  Here he threw the papers into a tray and reached in the drawer for a snifter.

  ‘Join me?’ he offered generously.

  The chaplain shook his head and the doctor poured himself a liberal measure.

  ‘This keeps the germs away,’ he said as he quaffed the beverage.

  The chaplain made a face even though he was getting accustomed to the doctor’s drinking habits.

  ‘You said we are in Libya?’ he queried as the doctor returned to his paperwork.

  ‘That’s the place,’ he replied. ‘For some reason the anchorage we were due to take and where cruise ships normally call had been declared a prohibited zone, and so we are in what seems to be a vast oil terminal alongside a floating monster belonging to Fairground Cruises. The Merrygoround, I think it is. I bet their passengers are having a jolly time visiting the petroleum works.’

  ‘What about our two passengers?’ queried the chaplain. ‘Will we have to leave them here?’

  ‘Quite likely,’ said Hackett. ‘Silly fools. Fancy jumping ship in Libya of all places. Gibraltar perhaps, but Libya!’

  He replaced a bottle and glass in the side drawer and made to leave.

  ‘Look, old man, you have spent too much time down here. My guess is that we will be here for a couple of days. Cruise ships have the curious habit of overnighting in the most unpromising of places. Why not get some air, perhaps visit your holy fishing friends who live here. Rather them than me.’

  With that, he got up and left.

  The chaplain thought that it might be a very good idea to get away from the ship for an hour or so, and an even better one to visit an old companion. Fortunately he never went anywhere without his SPUDFAM (Society for the Protection of Underprivileged Fishermen and Ancient Mariners) diary, and he quickly consulted it. There, printed prominently in the front, was a list of all the stations around the world where the Society was at work, together with the names and telephone numbers of the Societies’ chaplains. Sure enough, the Reverend Guy Raleigh MBE was listed as being resident in Libya. The chaplain, acting boldly for a change, went across to the doctor’s desk and asked Reception to put him through to the number he had before him. Within a few moments he was talking to a surprised and delighted Guy Raleigh.

  Deep below ground, somewhere in Libya, the two Balcony Suite passengers languished. Still wearing their duffel coats and grey bobble hats, they sat on the floor. Alice was in tears and Albert did his best to comfort her.

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ she wailed. ‘This would never have happened if I hadn’t gone sunbathing.’

  ‘There, there,’ Albert replied soothingly. ‘They must have mistaken us for someone else. We will be back on board soon.’

  Every so often, a dirty bearded fellow, wearing what seemed to Albert like a long nightshirt, came and peered at them through the bars. At each appearance Albert tried to ask him a question but the only reply he ever got was ‘Inshallah’, which meant not a thing to the two travellers from Grimsby. Unknown to Albert and Alice, upstairs in the reception area Harry Parkhurst had been conversing with the authorities and attempting to explain the unexplainable. Alas, Harry had got nowhere and was threatened with detention himself if he did not return immediately to the ship which, he was informed, was being impounded. As soon as Alice and Albert had been whisked away in the car and the group of Arabs with the ladder had been thrown into the back of a police van, Immigration Officers had boarded the ship in force and ordered that no one was to leave. Harry was given permission to visit the authorities but, as we have already heard, his journey was fruitless. He returned to the ship seriously worried.

  Unknown to everyone on the ship, the chaplain, who had no idea what was happening, had arranged for the Reverend Guy to visit him, after which they would both return to the Mission House for a meal. Guy arrived at the dockside and saw the Golden Handshake moored alongside. Normally he walked directly on board any ship he cared to visit, but today his old friend Ali stopped him as he was walking to the gangway.

  ‘Mr Guy, Sir.’

  Guy responded by greeting Ali like the old friend that he was. Years ago, Guy had got Ali’s son a job as a steward on one of the cruise lines and this cemented a relationship that would prove invaluable today.

  ‘Ship full with bad men,’ said Ali. ‘You no go there.’

  Guy looked surprised, as well he might.

  ‘Plenty men on ship want to live Libya,’ continued Ali. ‘Plenty jump ship. Libya clever and catch bad men. More bad men on ship, sir. You no meet bad men, sir.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Guy, who had gained but a vague idea as to what was going on. ‘My friend padre on ship.’

  Ali’s face lit up. ‘Sir, your friend, my friend, sir. You get your friend, sir. No problem.’

  The chaplain ascended the gangway and nodded to the two policemen on duty who made way for him. The reception area was buzzing with activity. Armed police and plainclothes men were seemingly everywhere. He spotted the chaplain standing alone by the reception desk looking somewhat dejected. When they caught each other’s eyes, the chaplain’s face lit up.

  ‘Guy!’ he enthused. ‘How good to see you, but it’s bad news, I’m afraid. I can’t leave the ship.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Guy replied. ‘Follow me,’ and together they descended the gangway, went through the Customs Hall and in no time at all were sitting together in the Mission House.

  The Mission House was bu
t a short distance from the port and provided simple facilities for visiting seamen such as a canteen, free wifi and a library. Guy lived on the premises and was regarded as part of the furniture in the port and with many of the ships, both cargo and passenger, that called at this somewhat depressing oil terminal. He was a natural communicator and knew everyone in town associated with shipping and Port affairs.

  When they had caught up with the years that had passed since their college days, the chaplain explained how he came to be on board the Golden Handshake and what a terrible time he was having. Guy sympathised.

  ‘Why is the ship impounded?’ the chaplain asked. ‘No one tells me anything.’

  Guy said that he hadn’t a clue but from what he had heard there might have been some kind of immigration problem. As they were puzzling out what might have happened, the phone rang and Guy answered it. He held his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered across to the chaplain, ‘It’s from your ship. A chap called Parkhurst.’

  Guy removed his hand and listened, occasionally interjecting with a ‘yes’, or ‘that’s right’, or ‘how terrible’. The chaplain, as usual, was not able to make head nor tail as to what was being explained. Finally, the long monologue came to an end and Guy replied that he would see what could be done, and that as he had the chaplain from the Handshake with him, he would give him news to bring back to the ship that evening.