by Chris Thrall
“Mmm, please, Papa.”
As Jessica turned to take the offering, a piercing screeching broke out. Two seagulls dove out of nowhere and engulfed her in a blaze of white feathers. One snatched the entire fillet of fish from her Styrofoam tray with its fat yellow bill and swallowed it whole before its wings flapped twice. The other, in a moment of confusion, plucked Bear from her lap.
“Nooooo!”
She lunged to grab him back but toppled headlong into the sea.
Without pause Hans leapt from the dock.
When Jessica surfaced through the oil, weed and scum, he put his arm out to stabilize her.
“It’s okay, honey. Daddy’s gotcha.”
Treading water, Hans put on a broad grin to dispel the drama.
“Bear, Papa!”
“It’s all right. He’s over there.” Hans nodded in the direction of her teddy, floating nearby with his ass in the air. It was a sign of her remarkable maturity that a cold plunge from a height of eight feet didn’t faze her, only the possibility of losing her beloved companion. “You okay to go and rescue him?”
“Uh-huh.” She nodded, peeling away using breaststroke.
A crowd gathered on the quayside.
“You all right, mate?” A man handed his wallet and Nokia to the woman next to him.
“Yeah, we’re fine, buddy. Thank you.”
Hans was glad he left his cell phone on board.
Holding Bear, Jessica struggled to keep her head above water, so Hans took him, and they struck out for a rusting iron ladder bolted to the quay wall.
“You’ve a right one on yer ’ands there, me ’andsome boy!” a fisherman remarked, grinning broadly as he passed by, surrounded by mesh pots at the tiller of his crab boat.
“Er . . . yeah!” Hans replied, sensing the man meant well.
“You guys having fun?”
The voice came from above. Hans and Jessica looked up to see Penny’s effervescent presence shining down on them.
“Penny – phuh.” Jessica swallowed a mouthful of harbor. “Bear fell in the water!”
“I can see that.”
Just then the thunderous clap of unsilenced Harley-Davidson engines broke out around them. Two burly bikers in grease-smeared jeans, worn leather jackets and denim vests, tattoos and bandanas had watched the episode unfold from an open-air burger joint named Captain Jasper’s. Stepping off their impressive custom-builds, they reached down and hauled Jessica onto the dockside.
“You all right, me bird?” one of them asked.
“I’m not a bird!” She giggled.
“You’re a beautiful bird to me, mate!” He grinned, kissing her on the cheek and displaying a row of nicotine-stained tombstones.
Hans received the same treatment – without the endearment.
“Where you staying to?” the other petrol head inquired.
“On a yacht in the marina.”
“Jump on.”
The man straddled his chromed beast and kicked up its stylish skeleton foot stand with his booted heel.
Hans sat behind him and planted Jessica in between them, noting the black eagle patch on the man’s denim vest and the badges “Aquila” and “Devon” above and below it.
Hell, these dudes are serious! Hans thought, Penny riding pillion on the other chopper as they sped the wrong way down a one-way street.
“Say, aren’t you guys supposed to wear helmets?” Hans yelled above the din. “Isn’t it law here?”
“Ha!” the biker scoffed as traffic veered from their path. “We are the law.”
After a shower, Hans and Jessica drank a mug of hot chocolate and ate buttery scrambled eggs cooked by Penny. Then the two of them set off to do some more sightseeing, with Jessica reluctantly agreeing to leave Bear pegged to the backstay.
Hans figured the central district would be as charming as the seafront but was unaware of the enormous damage Hitler’s bomber crews did during the Blitz, for attempting to neutralize Plymouth’s maritime infrastructure the Luftwaffe had leveled the city, destroying historic buildings and thousands of homes.
The charred stone ruins of an ancient church sat in the middle of a busy roundabout, surrounded by modern office blocks and a shopping mall. Gutted by German firebombs, the church was an eerie sight and testament to the Plymouthians’ indomitable spirit and the horror of war.
Plymouth’s postwar reconstruction looked like some sort of socialist experiment, the buildings – gray, concrete and austere – reminding Hans of the crass, sixties and seventies town planning he had seen in the north of Sweden. Every so often they came across a halfhearted attempt to revitalize the dreary architecture with a garish postmodern design, like sprucing up an out-of-fashion suit with a loud tie.
“Look, Papa!”
Jessica caught sight of a colossal sundial, the city’s avant-garde centerpiece, its twenty-foot-high chrome gnomon rising out of a gently cascading fountain to cast a shadow onto marble-block hour markers, which at this time doubled as seats for weary shoppers. She dragged her father up the five concentric tiers of neat brown bricks forming the sundial’s base.
Upon reaching the top, Hans chuckled. Despite the obvious investment involved in commissioning the sculpture . . . it ran two hours slow.
Hans did not know what to make of Plymouth. He knew not to expect cap-doffing peasants and tea-drinking gentry, as in Hollywood’s portrayal of Little England, but what he witnessed surprised him nonetheless. The city had a distinct element of behind-the-times naivety bordering on bizarre. They passed a motorbike dealership named Not 4 Girlz and a sports car showroom called Boyz Toyz. It was as if the struggle for equality had simply bypassed this place. Hans would teach Jessica to ride a motorcycle and drive a car as good as any man – if she chose to, that was. No fool would pigeonhole her with their bigoted designs.
In the city center’s pedestrianized shopping area, an adult store, Good Vibrations, featured lingerie-clad mannequins in provocative poses in its window display, along with a sale sign designed to look like an oral sex act. In the front of another store, Homeward Bound, the dummies were a gimp-suited man whipping a woman in a latex bikini.
“Has she been naughty, Papa?” Jessica’s eyes screwed up.
“Er . . . no, honey. It’s a grown-up thing.”
In no way prudish, Hans wondered how local parents felt about the message these prominent outlets gave to impressionable youngsters. The city seemed to go out of its way to objectify women.
Am I getting cynical?
Hans tried to think back to his younger self. Such issues certainly didn’t bother him when sitting in the hold of a C-130 armed to the teeth, ready to parachute out with his team and unleash hell on complete strangers. Was it something to do with all the lies, double standards and corruption he had witnessed over the years, the hubris and greed of yellow-streaked suits born into privilege and hiding behind the bastions of power? Could it be fatherhood and the responsibility of looking out for someone else’s welfare and not just his own? On the other hand, perhaps he was just sick to the back teeth of the whole goddamn show.
Just when Hans thought they had seen it all, he spotted a recently opened wine bar with the sign “Hawkins House” above the door. He shook his head, having read in the guidebook that Sir John Hawkins had been Britain’s most prolific slave trader.
Who in their right mind would name a pub after this guy?
In the States, such a lack of consideration would cause protests, even riots. It all came as something of a shock to the American, who believed the British to be a cultured people with a history of fighting oppression.
Keen to get out of the area, “Fancy a walk along Plymouth Hoe?” he asked the first mate.
“Okay, Papa.”
“How’s the legs?”
“They’re fine.”
Jessica gave a nonchalant shrug to cover her fib – anything to spend more time exploring with her father.
- 9 -
Hans and Jessica went in search o
f Plymouth Hoe, the four-hundred-year-old esplanade atop the city’s cliff front.
In reality “cliff front” proved somewhat misleading, since over the years a number of now-decadent-looking oddities – belvederes, sunbathing plinths, a high-diving platform, an art deco lido – as well as café bars and sailing clubs had been built amongst the limestone’s craggy contours, giving the impression of a hedonist’s playground. Interconnecting the eclectic mix of old and new, and in synergy with the rock, an elaborate network of steps, colonnades and walkways gave the impression of the interlinking staircases you see in optical illusions – the ones angling up and down at the same time.
The Larssons hiked up a hilly backstreet lined with grand townhouses to find themselves in the center of the Hoe’s mile-long stretch. A visual banquet greeted them, the view rolling out over the oily blue water of the English Channel, taking in the fairy-tale image of Drake’s Island, the colossal stone breakwater and lush shades of forest sprouting from the headland guarding the bay.
Hans bent down and kissed his daughter. “It’s so beautiful up here, honey.”
“It’s a magic place, Papa.”
“And do you know what?”
She shook her head.
“I’m happy we’re exploring it together.”
Jessica wrapped her arms around her father and they hugged awhile in silence.
Hans unfolded the tourist map and began pointing out features of interest. At the far left of the plateau stood the Royal Citadel, a sprawling fortress built in 1660 during the Anglo-Dutch Wars, now garrisoning an elite artillery unit. Hans recalled serving on joint operations with the commandos stationed behind the imposing Baroque gateway.
Strangely, a number of the citadel’s gun emplacements faced the city as opposed to the ocean, apparently a warning to locals in days of old not to rise against the Crown.
Hans began to chuckle.
“What, Papa?” Jessica tugged his shirt.
The idea of a fort facing backwards reminded Hans of Monty Python and the Holy Grail in their DVD collection at home. To Jessica’s delight, he began mimicking the Black Knight, hopping around on one leg with his arms behind his back.
“Just a flesh wound!”
To the rear of the esplanade stood a row of stately hotels with striking white façades, prominent chimney stacks and spectacular seaward vistas. In front lay an undulating carpet of neatly mown grass stretching to the cliff edge, at this time packed with picnickers relaxing on treat-laden blankets and office workers taking a break to soak up the sun’s rays.
No one does lawns like the Brits, thought Hans.
“What’s that, Papa?” Jessica spotted a tall, round tower painted in red and white stripes like a barbershop pole.
“It’s a lighthouse, Jess. Wanna take a look?”
He needn’t have asked.
Walking toward the structure, they passed a number of monuments honoring fallen military personnel and notable seafarers.
Hans paused. “Hey, Jess. Do you know who this is?”
Atop a granite plinth, a bronze casting depicted a portly gent sporting a sea captain’s beard and wearing an ornate leather doublet and breeches. Staring expectantly out over the sound, he carried a rapier in a scabbard by his side and stood next to a world globe, the kind employed by navigators and explorers.
“Sir Fran—”
“–cis . . .”
“Drake.”
“Well done, sweet pea. And can you read what the plaque says?”
As Jessica narrated the challenges Drake faced in his 1577 circumnavigation of the planet – violent storms, mutiny, tropical disease and skirmishes with tribesmen – Hans’ interest in the queen’s favorite sailor was piqued – although in Spain’s estimation, El Draque was nothing more than a pirate who plundered their gold along the Main.
“. . . and he sailed back into Plymouth Sound with more treasure than any captain before him, receiving a knighthood and—”
The unlikely ballad of “Greensleeves” interrupted Jessica as a gaudy yellow-and-orange truck pulled up.
“I suppose you don’t like ice cream anymore, shipmate.” Hans winked.
“Yay!”
Examining the dated advertising stickers splattered around the vehicle’s serving hatch, Hans had no idea what Feast-ivals, ZaPPers or Nize-Izes were, so he asked the vendor to suggest a local choice.
“Ninety-Nine, sir. Cornish ice cream served in a cone with a flake.”
“A flake?”
“One of these.” The vendor held up a catering pack containing four-inch-long chocolate logs separated into layers by corrugated paper sheets.
“We’ll take two please.”
Noting their accents, “Here’s a song you might know!” The ice cream man chuckled and gave an impromptu blast of “Camptown Races.”
As they sat on the grass to eat their 99s before the sun melted them, it occurred to Hans they were in the same spot the Beatles occupied for a picture taken when the band were in the West Country filming Magical Mystery Tour. Hans had seen the photograph on postcards in the souvenir stores, the Fab Four sitting in a row, gazing out to sea, wearing their attire from the movie. He asked a passing French tourist to take a snap of him and Jessica but, posing pointing to the ocean as Ringo Starr had done in 1967, a pang of grief gripped him. There were two people missing from the shot.
When they reached the lighthouse, the attendant met them at the entrance. A sprightly chap, he oozed enthusiasm for the city and looked to be supplementing his pension.
“Welcome to Smeaton’s Tower, sir. I’m Jack, your captain, and we will be climbing to an altitude of forty-six feet.” He grinned at his own humor, his steel-blue eyes glinting under slicked-back white hair.
“Smeaton’s Tower?” said Hans.
“Designed by John Smeaton in 1756, sir.”
“Wow, some time ago.”
“Certainly is, sir. The old girl original sat on the—”
“Old girl?” Hans thought he’d missed something.
“The lighthouse, sir. Call her the old girl, see? ’Cause she’s the only wife I’ve got!” He chuckled at another of his chestnuts and, turning to Jessica, said, “But at least this one won’t be running off with the milkman!”
She smiled politely.
“Where was I?” Jack stared into nothing. “Yes, she originally sat on the Eddystone Rocks, twelve miles offshore.”
“That must have been difficult – building her that far out in the 1750s.”
“Revolutionary design, sir. A clever man, Mr. Smeaton.” He led them back a few paces. “See how she’s shaped like the trunk of an oak tree?”
“Of course.” Hans lifted his sunglasses and gazed upwards.
“Her granite blocks are dovetailed to lock together for strength.”
“And where was this done?”
“Millbay Docks, sir.” Jack pointed to the end of the Hoe. “One thousand four hundred and ninety-three blocks in all, carved by local tin miners and ferried out to the Rocks by boat. But they had to be careful, see?”
“It was a dangerous job?”
“Press-gangs, sir!” The old boy fixed a knowing eye on Hans and threw in a wary nod. “If the miners were caught without their identity papers, they were liable to be kidnapped and forced to join the Royal Navy. But after standing out there protecting sailors for over a hundred years, the old girl started rocking back and forward – frightened the life out of the keeper! So they dismantled her block by block and reassembled her here for the tourists.”
Hans could see the lighthouse meant a lot to Jack, but Jessica let out a second yawn, so he opened his wallet and paid the modest entrance fee. They followed Jack up a sandstone staircase winding around inside the curved walls, its steps worn into polished troughs by countless climbing feet. The first two floors were storage areas, the third housing living quarters furnished with a half-moon-shaped bench and a cast-iron stove that must have brewed many a warming cocoa on a cold, stormy night. Finally,
they emerged in the glass-enclosed lantern room to find the original candelabra still suspended by its aging hemp rope.
“Phew, what a view!” Hans lifted Jessica up.
“Boats, Papa!”
Vessels of all shape and size plied the English Channel as far as the eye could see.
To their rear the city’s concrete heartland nestled among neat rows of terraced housing, broken up by tree-lined parks and industry, all linked by snaking gray veins of asphalt.
“Look, Jess.” Hans pointed to the marina. “Guess who I can see.”
“Future!”
“Ha-ha! She looks like a toy from up here.”
Before departing the States, Hans had doubts about the trip, particularly when well-meaning friends and relatives questioned its timing and suitability for Jessica. Now he felt excited and closer to his daughter than ever. He looked forward to setting sail and continuing the adventure.
Jack drew their attention to Plymouth’s naval dockyard, which sat at the mouth of the River Tamar estuary.
“Can we take a tour?” Hans asked.
“Pleasure boat from the Mayflower Steps, sir. Best way to see the ships.”
Then, laying a hand on Hans’ shoulder, Jack giggled and added, “Without being arrested!”
“Or press-ganged!” Hans joked, and they both laughed.
- 10 -
Hans found it hard to believe he and Jessica were embarking on a sea voyage from the Mayflower Steps just as America’s early pioneers had done in 1620. Had anyone suggested it to him a year ago, he probably would have laughed.
As they took up seats on the pleasure boat’s upper deck, a horde of young people, many of whom looked to be Latino, streamed down the jetty. An eager young man wearing a North Face jacket and Timberland boots herded the excited group up the gangway and then sat down next to Hans and Jessica.
“Thank heavens I haven’t lost one this time!” He chuckled, lifting his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose.
“I’m sorry?” Hans replied.
“Oh, I’m Ben.” The chap smiled and shook hands. “These are my exchange students. They come here to brush up on their English. I normally lose at least one by now.”
