They quickly found their nearby hotel, but decided they should take their one opportunity to investigate Penzance itself, before collapsing into bed. Again, they felt it had a mysterious, end of the line feel, with a long promenade from which streets turned off to the right, up towards the centre of town, while to the left the high tide lapped hungrily at the steps leading from the beach. They looked in on a park, shrouded by trees, and in the dusk could just make out a traditional bandstand on a lawn. Between the paths, colourful flowers flourished amongst abundant greenery in immaculately kept beds, such that, had they not already seen Tresco Abbey Gardens, they would have been cursing their lack of time to explore.
Back on the promenade, they watched the lights of a fishing boat returning slowly across the bay, eventually entering the safety of Newlyn Harbour, just a mile up the coast. Penzance seemed honest and hard working: there were none of the usual tourist trappings, no pretence or desire to be a resort, no noisy nightlife spilling out on to the streets. Here the Atlantic was not an extraordinary wonder but an unpredictable neighbour – sometimes kind, sometimes furious – with whom the town had long learned to live and work. It may not have made many of the history books, but both Fergus and Justine had the impression that it, nevertheless, had many centuries of stories to tell.
“I don’t think we did Penzance justice,” Fergus concluded.
“There’s only one solution… we’ll have to come back… next weekend!”
“Hmmm, that is an option it’s true,” Fergus reflected, putting his arm around Justine and turning back towards the hotel, “or we could save it up for the future?” Justine looked up at him with a smile.
“Promise?”
“Promise,” he replied, giving her shoulder a squeeze. But he wasn’t quite the perfect father after all, because this was a promise that was to be forgotten by both. In fact, neither was ever to see Penzance again: Justine because she died young and Fergus because, thereafter, a visit would have been far too painful.
There just remained an awkward phone call and then the journey home. After breakfast the next morning, Fergus rang Justine’s school and spoke to the headmistress, explaining, as the fait accompli it was, that they were in Penzance, having had an unexpected (he winced as he said it, knowing it was a half truth, in other words, true for Justine but not for him) trip to the Isles of Scilly and that his daughter would not be in school that day.
“That sounds wonderful, Mr Fredricks,” the headmistress replied… “and is it likely to happen again?”
“It was perfect, so I don’t think I would risk spoiling the memory.”
“I’m glad you had a good time.” She knew that, prior to this, Justine’s attendance had been flawless, she also felt that a child spending such a weekend with her father sounded – at her stage of schooling at least – rather more valuable and educational than a few hours of missed classes. However, she decided she should still go through the motions: “but your daughter’s schooling is very important, please try to avoid term times in the future, or at least to ask permission before you go.”
“Yes, yes, I will, I will,” Fergus fumbled before thanking her and saying goodbye. “Phew!” He said to Justine, “that was scary!”
“Oh, she’s not so bad…” Justine replied, and Fergus had the impression she was right.
Rucksacks back on, they hiked to the station and, walking all the way along the platform to the very first carriage, they boarded the train and found their seats, sitting opposite each other. And so, from her first class luxury, Justine watched Penzance and Mounts Bay slip away. She continued to look out of the window, like watching a film, as Cornish scenery and villages passed by. Fergus, meanwhile, just watched his daughter and felt satisfied at a plan well executed. After a couple of hours of gentle progress up through Cornwall, the train turned a sharp curve to the right and headed over the Tamar Bridge and into Devon and the city of Plymouth.
It was the ride after this that Fergus had been keen for his daughter to witness in the daylight, and it was the reason he had opted for seats on the right hand side of the train. They wended through the Devonshire countryside just south of Dartmoor before rejoining the coast and, with the sea lapping just a few feet beneath them, the train hugged the water’s edge, passing through tunnels in the red cliffs and finally emerging into Dawlish, with the town itself on the left and its promenade on the other side of the tracks to the right. They could see people strolling along enjoying their day by the sea and Justine thought how pretty it looked, even though it couldn’t compare to the natural wilds of the extreme west from which they had just travelled.
The train eventually turned inland and picked up pace until, after Exeter, it was whistling through the English countryside at a speed which Justine felt sure was as fast as ever she had travelled. She also fulfilled another ambition by having lunch on a train: it was served at their seats, but with table cloth, napkins and crystal glasses. Again, time worked its tricks and the journey, which for some on board felt interminable, for Justine flashed by. She kept checking her watch, not out of boredom but for how long remained – time was passing far too quickly. All too soon, the grey outer suburbs of London began to emerge, gradually replacing the rural green and, fifteen minutes later, the train pulled into Paddington.
It was three twenty and Fergus was pleased they had been punctual, he didn’t want Justine being brought back down to earth by witnessing London’s miserable rush hour. She took in the station one final time as they walked to the taxi rank, and half an hour later they were on another train heading back out of London and into the Chilterns. Fergus was amazed to see his daughter still glued to the window as the more familiar hills and fields came into view.
“Can you ever have enough of trains?” he asked her. She thought for a while before answering:
“Is that possible?” He smiled and again thanked God, this time that the trains had all been on time, that there had been no signals stuck on red, no breakdowns, no overcrowding, no drunken yobs… none of the things that could blight modern rail journeys, leaving them dreadful affairs, something he feared she would inevitably find out for herself one day, but he was grateful it had not been on this trip. Fergus’ car was waiting for him where he had left it at the station less than seventy-two hours earlier and they drove the short distance home, initially in silence, then a simple:
“Thank you Dad, it was wonderful!” as they turned off the lane and into the drive.
Justine jumped out, grabbed her rucksack and ran up to her mother who had seen them arrive and was waiting by the open front door, having only got home herself that lunchtime. Fergus gave his wife a wave but then sat a moment longer in the car by himself: satisfied, content. He – like Sylvie of course – had infinite memories of Justine, but this action-packed, lightning, father and daughter visit to the Isles of Scilly was the most perfect.
23
Madeira – Monday 5th to Tuesday 6th December 2016
The ship had sailed from Santa Cruz de La Palma late the previous afternoon, but it wasn’t until lunchtime that they came alongside in Madeira. It was Fergus’ sixty-third birthday and, after so many shore days in a row, they had enjoyed a slow start and the lazy morning at sea. Out on deck Sylvie presented Fergus with his gift, an early edition of his favourite book ‘The Wind in the Willows’.
“Wow!” he said, on unwrapping it and carefully opening the front cover.
“Is that wow at the present or wow at what it must have cost?” Sylvie asked apprehensively.
“Definitely at the present… what I don’t know about won’t hurt me! Thank you.” Sylvie was pleased that the book had been so well received and she watched him contentedly as he leafed through its pages, until he was distracted by a fanfare introducing the Captain’s first report in four days:
“Good afterrrnoon, ladies and gentlemen. An update from the brrridge…”
Meanwhile Madeira d
rew closer and closer until, eventually, the Magdalena squeezed into the harbour and came alongside the quay, behind a larger ship. Small ropes were thrown by the crew and collected by men in bright orange jackets on the wharf below, these were then used by them to pull up the hawsers, which in turn were deployed to secure the vessel, fore and aft. Finally, the gangway was lowered and another smiley announcement from the Cruise Director welcomed them to Funchal.
Unusually, Fergus and Sylvie were booked on an organised trip and this was scheduled to leave at half past two. It was a three and a half hour tour of the island, culminating in tea at the famous Reid’s Hotel. This was the one time the ship was berthed for the night, and their plan was to see a little of the island that afternoon (including some of the dizzying view points) and then to have a leisurely wander around the town the next morning, before the ship departed sometime after lunch.
Quite quickly after boarding the bus, they felt pleased they had not been on any other tours. It did feel a little like an organised day out from the old folks’ home and only Richard and Cressida, whom they spotted towards the back, looked similarly out of place. Nevertheless, as the bus climbed up out of Funchal, both decided to make the best of it, savouring the view of the city from Pico dos Barcelos, their first stop. Then it was ever higher and higher, round bendy roads with sheer drops, and they began to feel this was much more fun than they had originally feared. They developed a certain admiration for their older travelling companions, all of whom (perhaps emboldened by the fact that they had already lived long and well) gasped and cheered, deriving a certain metaphorical high out of the sheer drops, from which they were separated by little more than a rusty old barrier and their driver’s skill.
The coach took them all the way up to Eira do Sorrado where, having climbed to a height of some 3,500 feet, they had giddying vistas over the valley below, after which it twisted them down the same roads back towards Funchal. At Reid’s Hotel they drank English tea poured from beautiful porcelain teapots into delicate bone china cups, accompanied by cakes and scones served from ornately tiered stands, with the option of plenty of jam and fresh cream from little silver pots dotted around the table. This was not Fergus’ natural environment, but you would never have guessed this as he and Sylvie chatted easily to Richard and Cressida, for whom, after so many Embassy parties and diplomatic receptions, this was very much home from home.
“Gosh, you can be quite sociable, when you make the effort,” Sylvie joked as she and her husband headed down some stairs and out into the expansive hotel grounds. For some reason, none of their travel companions discovered these gardens, so Fergus and Sylvie had them all to themselves, taking their time as they strolled at leisure amongst the sub-tropical plants which, for Fergus, brought back memories of a distant, happy day with his daughter. They also had wonderful views over the sea, and of the Magdalena patiently waiting for them in the harbour below.
All too soon, it was time to rejoin the others on the bus and for the party to make the short drive back to the port.
“That was surprisingly nice!” Sylvie said as they re-entered their cabin.
“I agree, well worth doing.” And both felt satisfied that, with their sailing trip from Gran Canaria cancelled, the one tour they had ended up taking had been money well spent. They thought about going back into town to eat, even felt they should, but somehow it was a ‘should’ feeling, rather than a ‘want to’, and they both resisted it. Instead, they dined on board, to the usual background banter of the arachnid lady, whose eyes seemed to have developed a strange red tint and who took badly to being served by a new waiter:
“Where’s my Frederico?” she demanded, leaning out in the direction of the Maitre D’, as if suspended by a thread, as he passed.
“He has been deployed to help in another restaurant madam,” came his pre-prepared reply, and he disappeared into the kitchen without stopping to discuss the matter further.
“Lucky Frederico!” whispered Sylvie, though she suspected the redeployment may not have been down to chance at all.
They both managed to rise above the noise, perhaps because they had enjoyed a good day out, or maybe because they were now celebrating Fergus’ birthday over a bottle of Shiraz. Towards the end of the meal, the waiters gathered around their table, complete with guitar and tambourine, and performed a cha-cha-cha styled ‘Happy Birthday to you!’ Although he had seen this happen to others, somehow it had not occurred to him that they would know it was his birthday; Sylvie, however, had half-expected it and was a little nervous as to how her husband would react. She anxiously scrutinised his face for clues, thinking she discerned embarrassment and pleasure in equal measure, and was relieved, when the restaurant broke into a round of applause at the end of the song, to see him smiling broadly as he thanked the waiters.
They sat for a few minutes, letting their meals settle and finishing the last of their wine. Then, feeling relaxed and at ease, they stood up to leave, Fergus even managing to squeeze out a “Good evening” to the arachnid lady and her silent husband as they passed. The woman lifted her head in response and a wave of motion went all the way down her spine, her red eyes seemingly glaring back at him as she shouted out loudly enough for the whole dining room to hear:
“We know where you two are going! Hahahah!”
For a moment, Fergus imagined he saw extra limbs bent unnaturally beneath the tablecloth, but – feeling the centre of the restaurant’s attention and his face as crimson as the monster’s eyes – he couldn’t look long enough to be sure, as he hurried to the door, dragging Sylvie as he went.
“I can’t abide her!” he pronounced to his wife in the lift going down to their cabin, the happy birthday bubble quite burst.
“Try not to let her get to you, we’re home in five days and then you’ll never see her again.” She felt shocked at the strength of her husband’s feelings and she was a little worried for him. “You were enjoying your evening, please make the most of the rest of your holiday, you so deserve it. We both do. And tomorrow we can eat in the café – it’s a special Chinese buffet. It might be nice.”
Fergus was also a little shocked, he could see she was not far from tears and he cursed himself that, despite all his meditations, he still took the bait when something irritated him. He waited until they were back in the cabin and then said:
“I’m sorry. Your husband’s an idiot… and yes, the Chinese buffet sounds a great idea.” He held her for a few seconds.
“My husband’s not an idiot, he is just being severely tested by his spiritual guide!”
“Yes, as far as spiritual guides go, I must say she really is quite tough!”
“She would infuriate the Buddha himself!” Sylvie said, disappearing into the bathroom. They decided on an early night, just going out once more to walk along the deck, admiring the lights of Funchal glowing from behind the harbour and the Madeiran hills rising in the distance beyond.
The next morning, Fergus wasn’t so keen to go ashore again, he was feeling a little tense, but he sought to hide it from Sylvie, knowing she wanted to see more of the island. They took a shuttle bus into the heart of Funchal and then their third open-topped sightseeing bus in five days, choosing a route which took them around the city and its surroundings. They liked Funchal, by day or by night it was pretty, and the banana plantations were thick and tropical, despite them now being over a thousand miles north of Praia, which had been their most southerly calling point. It was certainly cooler than Cape Verde, but still much warmer than England would be when they arrived home in a few days’ time. As the bus took them higher, they basked in sun and temperatures which would equate to a very reasonable British summer’s day, whilst also enjoying the cooling breeze blowing in from the sea. Fergus began to relax. Suddenly, as the bus turned a corner and entered a particularly exposed stretch of road, a strong gust of wind caught under the peak of his blue-grey baseball cap, lifting it off his head, high into
the air and then dropping it somewhere in the gorge far below.
“My cap!” he cried out, putting his hands to his bare head and just catching a glimpse of his souvenir from the Isles of Scilly hanging in the bright sky, before it disappeared out of sight.
“My cap!” he repeated, this time with resignation and barely aware of the uproarious laughter from his fellow sightseers in the rows behind.
Sylvie didn’t know what to say, it was irretrievable, irreplaceable.
“Oh Fergus, I’m so sorry.”
“Justine…”
“I know, I know, Fergus,” she interrupted gently, taking his hand, the sadness in his face breaking her heart. She wrapped her arm around his, laying her head on his shoulder as they continued the circuit in silence, leaving the baseball cap somewhere further and further behind, while the same wind that had stolen it in a moment of spite, blew tenderly against their faces, as if seeking still to be friends.
Once the tour was over, Fergus, slowly coming to terms with his loss, said that he had had enough of sightseeing, and Sylvie was graceful enough not to try to persuade him otherwise. They ambled back contemplatively from the town centre to the ship, which around three hours later slipped its moorings for the final time.
When they next walked on solid ground it would be back in England. Neither was quite sure how they felt about that prospect: they loved being out at sea, but they were also a little jaded from so many ports of call in quick succession. Anyway, three weeks was a very good length for a break and they were increasingly feeling the call and the pull of their idyllic home. To quote Justine, deep down they were both ‘home birds’ after all.
Times and Places Page 19
