Boracic Lint

by Martin Bryce

of matches, spilling half the contents onto the floor, but I managed eventually to strike a light and the cigar glowed brightly again.

  ‘Now, where was I? Ah yes, he said through a great cloud of smoke, which didn’t look terribly different from the material that he was made of. ‘As I was saying, you don’t want work, you want to be a star. There’s a difference. What’s worse is that you think you are a star and nobody can see it because they’re all too stupid. Well let me tell you, son, right now, you’re anything but a star; you’re a black hole and everything is falling into it, including yourself. It’s a question of attitude.

  ‘I need help,’ I babbled. ‘Yes, yes, I need help, I definitely need help. This isn’t happening to me, it’s all in my mind. I’m ill. Yes, that’s it, I’m ill.’

  ‘Wrong again, son, there’s nothing the matter with you apart from your feet. Oh and that reminds me, you haven’t been taking the treatment, have you?’

  I shook my head vigorously, so vigorously that my cheeks wobbled.

  ‘But what can I do?’

  ‘Correct question,’ the thing that looked like Goldman said. ‘You see, you do know the script. Right, come with me.’

  ‘But where are we going?’

  ‘To a pub,’ he replied halfway through the door, literally.

  ‘But they’re not open at this time of night.’

  ‘It’s not this time of night,’ he said with a note of exasperation.

  ‘Well what time is it, then?’

  ‘The morning of your seventh birthday,’ he replied.

  ‘But that’s not possible,’ I croaked.

  ‘Neither am I, but I’m here, aren’t I?’

  I nodded my head vigorously, so vigorously that my teeth rattled. Instinctively, I reached for the doorknob.

  ‘Don’t bother with that,’ Goldwhatever it was said. ‘Nothing lies in the way of understanding tonight.

  ‘You mean…’

  ‘Just get on with it.’

  I closed my eyes and walked at the door expecting to get my nose flattened, but I didn’t. I walked through the solid wood as easily as he, it, had.

  ‘Hey, that’s good!’ I said, stepping back and forth several times just for the joy of the experience.

  ‘Come on, come on! You’re not a kid, but I want you to meet someone who is.’

  Goldspook pointed with his cigar which now illuminated a beautiful scene of a south coast harbour on a warm day in summer. I thought I knew the place, but there was something odd about it, something that stirred a memory deeper than my own.

  The harbour was full of ships and the quays were alive with activity. Stores and cargoes were being loaded and unloaded. Sailors were sitting around on their sea-chests yarning and singing shanties, while others danced a hornpipe to the accompaniment of whistles, fiddles and accordions. Another group sat in the shade busying themselves with the decorative arts of seamanship – carving scrimshaw, putting ships in bottles, making Turk’s heads, intricate lanyards and other pieces which demonstrated their skill with the marlinspike. Pretty young wenches mingled with the sailors who, every now and again, would sweep one of them up in his arms and carry her aboard his ship to rollicking laughter and another tot of rum all round.

  ‘Do you know it?’ Doppelgoldman asked.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I replied. ‘I know the place well enough, but…’ I hesitated momentarily, ‘but not the time! Of course, not the time!’ How stupid I had been not to have noticed that the ships were sailing ships, square riggers. ‘This must be set at least two hundred and fifty years ago.’ I remarked.

  ‘More or less,’ the thing by my side confirmed.

  ‘Then it’s not by birthday, after all.’

  ‘Just a bit of dramatic licence, son,’ it said. ‘Thought you’d appreciate it. Went to a lot of trouble to research this location and all those extras are costing a bomb. Still, it’s better than a rainy November morning with rusty old flag of convenience tramps and a picket-line of striking dockers, which is what you’d’ve got if I’d gone in for realism.’

  ‘It’s splendid,’ I said, ‘but where did you get all the extras?

  ‘Haunted houses up and down the country. Well, when you’ve been giving the same old performance night after night for the last god knows how many hundreds of years, in the same old dreary, draughty buildings, you jump at the chance of a summer season at the seaside. It’s not much fun just moaning and slinging the cutlery around when you’re as talented as some of these guys are. Recognise any of them?’

  ‘Isn’t that Richard Burton? Oh, and my all time favourite, Bogey!’

  ‘Well named up here. But even better,’ he was pointing to a group of musicians tuning up their instruments in front of the pub. ‘Recognise him?’

  I stared hard for several moments before Goldshade gave me a dig in the ribs with his elbow.

  ‘Phil Spectre,’ he guffawed. ‘Come on.’

  We walked, or did we glide?, across to an inn that was set back a little from the quayside.

  ‘It’s the Hope and Anchor,’ I said with delight. ‘I had my first pint of beer here, you know.’

  ‘Yes and you were under age,’ the shade remarked.

  Sounds of great jollification met our ears as we entered the Inn. I gazed in astonishment at the sight before me. Gathered there was the greatest collection of the most famous naval heroes in history. They were celebrating an important victory. There was Errol Flynn as Captain Blood, Gregory Peck as Captain Hornblower, James Mason as Captain Nemo, Trevor Howard as Captain Bligh and dear old Robert Newton with his parrot and wooden leg. There was Nelson, Drake, Raleigh, Cook and the unfortunate Cloudesley-Shovel. But there, at the head of them all was the old sea-dog himself, resplendent in his Admiral’s uniform.

  I gazed around the room at the happy faces of the ordinary sailors, marines and serving wenches. And, blow me down, there was Mr H! He was sitting in a corner apart from everyone else. He looked a little wild-eyed and emaciated and round his neck hung a dead budgie on a piece of string. He was bellowing for water, but nobody was taking the slightest bit of notice of him.

  The old sea-dog stood up, banged his tankard on the rough wooden table and called for silence.

  ‘Today, my hearties,’ he began, ‘we have won a great victory against the combined fleets of France, Spain, Germany, Japan, Holland and Argentina. You can be justly proud of what you have all accomplished and with nothing more than a single, humble fisheries’ protection vessel! Englishmen can sleep sound in their beds again and we can go home to our wives and families safe in the knowledge of a job well done. So, eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow it’s back to being poltergeists.’

  A great cheer went up. I felt intensely proud.

  ‘Britain really does rule the waves, doesn’t she?’ I said.

  ‘Neptune, actually,’ Goldman replied. ‘Tried to get him for this, but he’s booked up from here to eternity. Have you seen his waterspout and giant whirlpool number? Great act that is, great act. Got real star quality, that one. Look down there.’ He pointed to the doorway with his cigar and a spotlight opened up to illuminate a lady and a small boy.

  ‘It’s Nanny!’ I said in delight. ‘And that’s me with her!’ I watched as I ran, tracked by the spot, to the old sea-dog who picked me up in his arms and gave me a great big hug. ‘He loves children, you know,’ I said, dewy-eyed. ‘He has a strange way of showing it at times though, particularly lately.’ I added.

  ‘Yes, well, you’re not a child anymore, are you?’ Solly the spectre pointed out.

  The Admiral spoke again.

  ‘Today is my eldest son’s seventh birthday and I must away to his celebrations. I bid you good-day, gentlemen.’’

  A Sergeant of Marines called for three cheers as the Admiral carried me out of the Inn and sat me next to Nanny in the waiting phaeton. I glanced back as we left the inn ourselves to follow the others. There was poor old Mr H still begging for so
mebody to give him a drink. I looked at Goldman who merely shrugged his shoulders and said some people were just born losers.

  The words Later that same day appeared suspended before me in mid-air as the scene dissolved to my seventh birthday celebrations. Mummy and the Admiral watched fondly as we children tucked avidly into piles of jellies, cakes and sandwiches and drank gallons of home-made lemonade. Nanny was excellent at breaking up the fights.

  ‘They were good days. I was never happier,’ I said. ‘He was a good father, you know.’ My parents quietly left the room.

  ‘He wanted to be better,’ Goldthing said. ‘Don’t forget, he was away a lot of the time.’

  ‘Yes, but we understood why. I mean you can’t be a Naval Officer and not go away every now and again. And we were all so proud of him.’

  The scene cut to the library where my parents were enjoying a bit of peace and quiet and taking the opportunity to catch-up with each other. The old sea-dog looked a little unhappy.

  ‘This you have to see,’ Goldthing insisted

  ‘It would be better for the children,’ he said.

  ‘But darling,’ mummy protested, ‘the Navy’s not just your career, it’s your whole life. You can’t just throw it away like an old seaboot.’

  ‘Yes, I know. You’re right I suppose, but I really am a rotten sailor, you know.’

  ‘What d’you mean? You’re a fine sailor,’ mummy said, clutching his hand in hers.

  ‘I’ve sunk a lot of ships in my time.’

  ‘Well there you are, then. And it doesn’t matter that most of them were ours. They’ve all been replaced now.’

  ‘But you don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I never wanted to go to sea in the first place, but what with family pressures, well, I never had any choice.’

  ‘But what else could you have done? I mean you loathe anything academic, you’re the world’s worst gardener and animals, apart from dogs, hate you on sight. You couldn’t possibly have been a banker, you’ve absolutely no head for figures at all.’

  ‘I know,’ he said gloomily, ‘that’s what they used to tell me when I was navigating. I’ve never told anybody this before,’ he continued, ‘but can you guess what I really wanted to be?’

  Mummy shook her head. ‘A bricklayer, like Mr Churchill?’

  ‘I wanted to be an actor, like you!’

  ‘I’m an actress, darling.’

  His face suddenly lit-up. He stood and began to pace grandly throwing his arms around. ‘Yes! The smell of the greasepaint, the glare of the lights, the adrenalin on opening nights, the tears of humility and pride as you receive a standing ovation…’

  ‘You never were much good at signalling, either, were you?’ Mummy said.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, with all that flapping around you’ve been doing with your arms, you’ve just sent me a very rude word.’

  The Admiral looked at her, puzzled.

  ‘Semaphore,’ she explained.

  ‘I never knew he wanted to be an actor,’ I said, stunned. ‘So that’s why he understood when I wanted to leave the Navy. But why has he become so bitter lately?’

  ‘Two reasons, my boy. What did you tell him you wanted to do instead of the Navy?’

  ‘Well, I wanted to be a doctor.’

  ‘But you can’t stand the sight of blood. Go on.’

  ‘Then I though I’d be an artist, but I had no Ideas and I can’t draw anyway.’

  ‘So you decided to be an airline pilot instead.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, aware of what was coming. ‘I know, I know fear of flying.

  ‘So, what then?’

  ‘You know what. I did a few temporary jobs here and there while I sorted myself out.’

  ‘Including the male modelling thing.’

  ‘Ah, that, yes, that was when he really gave up the ghost… Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’

  ‘Never mind, son. Just get on with it.’

  ‘But you know the rest.’

  ‘I know it all,’ Goldfreak replied. ‘You really messed him about, didn’t you?’