“And the diary? That had no value.”
“No, but maybe the Consul didn’t want to send that on. Maybe there were things in it. Maybe he didn’t want to cause you more pain.”
She looked sceptical and reached out for the Consul’s letter and pointed at one line.
“Danny Lascelles. Of mixed French and Turkish parentage: captain of the Jaloud. Lascelles . . . what kind of a man is he?”
“Aw hell!” Larry’s irritation finally showed through. “Snap out of it Kirsty. It was an accident. They happen.”
“It’s not just that,” she answered defensively. “You can never understand . . .”
He snorted. “Not with logic like that. Anyway, I guess you’ll get over it.”
“I’m going to phone him.”
“Who?”
She waved the letter. “The Consul in Dar es Salaam. Howard Godfrey.”
“For God’s sake, Kirsty!”
“Don’t get mad. If he’s got Garret’s diary I want it.”
Larry’s face turned sullen and he shrugged as if to dismiss the whole matter.
“Do what you like. I’ve given up trying to make you see sense.”
He looked at his watch, got up and switched on the television and flicked the dial until he found I Love Lucy. Then he went into the kitchen and fetched a beer and settled himself comfortably.
Kirsty went over to the phone in a corner, pulled up a chair and quickly discovered the complications of phoning East Africa from New York.
She had never made an overseas call before. First she dialled enquiries and got the number of the overseas operator. That lady informed her in a cold, impersonal voice that there was no direct line to Tanzania. They would have to route the call through London and it could take hours. Also there was an eight hour time difference. Would her party still be at that number? Kirsty told her it was the American Embassy and the operator’s voice became a little less cold. Was it an emergency call?
Kirsty hesitated and then with a glance at the preoccupied Larry said, “It’s my son. He’s missing out there and I want to talk to the Consul.” The voice at the other end of the line suddenly warmed in sympathy. She would try to get through as fast as possible. It depended on the traffic out of London. Anyway, even if the Consul had gone home, the duty officer would have a number. She would get back to her but be prepared for a long wait.
It took three hours, by which time Larry had gone to bed after giving her a perfunctory kiss. She watched a late movie on television and then gave the kitchen a good clean. Twice the phone rang. Each time the operator told her that she was still trying and waiting on London. The third time she could hear a humming and a crackle on the line and clipped tones of the English operator talking to her counterpart. A series of clicks and then a faint voice announcing “United States Embassy.” The English girl’s voice asked for Mr Howard Godfrey – a call from Mrs Haywood in New York. A one minute delay, another click and she heard a voice say “Howard Godfrey here, Consul, can I help you?”
It was a New York accent and even in its faintness and distortion it had a kindly tone. Kirsty burst into tears.
The New York operator saved the day. She quickly cut in and asked the London operator to hold the connection and keep Mr Godfrey on the line. Then she talked to Kirsty, told her to take her time. She spoke practically and briskly, explaining that it was a radio connection so Kirsty would have to talk first and then listen to the reply. There would be a slight delay in reaction, unlike a normal conversation. She would have to speak up.
For a long moment Kirsty could not find her voice. The piece of plastic in her hand connected her with the man who had reported Garret’s death. His voice, its accent and the association, took away her composure – made her curiously weak, even afraid. Unconsciously she did not want that kindly, New York voice telling her that truly Garret was dead. She had convinced herself that he was alive and wanted to exist with that dream. Slowly she raised the phone to her ear, then lowered it again; took a deep breath, clenched her fist around it, brought the mouthpiece close to her lips and started talking loudly.
In the bedroom the sound of her voice through the closed door woke Larry. He sat up in bed, yawned, switched on the light and grimaced as he glanced at the bedside clock.
The conversation lasted five minutes and it was another five minutes before the bedroom door opened and she came in. She sat at the foot of the bed looking defensive.
“Well?” Larry asked.
“There was no diary or watch. He interviewed Lascelles and his crew because they have a dubious reputation but foul play would be impossible to prove. He says I have to accept the fact of Garret’s death.”
Larry nodded with obvious relief. “Well at least you talked to him. It will help settle your mind.”
She said nothing for a few moments. Her gaze was fixed on a point on the wall above his head. Her normally full lips were compressed into a thin line. The fingers of her hands were interwoven in her lap. When she did speak her voice was flat.
“It settles nothing. Even hearing a voice coming from that part of the world makes me feel closer to it, and to Garret. My son is alive. I’m going to find him.” She smiled slightly at his look of amazement. “Yes, Larry. I’m going to find my son. It was my fault that he left and went on that journey. I was a bad mother.”
“Nonsense.”
“I was. Garret is like Kevin. Restless and outgoing. These past eight years I tried to suppress it. Keep him close all the time. Smother him with attention. So the first opportunity he got, he left home. He wasn’t prepared for such a journey . . . and that was my fault. Now he’s in trouble . . . I will go to him.”
Larry’s face became sullen. “How? Where will you get the money?”
“I’ll sell the apartment!”
He snorted derisively. “Kirsty! The apartment’s mortgaged and second mortgaged. With property prices the way they are you’ll be lucky to net five hundred bucks!”
“Then I’ll sell my jewellery.”
“Jeez!” Larry shook his head. “You’re so goddam naive. What have you got? A string of Mikimoto pearls – three hundred max. A little topaz in a gold ring that’s maybe nine carats – not even a hundred. A couple of things from your mother. Their value is only sentimental. Your husband wasn’t exactly able to be generous with his gifts.” Suddenly he sat up straighter. A thought struck him.
“You won’t sell the watch I gave you?”
She shook her head sadly. “No Larry. I won’t sell your watch. I don’t care, Larry. Somehow I’ll raise the money.”
She was undaunted. “I’ll sell my television.”
“Five years old – at least,” he rejoined. “Maybe you’ll get a hundred.”
She then looked at the two rings on the third finger of her left hand. “If I have to I’ll sell my engagement and wedding rings. Kevin would understand. It’s for Garret. The engagement ring’s valuable. It was Kevin’s mother’s.”
Larry looked at the thin gold band studded with four small diamonds and sighed.
“Honey, when you go and see those sharks that deal in second-hand jewellery you’re due for a shock. I’ll bet you don’t raise a thousand bucks.”
He leaned forward and said, “Kirsty, I can’t help you. What with alimony and my own mortgage, I can’t help you. I’ll be honest. I wouldn’t even if I could. It’s crazy-you’re mad. I wouldn’t finance it.”
“I don’t want you to, Larry.”
He was looking puzzled now.
“I don’t understand you, Kirsty. You’re going to burn all your bridges. You’ll come back literally empty-handed. No apartment. Irving won’t re-hire you if you leave him in the lurch right now. Jobs are hard to find. Book-keepers are two a penny. You’ll give everything up on a vague feeling?”
“It’s not vague. I know Garret is alive.”
“He’s dead, dammit!” Larry burst out. “Face up to it!”
She shook her head serenely. “A man wrote in his
log book that my son died. I will talk to that man.”
Chapter 4
“I have decided,” Ramesh Patel said emphatically, and his friend Jaran Singh burst into raucous laughter. They were sitting in their favourite restaurant, a small, very modest place behind the Cotton Green station. The food was cheap and varied because it catered to travellers from all over India. On this night they were eating chicken vindaloo, with dal and chapatis.
Jaran held a chicken leg in his fingers while his laughter subsided.
“All right. Mock me,” Ramesh said. “But you will have a surprise and be feeling foolish when I leave.”
Jaran took a bite of chicken and shook his head. “It will be you feeling foolish when you hit Oyster Rock or Colaba Point. You have been reading too many books my friend. You are a dreamer, as I am. It is dangerous to let dreams out of the bedroom. Anyway, how do you know what the price will be?”
“Of course I am not knowing,” Ramesh said impatiently. “But Kapoor the auctioneer told me that only two or three people have shown interest and then only for the fittings and engine He thinks it will not be over 30,000 rupees.”
Jaran wiped his hands on a rag. “I’m not surprised. That boat is older than you-and looks it.”
“Yes,” Ramesh agreed. “But she is sound – built of good teak and mahogany. I looked her over with Murjani, the dockyard engineer. He says she needs much work and also the engine, but he will help me. One month, he says, and she can be ready.”
“But Ramesh, you are not a sailor. Such matters take great knowledge. How will you find your way about?”
“I will learn,” Ramesh said simply. “This morning I found a book in Harilela’s. It is called The Boatman’s Manual. It is old . . . written during the war by an American. It’s got a tattered black cover and looks a bit like an old bible. In it is everything I need to know.”
Jaran could not help but be impressed by his friend’s quiet determination. He had known him for twenty years and much appreciated his quiet fidelity and gentle wit. He was also one of those Anglo-Indians who never disparaged India or its people, or talked of England as ‘home’, even though with his fair skin and features he looked more like an Englishman than an Indian. With the realisation of Ramesh’s determination Jaran’s amusement turned to concern. It was the height of foolhardiness for an inexperienced forty-eighty ear-old pen pusher to set off in a very old forty-foot boat to go even 10 miles, let alone a great distance, with only his books and romantic notions to guide him. He told Ramesh so, with carefully selected words. Would he not at least take someone with him?
Ramesh smiled. “Are you offering to come, Jaran? You could be first mate, or would you prefer chief engineer?”
“No,” Jaran said seriously. “Such an adventure is not for me. I enjoy looking at the sea only from a distance-and then when it’s calm. But can you not find someone else?”
Ramesh spread his hands. “Who? Who else do you know who would be so foolish; and I will have little money so I cannot hire someone.”
“And when you run out of money?”
“I will work-at anything. Don’t worry Jaran. It has been accomplished before. Ninety years ago Joshua Slocum did it . . . and he was older than me.”
Jaran was unimpressed. “Was he not also very experienced?”
“True,” Ramesh conceded. “But how did he get that experience? – not sitting in an office.”
“Which way will you go?”
Ramesh leaned forward, his brown eyes sparkling. “I will first go south to the Maldive Islands. Then pick up the monsoon wind and sail south-west to the Seychelle Islands. Then on to Africa. Up the coast to Egypt and through the Suez Canal to the Mediterranean Sea: and so on and so forth!”
Jaran looked sceptical. “What if you miss the Seychelles? They are only dots on the ocean.”
Ramesh shrugged and smiled disarmingly. “Then I continue due west; eventually I have to arrive at Africa. It is a nice big place. Then I turn right.”
Jaran did not smile and, seeing his troubled face, Ramesh talked on, quietly and convincingly. Since the death of his mother he had no real responsibilities, no close relatives. The sale of the sculpture had given him, for the first time in his life, a little capital and an opportunity to turn a dream into reality. All his life he had been insignificant – a babu. At the beck and call of others. Now, although he was not big and strong, he had a chance to prove to himself that he was a man. That he could live and cope- by himself-in the outside world. Maybe Jaran was right and he would crash into Oyster Rock just three miles out. So be it. He, Ramesh Patel, would go to sea in his own boat.
Jaran smiled and reached out and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Very well,” he said. “If you are determined to go through with this foolishness, how can I help? – I am no shipwright.”
“Come to the auction tomorrow. Afterwards, if I get it, we’ll go on board and I’ll show you around.”
“When will you plan to leave?”
Ramesh’s eyes were on fire again. “I’ll give my notice tomorrow. I’ll work on the boat after office hours and at weekends. At night I’ll study. I must leave by the middle of April. My book tells me that’s the latest time to pick up the monsoon.”
“All right, you lunatic,” Jaran said with a grin. “I hope the man who wrote that book knew about Oyster Rock!”
“Twenty-eight thousand,” Ramesh said with confidence. The other bidder turned away with a negative shrug and, as the auctioneer slapped his hand on the table for the third time and said “Gone”, Jaran slapped Ramesh on the back. “Congratulations, Captain Patel!”
Half an hour later Ramesh was showing his friend proudly over the Manasa.
Jaran was appalled. True, he knew nothing of boats and perhaps could not appreciate the finer points, but his eyes took in the peeling paint, the areas of the deck where the planks had separated and warped, the bent stanchions and sagging wires. He looked up at the short main mast and saw a yard-long crack.
Meanwhile Ramesh burbled happily on, talking of bulkheads, clews, shrouds and sheets. Jaran forced a smile.
“I see you’ve been studying your bible, Ramesh.”
“Of course. Come below and I’ll show you the accommodation.”
As they went down one of the wooden steps creaked ominously.
Below in the saloon it was all faded varnish amidst a musty odour. They went through into the little stern cabin with two bunks and a wash basin; glanced into the dark and dank engine room, surveyed the fo’c’sle with its two V bunks and then another small narrow cabin.
“The head,” Ramesh said proudly.
Jaran peered round the door and saw the squat toilet with a long pump handle beside it. “The head?”
“That’s what they call it,”
Jaran smiled. “A strange name for something associated so intimately with the bottom.”
Ramesh returned the smile, took his arm and led him back into the saloon. In a corner was a double gas ring and, to one side, the door of a cabinet. Ramesh opened the door to reveal a steel-lined ice box. In it were two bottles of beer.
“I asked Murjani to put these in here,” he said with a wink. “A sort of celebration.”
He opened a drawer and found a bottle opener, took two glasses from another cupboard and carried them all over to the table.
They sat down opposite each other. Ramesh poured the beer and they raised their glasses.
“To the Manasa,” Jaran said solemnly. “And all who sail in her.”
“The Manasa,” Ramesh echoed with a contented smile.
They both drank deeply and then Jaran spent another half hour trying to talk his friend into sanity. It was to no avail.
Ramesh was sublimely confident of both himself and his new acquisition.
Ramesh tried to explain his feelings to his friend. How he felt when he came aboard Manasa after he learned that he might be able to buy her. It was somehow different from the first time when he had taken the inventory.
> He had sat in the saloon, exactly where he was sitting now. Manasa seemed to communicate with him. A bit like an old person who has been far and become weathered and wise from experience, urging a young man to go out into the world. Offering to be his guide. Ramesh was eloquent as he tried to make .Jaran Singh understand the empathy that can exist between a man and a boat. Before, he thought that it only happened in books; but he had felt it himself. Now he owned Manasa. She would be his home and his friend. He knew, inside him, that she would keep him safe. Never harm him. With this friendship she would be kind to his inexperience. Protect him until he learned. It would be like a child learning to ride a gentle horse; the horse would feel the tentative, nervous weight, compensate for it. Move carefully until the child gained confidence – and then let him ride free and with the wind in his hair.
It was all wildly romantic and Jaran smiled slightly at the imagery created. He studied Ramesh as he talked and tried to imagine him as a seaman. It was difficult. The man in front of him was always neatly, almost fastidiously dressed. He had short, well cut hair greying at the temples. Shoes, although old and often repaired, always highly polished. He was tall. Not thin, but slender. He had a clerk’s hands. Long unmarked fingers, the nails clipped short.
Only the face gave a hint to what he might become. The skin colour was light brown, the cheekbones high, the jaw straight and firm. His eyes were narrow and set wide apart, with dark brown irises. His nose straight and long above a full-lipped mouth. It was a gentle face but with a hint of strength. A strength that Jaran decided was now beginning to emerge. He listened again as Ramesh explained how he felt in communication with the boat, as if there was dialogue between them, between wood and flesh.
Jaran looked about him and said: “The wood is surely rotten.”
Ramesh shook his head.
In a month Jaran would not recognise the Manasa; and within a month he, Ramesh, would acquaint himself with the mysteries of the Perkins P4 engine, vane self-steering equipment, sextants, bearings and so on and so forth. So would Jaran please save his breath and time and desist from trying to talk him out of it.
Blood Ties Page 4
