Hardacre's Luck (The Hardacre Family Saga Book 2)

by CL Skelton

  ‘You will have tea?’ Erasmus said mournfully, as if their acceptance was at once both necessary and unfortunate. ‘I’m afraid it will be nothing elaborate. I live alone.’

  But tea, when it came on a great silver tray carried by their host, who pirouetted with amazing gracefulness among his still yapping dogs, was extraordinarily lavish, with scones, crumpets, sandwiches and cakes filled with great dobs of cream. Mick, compensating for his persecution by the poodles, loaded his plate with everything in sight and gobbled with evident satisfaction. Sam accepted tea, and listened quietly while Erasmus explained that now he had a famous winning racehorse many people came to call. People who in the past had no time for him at all.

  ‘When the money goes, so will they,’ he added morosely. ‘I dare say, so will you en’all.’

  Sam did not know what to say and eventually, as was his nature, plumped for honesty. ‘All right, Mr Sykes, you’ve had your say. And you’re right; I’ve come because you’ve a bit of money lying around.’ He waited for a reaction, and saw the surprise he suspected would be there when Erasmus heard his own perpetual cynicism on the lips of another. ‘But I’ll tell you something else. I can’t make your friends stay. That’s for you to do. But if you’d like the money to hang around for a bit, I think I’ve the way to make that happen. If you’re willing to take a chance.’

  ‘I’m nay a gambling man, Mr Hardacre,’ Erasmus said, with the stuffy defensiveness of one whose fortunes were built on games of chance.

  Sam paused and then said, ‘Neither am I, Mr Sykes. You see there are chances, and then there are chances.’ As he spoke he seemed to hear his great-grandfather using the same words when he spoke of his own start in business. ‘There’s the kind when you invest in luck alone, and the other kind, when you invest in something more, skill, invention, wits. The things that make up a man. I’m not asking you to invest in luck alone, Mr Sykes. I’m asking you to invest in me.’

  Erasmus sank in silence into his vast plushy chair, his small eyes growing smaller into folds of dreamy flesh. Mick looked sideways at Sam in amazement.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he said, but Sam, willing him to silence, kept his eyes on the puzzled mournful face of Erasmus Sykes.

  ‘Happen ye’d like to explain yerself,’ he said at last.

  Sam smiled a slow, spreading smile, sensing already he had won. He got to his feet, stretching out tall and unlikely in the plushy, over-furnished room. He winked at Mick, who was watching intently, his sharp blue eyes bright pinpoints under thick bushy grey brows. ‘Happen,’ he said, ‘I would.’

  He proceeded then to explain to Erasmus about the freighter Louisa Jane, and her cargo of tinned goods lying on the floor of the bay near Filey. He knew as he spoke that Erasmus, renowned local that he was, would have heard all about the wreck from other sources, but the large man made no sign that he had. He was clearly intrigued by Sam’s purpose in raising the subject at all.

  ‘It’s a valuable cargo, Mr Sykes,’ he said. ‘At least until the sea has time to damage the tins. But it’s not worth a fortune. Which suits my purpose.’

  ‘Which is what, Mr Hardacre?’

  ‘I want to raise that cargo,’ Sam said. ‘If I can, in a reasonable time, and at reasonable expense, there will be a respectable profit, not a fortune, but a respectable profit. From what Mick here,’ he nodded to the one-armed fisherman, who was regarding him with a mixture of suspicion and new respect, ‘and his associates tell me, there’s not likely to be a great rush for the salvage contract. The margins are a bit narrow for the established boys. So I think I’ve a fair chance, if I act quickly.’

  ‘And what if the margins are too narrow?’

  ‘That’s the risk, Mr Sykes. Still, barring any disasters, it should be possible to cut losses; any equipment we purchase could be resold, only the man-hours would be a dead loss. And even a partial success would redeem some of the investment.’

  ‘What investment?’ Mick said suddenly, chomping on his pipe-stem. ‘Happen I got lost a while back.’

  Erasmus Sykes passed over Mick’s comment without response. Sam was aware of a sharp mind functioning behind the soft, pudgy, confused-looking face, a mind that showed only in the deep-set, muddy-coloured eyes, narrowed now to thoughtful little arcs. ‘What’s your experience, Mr Hardacre? What are you selling me?’

  ‘None,’ Sam said, looking straight at the shrewd arcs of eyes. ‘Experience can be hired.’

  ‘Wi’ my brass.’

  ‘Yes. With your money. I’ve none of my own or I’d not be here.’

  ‘Bluidy honest, any road, aren’t you?’

  Sam said nothing.

  ‘Let me get this straight, then,’ Sykes said, almost smiling, patting the back of one of his overfed wiggly little dogs. ‘You’re asking me to invest in a salvage company run by a bloke what’s nobbut an amateur an’ hasn’t a brass farthing uv his own to add to t’effort. An’ ‘e wants to raise a cargo t’ proper salvage boys won’t touch wi’ a barge pole?’

  ‘Eeh, hold on, ’rasmus,’ Mick said, suddenly galvanized into defence of his young friend. ‘It’s nowt like that at all.’

  But Sam ignored him, as Sykes had done before and said, ‘That’s right, Mr Sykes. That’s just about it.’

  ‘Ye must take me fer a bluidy fool.’

  ‘No,’ Sam said. ‘I take you for a shrewd businessman who knows the gambling business like the back of his hand.’

  ‘Ye flattering me?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

  Erasmus sank down into silence. His eyes almost closed and his four dogs gathered on top of him in a woolly mound, whimpering, whining and pushing each other for the best place on top of his broad stomach. He stroked them idly, humming softly to himself. After a great length of time he opened his eyes slightly and his face regained its pathetic mournfulness.

  He said, ‘And if I do back you in your new business, Mr Hardacre, I suppose you’ll be my friend then?’

  Sam heard Mick’s little catch of breath and felt him physically willing him to make the right answer to this vital question. But Sam only smiled a little and said, ‘No. I’m sorry, Mr Sykes, but I won’t be your friend just because you lend me money. I might one day for other reasons, but we’ll just have to wait and see how we get on. But not for the money.’ He heard Mick let his breath out in a long, raspy sigh and saw him shrug and instinctively reach for his flat cap, lying on the arm of the sofa beside him. Sam waited, quietly studying the complex, bruised-looking expression of his host. After a long, long while, he brushed his dogs from him, and as they tumbled and scrabbled to the carpet, he stood up and looked coolly at Sam.

  ‘Eeh, but yer honest, noo. How far does yon honesty get ye?’

  ‘As far as I want to go, Mr Sykes.’

  ‘Happen it does,’ Erasmus Sykes said slowly. Then he turned to Mick. ‘Well, Mick,’ he said. ‘Reckon ye’d better take yer friend out of ’ere noo.’

  Mick Raddley reddened beneath his stubble of grey beard and squirmed on the red plush of the sofa. ‘Noo, haud on there, Erasmus, no sense getting all hot under t’ collar.’

  ‘Go on, Mick. Lad’s got shoppin’ to do. Reckon ye’d better go help him buy hisself a boat.’

  It took Mick three days to find the boat. Sam spent the first of those days persuading Pete Haines out of his retirement and into Sam’s embryonic team as salvage master. The second day, until four o’clock, he spent following Pete on a long trail that touched down at every scrap-merchant, marine-outfitters and military surplus outlet in the East Riding, earmarking equipment for future purchase. Time was short for Sam in every way. He knew he had to have his bid in for the salvage contract within the week, and he needed the respectable semblance of a salvage company behind him to do it. Also, he was very rapidly going to run out of money to organize his assault on the Louisa Jane. He had given in his week’s notice on the day he met with Erasmus Sykes, burning that small but useful bridge behind him. Ormsley had been less than pleased and w
ould no doubt blacken his name accordingly and make finding another job that much more difficult. Sam didn’t mind. He had decided something; he was planning never to be in anyone’s employ again.

  On the third day, Pete Haines produced the most necessary member of his crew: the diver. He was a man called Martin Raynor and they found him where Pete Haines expected to find him, on the floor of a pub.

  ‘Great diver. Hasn’t got a nerve in his body,’ Haines commented as they walked a mumbly and protesting Martin Raynor up and down North Pier to sober him up.

  ‘I should think not. Hardly room, is there, beside all the whisky.’

  ‘Pay it no mind. Divers like their tipple. Do the job well enough, though, when they’re sober.’

  ‘When’s that?’ said Sam, staring morosely at the somnolent Raynor draped across a convenient bench.

  ‘Leave him to me,’ Haines said. ‘Martin an’ I’ve worked a fair share uv wrecks together. There’s none better. Just leave him to me,’ he added again, with grim confidence. Sam did, returning to the chip shop to complete his last days of work. When he finished, late that night, Mick Raddley was waiting outside the door.

  ‘Found your boat,’ he said with a wry grin.

  The following day, in a tatty corner of a boatyard in Whitby, where even the oily water lapped pilings with an air of sullen despondency, Sam saw the reason for Mick’s grin.

  ‘That?’ he said uncertainly, looking from the vessel Mick had indicated back to the old fisherman’s face. Mick was giving nothing away. He stood studying an imaginary point somewhere just above the half-submerged bow of the boat.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, smiling to himself.

  ‘That’s her?’

  ‘That’s her.’

  Sam nodded. He turned his eyes back to the boat, deciding he had better really look at her. Heretofore, his glance had but crossed her half-sunken hulk with perfunctory haste, convinced that she could not possibly be the vessel Mick meant for him to buy. His conviction flagged now; there was nothing else in sight and Mick was still looking dreamily across her unpromising bow. Sam was in a spot. He had never pretended to Mick any knowledge of the sea and matters maritime that he did not have. But on the other hand, he didn’t relish the idea of having to reveal himself a complete idiot in that regard either. He glanced again to the mildly-smiling fisherman, wondering if Mick were playing an elaborate hoax to see if he was fool enough to agree to the purchase of a mouldering wreck. He studied her now with care. She was an old Keel boat, her black-painted steel hull surmounted by a stubby wheelhouse aft of her sixty-foot length. Actually, she didn’t seem that much of a wreck, he decided. She wasn’t so much sunken as riding very low in the water. Her paintwork was surprisingly fresh and a neat stowage of ropes and gear indicated she was still under some watchful eye, not yet abandoned to the harpies of the land.

  ‘What’s t’ matter?’ Mick said eventually, at Sam’s long silence.

  Sam took a chance. ‘She looks rough,’ he said.

  ‘Happen ye were expecting t’ Queen Mary? At price you set?’

  ‘No,’ Sam said, ‘of course she’ll be fine.’ He paused. ‘I say, Mick, isn’t she rather low in the water?’

  ‘Should be. She’s on t’ bottom.’ Sam blinked. Mick was still gazing contentedly at the battered old Keel boat as he filled his pipe. He turned then to Sam, his sharp blue eyes crinkled up with amusement. ‘You’re the salvage-master, lad. Raise her.’

  Sam smiled ruefully. He said, ‘No, Mick. I’m not anything of the sort. I didn’t even say that to Sykes; I certainly wouldn’t to you. Pete Haines is salvage-master. You’re my skipper. You raise her, if she can be raised. Give me your decision this afternoon and I’ll buy her tomorrow.’

  He turned and walked away from the water’s edge, leaving Mick alone by his boat. After a moment he heard a shout, and turned.

  ‘Eeh, lad, you’re sore wi’ me.’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Now haud on. I was just havin’ me bit o’ fun. She’s a good boat, a sound ’un. Nothing wrong wi’ her that the odd patch and a bit uv pumping-out won’t cure. I was right about the money, lad; she’s nay the Queen Mary, but she’s about t’ best ye’ll find at the price. I wouldn’t have tricked ye. Nay fer the world.’ He was standing with his one hand rubbing his chin in remorse, and his artificial limb hanging forlornly at his side, a solid, burly figure in his rough blue smock before the old Keel boat.

  Sam’s anger melted. He returned to the water’s edge and stood looking at the boat. He said slowly, ‘You know, Mick, it’s not lack of knowledge makes a man a fool; it’s lack of humility. I know I’ve a lot to learn about boats, the sea, salvage, all of it. I’ve everything to learn. I’m relying on you to teach me. You, and Pete Haines. I’m first to admit I’d never have started any of this without the pair of you. But,’ he paused and smiled his slow, wide-spreading smile, ‘I don’t suppose the pair of you would have started this without me either, would you?’

  ‘Never uv thought uv it,’ Mick said honestly, at once. ‘Would never uv crossed my mind. Funny that, too, because it’s a simple enough idea, but I’d have just taken my crate of tins and left it at that. As for Pete, yince he’d hung his salvage hat up the whole thing were finished. Or so he thought,’ he laughed softly. ‘Haven’t seen him so happy in years as he were when he come back from chasing after compressors and winches an’ the like, wi’ you. Mind noo, his wife’s nay likely to be so pleased. Funny, too, here I am wi’ a job, and there’s Pete, back in his own trade, an’ all because of you who doesn’t …’

  ‘Doesn’t know his arse from his elbow, where the sea’s concerned?’

  ‘Aw lad, Ah’ve got yer back up, again.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘Truth doesn’t make me angry, Mick. Trickery does,’ he added sharply, and Mick winced slightly. ‘I know I’m the innocent in this game. But sometimes it takes an innocent, someone on the outside to get the idea first. I know of a man who made a fortune by selling cooked herring to the crowds at race meets. Simplest idea in the world, only it just happened no one had thought of it before. Or at least, no one who had thought of it got around to doing it. There’s the thinking, and then there’s the doing. Nothing gets off the ground without both.’

  Mick nodded. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m nay likely to be the thinker so I’d better be the doer. That’s if’n I’ve still got a job?’ he added warily.

  Sam nodded. ‘You’ve got one. Now we’ll go and see the man who’s selling this boat. I want her seaworthy in a week,’ he said, to which Mick gave a small wince, but did not argue. ‘And Mick.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘I want her name changed.’ He was studying the lettering, Susannah K, on her bow. ‘We’ll call her Dainty Girl. After Erasmus Sykes’s mare. The lass responsible.’

  Mick laughed. ‘Reeght. Dainty Girl it is. As long as ye don’t name ’er after his damned wee curly-arsed dogs.’

  Sam went back to Erasmus Sykes that evening with news of his find, and by ten o’clock the next morning with the ink barely dry on Erasmus Sykes’s cheque, the Susannah K was his, and Mick and Pete Haines, with Martin Raynor yet in tow like a dog that needed watching, were at work upon her.

  ‘See what I mean,’ Haines commented, as Sam left them aboard his new acquisition, ‘sober as a judge. He’s nay touched a drop since day afore yesterday.’ Haines smiled so beamingly that Sam suspected this was some sort of record where Raynor was concerned, and was less than comforted.

  Sam drove Pete Haines’s car to York where he had an appointment with a solicitor. By the time, four days later, when Mick was able to announce proudly that the newly-named Dainty Girl was afloat and watertight, his dealings with the solicitor and a firm of accountants had reached their own conclusion. Dainty Girl was no longer his but, along with the mass of hardware that Pete Haines had gathered and was storing now in a shed at his scrap-yard, was the property of a limited company formed for the purpose of raising the cargo of the Louisa Jane.

 
‘Seeing as how it’s my brass, ye’d think my name ’ud be in there somewhere,’ mourned Erasmus Sykes.

  ‘Your brass, sir, my company,’ said Sam, with a grin. ‘Hardacre Salvage. Or nowt.’

  ‘Yer a hard man, Mr Hardacre,’ Erasmus whined, but his shrewd little eyes were alight.

  A day later, Sam Hardacre boarded a train for London. It was a week exactly since the sinking of the Louisa Jane. Sam had at his command a salvage company consisting of a skipper, a salvage master and a diver, a refurbished Keel boat, two ageing generators, two compressors, a Navy surplus hard-hat diving suit, a miscellany of air hose pumps, grabs and winches and enough financial backing from Erasmus Sykes to keep the whole operational for two months. He was dressed well in a new blue serge suit and belted trench coat, and carried in his pocket the five pounds spending money he had allotted himself, along with the new clothes, so that he might present an image suitable to a company director. Because the director of Hardacre Salvage had an appointment at four o’clock that afternoon with an underwriter at Lloyd’s of London.

  Mick Raddley saw him off at Bridlington station. ‘Eeh, by gum,’ he said, standing back. ‘You look gradely.’ He cupped his one hand over his ear and leaned Londonwards. ‘I can hear ’em at Lloyd’s already, ringin’ t’ bluidy Lutine bell.’

  Chapter Seven

  It was three days later, on 9 March 1951, when Jan Muller arrived at the dockside of the Israeli port of Haifa. The ship was not yet in. He found himself relieved rather than impatient, and walked rather quickly away from the waterfront, back into the old Arab quarter where he might drown his unease in a bath of nostalgia. He had not realized until this moment how much he dreaded the coming meeting. Hannah had realized. As he walked he thought of her and her curious perception. She had not wanted him to come to meet Isaac at all and he had protested, saying she was heartless. But that was not the case. She had read his true unspoken reasons and knew what potential pain awaited him along with Isaac Mandel on the immigrant ship from Cyprus. And because she knew and loved him, and did not know Isaac, her concerns were naturally for Jan.