A Ship's Tale (7 page)

“Flynn!” he said in surprise, “what brings you up here?” There came a thud, and then a crash from behind the gate. Before I could answer, the door was pushed back and a distinctly damaged headmaster struggled into view, holding his nose.

“For pity's sake man, you shouldn't stand behind that gate!” cried Harris. Then he looked back at me with a twinkle. “Well, I see you've met Headmaster Mr. O'Connell.”

“Quite,” I answered. I looked on happily and much gratified as that thoroughly distasteful personage tottered wordlessly towards the stairs, still gingerly cradling his nose.

“Come along,” Harris whispered, “let's have a chat.” He put his huge hand on my shoulder and directed me towards a path round the outside of the courtyard wall. “Sorry there, O'Connell,” he called back, “I'd put some ice on that.” He turned back to me. “Or pack it in horse dung,” he added softly.

I began to laugh. “Hush now,” he cautioned, “I know he's bloody irritating and he's a right mardy-arse, but we need him for a bit.”

“Good heavens,” I said in dismay, “don't tell me he's with us!”

“Oh no!” he laughed. “That chap's about as useful as tits on a worm. You see we've been training these lads in the art of seamanship.”

A light dawned. “So they can act as a crew?” I exclaimed.

“Quite right,” he replied. “The only ones at home in the rigging are Boris and myself. Boris is an expert, the best I've seen. But we need nimble lads who can go aloft to set and reef the sails, and walk the capstans to brace the yards. This lot is lean, but they're tough, and stronger than they look. We've been supplying them with as much extra food as we can find.”

“Up in the rigging is a hard proving ground. Are you sure they're capable, and understand the dangers?” I asked.

“We've been training them for six months, here and down at the ship,” Harris replied. “We rigged up one mast on the
Bonnie
with new sheets and stays, with the best canvas we could find on the other ships. I'm sure they'll do, even in a gale. I managed to find some oilskins and the lads have spent a good deal of time up there in the wind and rain.” Harris paused for a long while thinking, and then continued. “You might think it hard on them, but they've been the most enthusiastic apprentices I've ever had. And that's not surprising, really, when you think of the kind of life they have with that cold stone dungeon for a home.” He cast a hard look back at the old hall. “Look how thin and ragged they are! We do our best to smuggle in extra supplies. Mrs. Beasley sends what she can, but it's not nearly enough. She has no idea what the place is like nowadays. It seems bloody odd that she hasn't been up here for nearly twenty years. She thinks it's full of frolicking cherubs instead of deprived hungry teenagers. They surely get no proper schooling either. What could they learn from O'Connell? Calls himself headmaster! He's only headmaster by default.”

“Should he be reported to the authorities? It's simply monstrous. The Dark Ages are over!”

Harris shook his head. “It's a legacy from the War and they'll catch up with him eventually. Meanwhile, we have plans of our own.”

“But surely someone needs to know that the funds have been improperly used. He's only keeping those boys so he can suck their blood.” I said.

Harris looked as if showing his disdain mirthlessly. “You know, he drives a Bentley while these boys don't even have bicycles. They don't seem to get their share, poor kids. Bloody hoighty-toighty two-faced bastard! You know, he and Beasley are cut from the same cloth. I've never met two more thoroughly disagreeable people.”

“Perhaps we should introduce them for courtship,” I suggested in jest.

He gave me a sly sidelong look. “Oh, they've met,” he said knowingly.

“You're joking!” I exclaimed. Appalling images paraded before my mind's eye. I thought back to Sunday morning's cat chase. That glamorous nightie now showed in quite a different light!

He grinned at my horrified expression. “Oh yes, they're quite the back door item. Most of us aren't taken in by their façade of propriety. I would be sick if I knew everything they get up to. Why, it's been going on for years.”

I shuddered and tried to turn my thoughts to other matters as we stopped, overlooking the sea. The wind was mild as the afternoon sun shone on the downlands that were taking on their sparse autumn colours. “Will the boys have a better home waiting for them, just as the ship has?” I asked.

Harris nodded. “They damn sure will,” he smiled. “Jolly nice to see you really care, Flynn.” He eyed me approvingly. “Uncle Billy was always a good judge of a man.”

“Uncle Billy…Bowman?”

“One and the same,” he laughed, “but don't you ever call him that. He'd ream you a new bumhole with a marlinespike.”

“As you were saying the other day, you've known him a long time, eh?” I asked.

“Since I was fifteen. Too damn long. Can't quit him now. He's one of a kind, he is. I believe he could sail a matchstick up a gutter in a flood. We're lucky to have him,” he sighed. “Well now, to return to the lower orders: do try to get on with that O'Connell twit. I know it's going to be hard, and God knows it too. At least when he and Beasley get together, we know they won't be watching
us
. This is one good reason we meet in the evening. It's good to keep Bowman away from Beasley—else hell itself will come to life.”

“I'm just glad I wasn't standing behind that gate,” I said with a grimace. “You had no way of knowing anyone was there.”

“Oh, I saw you,” he smiled, “and I've a keen set of ears as well.”

“You dog!” I said, laughing.

Harris grinned complacently. “Come on, you'd best be getting back.”

As I walked away, I gazed down on the distant Beasley domain and up at O'Connell's with a sense of amusement. Lord, how could I keep a straight face around either one of that pair now?

Chapter 6

INTERRUPTIONS AND SURPRISES

Mrs. Beasley's car was in a terrible state of disrepair, but fortunately I was up the hill and could roll it to start the engine. I hurtled down the road, trying to get back to the Inn before my employer began to wonder what kept me. Most of the morning fog had burned off, and I could see trees displaying the first signs of autumn. It was a luxury to be free to enjoy the beauty of leaves turning red and golden. For six years I had come to regard the seasons as times to change camouflage and stations. Autumn had signalled only the approach of further hardships brought on by winter.

So many years of war, so many friends left behind. But this year, there was the prospect of a better winter to come, and that thought gave me a pleasant new sense of well-being, which quickly evaporated when I tried to apply the brakes. It was borne in upon me that Mrs. Beasley's car was a greater liability than that belonging to Harris. It was hard to imagine how they could keep these disintegrating machines going up and down the hills without serious mishap. One was compelled to assist the failing brakes by dragging a foot out the open door, a dangerous and nerve-racking operation at best, and only feasible at a very low speed—if one could achieve it.

As I reached the bottom of the hill, a Yank came tearing along the roadway towards me in a shiny new red Sunbeam, forcing me to swerve onto the verge to avoid him. I was fairly certain it was a Yank because only they had the money and the connections to get their hands on things like new Sunbeams. I entertained a series of uncharitable thoughts regarding the motoring habits of Yanks. After all, they nearly always forgot which side of the road to drive on. One could excuse right-hand driving on the Continent, it would be expected of the French and Italians! But Americans claimed to speak English, so they should jolly well learn to
drive
English too!

When I arrived back at the Inn it was time for lunch. The barmaid, now waitress, gave me a heart-stopping smile and waved me to a table. As I sat waiting for my bit of fish and chips, I glanced out the window and spied the red Sunbeam that had figured so prominently in my brush with disaster minutes before. At a window table overlooking the car park sat a cocky-looking young man.

I stalked over to his table and pointed out of the window. “I take it you drive that red thing,” I said, my anger growing.

“Yeah, sure do,” he replied in the nasal tones of the New World.

“I was the other driver you nearly ran off the road back there,” I grated. “This is England, and here we drive on the left-hand side of the roadway.”

“Sorry about that, old boy,” he said, lifting his glass. “Sometimes I forget. Can I stand you to a pint by way of apology?”

“No,” I exploded. “You Yanks seem to think that money buys everything.” I then returned to my table and sat down feeling happier for having said my piece. This feeling was quickly dispelled when the barmaid,
my
barmaid,
my
Venus of the taps brought him a pint and began to chat with him. By then I was thoroughly embittered. If he started pulling nylon stockings and chocolate bars out of his pockets, I'd ram them down his throat.

I had to get hold of myself. There were only three things I could bring to mind that were wrong about having Yanks here after the War: they were overpaid, they were oversexed, and they were still over here! I drained my glass, taking the last piece of fish along rolled up in a napkin and went out, slamming the door shut behind me. Not realising just how angry I'd been, I nearly forced the door off its hinges. It was just my luck; I now came face to face on the steps with Mrs. Beasley. I immediately thought of Robert's story, Headmaster O'Connell, and the negligee, and all but gagged.

“Mr. Flynn!” the landlady cried in tones of horrified reproof. “Please! Never,
ever
slam that door! It has been mended time and again all because you beastly brutal men must drink! Oh, why did I ever tie myself down to a low public house?”

“I'm sorry,” I apologised sulkily, “it's been a long day, and not yet over.”

“Yes, well you needn't take it out on the door,” she said, wagging her finger.

I doffed my cap and placed it solemnly over my heart. “I'll be more careful in the future.” Just then, the door opened behind us and I turned. There stood the lovely barmaid looking at us. The golden light from the windows in the room beyond made a halo about her hair and I felt rude and uncouth in comparison. I awkwardly adjusted my cap again and beat a hasty retreat in the face of this celestial vision, and hurried down the path to take up my duties in the garden.

I climbed back up to the Ornamental Rock where I had been struggling with the vine earlier in the day. Suddenly, something stirred in the shrubbery.

“Mr. Flynn! Mr. Flynn!” whispered a youthful voice.

“Yes, who's there?” I asked.

A tousled, red-headed boy from the orphanage emerged from the foliage. “Mr. Flynn, please hurry down to the ship.” “Mr. Bowman and Mr. Harris need to see you at once. You'll come, won't you?” I nodded. After a last entreating look, the smudged young face winked out of view. I looked about and saw that Mrs. Beasley had withdrawn, so I put down my tools and hiked slowly down. Once the Inn was lost to sight, I took off at a brisk pace, trotting along the footpath down to the water.

As I came in sight of the old vessels, I saw an official-looking black car parked along the road, and men moving about on board the ship. Climbing the gangway, I could see two alien figures uniformed in black coats and striped trousers, with regulation bowlers and umbrellas. Official Number One was hotly maintaining to Bowman that the middle ship tied up along our starboard side, the one he called
Auld Lass
, was going to be taken out and disposed of, and he was giving final notice to all concerned. He was shaking his perfectly furled umbrella in a neatly gloved fist for emphasis. Harris sat on a hatch cover, apparently dozing, with his back against the mainmast. Undoubtedly, these were the government officials of whom Bowman had spoken so fondly.

As they walked along the deck, nearly side-by-side, I could see Bowman was becoming increasingly agitated. This quickly deteriorated into a heated argument. When Bowman got angry, the veins in his neck and head stood out, making one fear an aneurysm. His face was an alarming beet-red. Official Number Two now decided to join in, and informed Bowman that they were nothing more than a gang of derelicts camping on these old wrecks. The old ships were going to be towed out, and everyone must make arrangements to vacate the premises, to wit, the said wrecks, and vacate them forthwith.

I took a seat on the hatchway next to Harris. He appeared to be asleep, with his head resting against the mast. His cap was pulled down over his eyes, no doubt listening very alertly to the whole of this rattling going on about him.

Harris's presence had been noted by one of the officials. Official Number Two, in his smart Savile Row attire and spotless bowler, marched over and kicked Harris's foot. “Did you hear me?” he barked, “I am talking to
you
as well.”

Harris slowly raised the cap from over his eyes. “You're talking to
me
?” he said with ominous sweetness. I could feel an uneasiness mounting and feared the worst for anyone going up against Harris.

“Yes, I am addressing you,” replied Official Number Two.

Harris rose and quickly seized him by his lapels, lifting his feet off the deck. He set him on the rail of the ship, leaned him backwards and roared, “Don't you
ever
lay hand or foot on me again! Do
you
understand?” Harris then shook him as a terrier would a rat.

Once he'd caught his breath, Official Number Two urgently protested. “Let me go! Unhand me this instant!” He waved his umbrella, making futile swipes at Harris.

Official Number One, incredulous at what was happening, now asserted himself. “I say!” he squeaked from a safe distance, “let him go! I say there!”

Harris shrugged his shoulders and let him go. Since the fellow was perched on the rail leaning back over the water, he hadn't far to go to end up in the river, and that he did straightaway. There was a resounding splash and spluttering as the floundering bureaucrat tried to move with his feet stuck firmly in the Thames mud.

Official Number One scrambled down the gangway with cries of dismay and danced about ineffectually on the shore. Bowman rushed over to the side to see what had happened.

“Harris!” he cried, “yer damned temper!”

“There's the pot calling the kettle black,” smiled Harris. “Uncle Billy, you've been raving at these people yourself for the best part of an hour.”

“Why did ye have to put him over side?” Bowman asked.

Harris smiled innocently. “But you heard them…they both ordered me to let him go.” Bowman's face got even redder. “Since
when
have ye ever obeyed each and every order?”

“Well,” Harris said softly, smacking his hands together, “some people are just born to command.”

Official Number Two had dropped his umbrella before going overboard. Harris now reached down and picked it up from the deck. Unsnapping it, he shook out the neat furling and opened it. Holding the point daintily between thumb and forefinger, he leaned over and lowered the crook end of the umbrella to the man flailing about in the water below. “Here, here! Get hold of this.” The wretched fellow grasped the handle, then vanished under the black dome of his brolly as the point escaped Harris's grip. “Ooh, it slipped,” said Harris. “It's always useful to keep an umbrella on hand in case of need. You never know when you're going to get wet,” he added. Idling back over to the hatchway, he sat down, tilted his cap back over his eyes, and resumed feigning his nap.

Official Number Two still foundered about with the ruin of his unhelpful umbrella and managed to snap up his bowler, as it was about to float away. He clambered soggily up the bank and stood soaking wet beside the car with Official Number One, less a shoe lost to the Thames mud. Neither seemed disposed to return to the ship. Both men began to hurl threats back at those still aboard. Not to be outdone, Bowman was shouting and kicking things about, still furious at having been told to pack up and leave.

Just then, the cheerful strains of a Russian drinking song were heard, and Boris strolled into view on the road, with a sack over his shoulder. He halted, confused by the goings-on. Before him were two government officials, one wet and one dry, both shouting while a stream of Bowman's meaty curses were issued from the deck of the old barque.

The wet Official was straining to close the wreck of his umbrella just as Boris was passing. Boris cast an eye skyward.

“You are much wet, but I think today no rain,” he remarked affably.

That was too much for Official Number Two. He made one last vain attempt at restoring order to the chaos of ribs and silk that had one been his pride and joy; he then flung the mess into the water. Snatching Official Number One's umbrella, he set upon Boris with an incoherent cry of rage.

One could see that he knew something about fencing, but slash or thrust as he would, the agile Russian easily kept clear of the menacing bumbershoot. There was no telling how long this game might continue had not Official Number One reclaimed his umbrella, and secured it out of harm's way in the boot of the car. Official Number Two stood panting with rage and frustration. Boris uttered a few inaudible words to him—then walked up the gangway.

“Mudak!” yelled Boris, shaking his head.

Finally, the government officials got into their car and headed back up the road in a cloud of smoke and dust. Bowman shook his fist after them.

Harris raised his cap from over his eyes. “Well now,” he sighed, “we shall have to get our plans ready very quickly, because I'm certain they're going to make good on theirs.” He sat up, yawned, and stretched. “There's little rest to be had now. Flynn, let's go for a walk.”

Bowman stared at him in outrage. “Ye hurl government officials into the river, and then ye two decide ye're going to be taking a jolly little stroll off down the lane? Ye big fool. Try not to keep us from getting any deeper into the big muddy.”

Leaving Bowman muttering darkly to himself, Harris and I walked up the lane back to the Inn. I explained that I had left my work undone and was afraid Mrs. Beasley would notice my absence.

Harris digested this. “Well, we'll just walk a little faster and talk as we go,” he said. “I think it's about time we made proper arrangements with O'Connell to get the boys up to the circus. We're going to need their help soon, and they can use their free passes for a holiday. Beforehand, a number of things must be properly organised.” We reached the spot where I had been working earlier, when Mrs. Beasley returned from her daily pilgrimage to the pond where she fed the waterfowl and gathered what eggs she could.

She looked up the hill and saw me talking to Harris. I saw her stiffen. She beckoned me to come down. I asked Harris to wait and quickly presented myself before her. She was staring at Harris as though she feared he would suddenly produce a machine gun and open fire.

“That's one of the men from the boats,” she said in a whisper. “Heaven knows what mischief he's about. Don't let him waste your time. We've nothing to say to them.”

“Oh, very well Mrs. Beasley, as you wish. Actually, he was giving me a few tips on using fertiliser in the shrubbery. You wouldn't think it to look at him, but the man is a marvel in the garden.” Her expression was decidedly doubtful.

“H'mph,” she responded, and with a last glance at Harris, she turned and went back to the Inn, presumably to her cooking.

With only four more days before the circus closed, Harris planned to visit the orphanage and have some words with the boys and Headmaster O'Connell. It suddenly dawned on me; the orphanage was where I had last seen Harris before being summoned away. How the devil did he get to the ship so quickly on that meandering road?