A Ship's Tale (11 page)

He pointed a shaking finger at Harris. “Hold that man,” he snarled. Harris stood and loomed.

The two looked at Harris, at one another, and then at Moorland. Shaking their heads, they walked off. Moorland glared, and then shifted his gaze to the other circus worker, who turned pale and lifted his hands in protest.

“Don't look at
me
,” he cried. Moorland marched off in disgust, and the other, relieved, made his departure.

Bowman came up to Harris, “So ye really know that bear, eh mate?”

“Yes, of course I do. Or I did years ago. I don't care to go into it just now.” Harris turned and walked away from the cage, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. The bear watched him go, then with a rattle of chains, crawled to the back of the cage, and relapsed into inertness.

Evidently, Larry had spoken with others of our company regarding Harris's unusual behaviour, for Boris and Robert had come up and witnessed some of what had transpired. When I did become aware of their presence, their heads were together in a suspiciously conspiratorial-looking conversation. I worried that Robert was hatching some crazy scheme. In the Navy he'd been notorious for his rash plots, but I hoped that Boris would be the prevailing, cooler head. They soon separated, and Boris looked at us with hands on hips. “Come on, work,” he called.

We proceeded to the lads of our Orphan Brigade, who were ranged about the huge expanse of precious canvas. It took hours to fold the huge tents. What a dusty, sweaty job it was. It may sound simple to say that we'd folded that canvas, but it was hard work and needed proper co-ordination, as each piece was at least thirty yards by twenty. Mercifully, there'd been no rain, and the canvas was dry and light. At first we had another circus worker overseeing the operation, but eventually he left us in Robert's hands. Harris had evidently thought it best to keep out of view, which I'm sure
was
best, though we did miss his muscle. We could see another crew occupied at folding tents, so we worked with frantic haste lest theirs be packed into another lorry before we could intervene. As it turned out, they were simply stacking the folded canvas neatly and leaving it to be loaded by others. Well, this time we'd be the others.

There were enough lorries about that little attention was paid to ours as it was backed up to load the first tent. The lorry looked as roomy as a house to me, but we filled it. Such a huge lot of canvas!

Bowman was now giving orders, and pointed in disgust to one bundle with bright red and yellow stripes. “We won't be needing that one.”

Boris gave me a wink and as soon as Bowman's back was turned, in went the striped piece, to be quickly concealed beneath a plain one. There were quite a few pieces Bowman rejected on the basis of colour, but every bit of canvas was whisked into the back without his knowledge. It became quite a game, and the boys entered into it delightedly.

Once the tents were neatly stowed, I went to see who was at the wheel. Not surprisingly, it was Harris. Boris and Robert were with him, looking like the cat that just got the canary. I was relieved to see that Harris appeared his usual self, and I asked what else I should do.

Harris smiled, “Since you asked, you can take my car and follow me at a distance. Unloading will be just as heavy and we won't have the boys helping us on that end.”

“Me drive
your
car,” I sputtered, clapping a hand over my eyes, “without the benefit of brakes?”

He reached out the window and dropped his keys into my hands. Good Lord, I thought, this is like going into combat again. That old Morris took at least a hundred yards to come to a halt by brakes alone.

“I had them mended somewhat,” he said. “You'll be perfectly safe.”

One of the workmen came up, puzzled at seeing Harris at the wheel, and cast a look of displeasure over the lorry. He halted by the driver's window.

“You there!
I'm
supposed to be handling this lot,” he said brusquely.

My heart was in my mouth, but Harris met his gaze levelly. “No, you're bloody well not!” he fired back. “You didn't make much of a job of it last time you put these tents away. If I have to talk to your supervisor one more time, you'll not be working for us next year. In fact, you should be expecting to get your cards, and start looking for somewhere else straightaway.”

The man stepped back in surprise. Harris sounded very convincing. “You've talked to my supervisor?” the man quavered.

Harris started up the engine and shouted over the roar, “You get back to work and see that the rest of those booths and stands are properly loaded up. I'll take charge here.”

Without further ado, he began driving away. As I made for the car, I could see the man take off his hat and scratch his head, trying to make out what he'd done wrong. Of course he'd actually done nothing to warrant such a reprimand. I hoped he wouldn't be sacked over this.

Harris's car might have had the brakes mended, but there were other causes for anxiety. For one thing, it kept popping out of gear unexpectedly and had a chronic wobble at low speeds. This never bothered Harris, who didn't believe in low speeds.

It was dark by the time we approached Tower Bridge. In the traffic, I lost sight of the lorry once we had crossed over. I pressed on, although the only way to avoid collisions was to go at an excruciatingly slow pace, which won me no friends amongst the other motorists. It took a bit of prowling about to find my way, as I'd only been to the tailor's workshop once before by daylight. Harris waited at the main road, and again took the lead once he spied me. Soon we reached our destination, and he backed up to the loading dock.

Harris's pounding brought Brian out. He was apologetic—no canvas yet. Without a word, Harris pointed to the lorry, where Robert drew back the tarpaulin to reveal the densely heaped takings of the day's raid.

“God in heaven!” the tailor exclaimed, “where did you get all this?”

Harris waved a hand dismissively. “No need for you to worry about that. Right now time is of the essence! One ship is being taken off the day after tomorrow and ours the day after that. We'll see how far we can hold them up before they take ours. All I ask is that you work as fast as humanly possible! The two spankers and eight of the big sails for the fore and mainmasts are priority. Get the sail-makers to help you get two jibsails done, the two spankers and eight of the big sails for the fore and mainmasts, as priority. We hope you'll have time for more but we definitely need those straight away!”

Brian raised his eyebrows at Harris's urgent manner. “For you, God knows, it's a small enough favour.” He turned and called to those inside. Out came two more men and Brian's son, David. We set to work unloading the entire volume of canvas into their warehouse. It seemed to have grown even heavier during the drive up. How they were going to deal with it all was beyond me, but handling cloth was their business. Boris produced drawings and measurements necessary for cutting each of the sails and gave them to Brian. The tailor looked them over with a practised eye, and then nodded his approval.

We were all exhausted after emptying the lorry, and Brian tendered an invitation for dinner. Harris shook his head, “Again I have to say sorry.” He took a deep breath. “Now then, Robert, you run the lorry back down to the circus so you can drive Bowman and the lads home again.”

“Aye aye,” said Robert saluting smartly, and climbed back into the driver's seat with Boris beside him. As they rumbled away up the street, I saw that a thick fog was closing in, one of the real London fogs with that metallic taste to it.

I was becoming anxious to leave, and equally nervous about the drive back. Harris went to the car and wedged himself in behind the wheel. “Well, let's be off,” he called out to me.

I walked around to the driver's side and crossed my arms. “Out of it, Harris! It's the passenger side for you, or even the rear.
I
have the keys, remember? Let me treat you to a chauffeured ride.”

“Then we'll
never
get there,” he said impatiently. “Flynn, you drive like an old lady.”

“And how could you possibly know how I drive?”

He looked petulant, “Well, it took you enough time driving here. I don't usually let anyone else take the wheel.”

“Ah yes, but without the keys, you'll be going nowhere in a hurry.”

“Oh all right!” he conceded, “but on your head be it if we're never seen again.” He got back out and went round to the other side. Opening the door, he looked in with a critical eye. “Not much room in there,” he grumbled, and squeezed himself into the seat.

I pressed the starter and we moved off slowly and uncomfortably into the fog. I prayed I could find the A2 and the right turnings in the fog and darkness.
Anything
was better than having him drive. I was glad of Harris's direction as we crawled, wobbled along. It felt as though the car would fall to pieces at any moment.

“It wouldn't wobble that way if you'd make your foot a wee bit heavier,” my passenger hinted.

I bit my lip. “I think it's about as heavy as need be. After all, I drove this thing up to London. I think I can drive it down to Kent.” At this point I had to envy Robert, who was driving something more substantial, and wasn't being tyrannised by an aspiring rocket pilot sitting next to him.

With a deep sigh, Harris subsided. I wanted to ask him about the bear, and he appeared to be quite himself again, so I felt sufficiently encouraged to bring it up.

“So,” I said casually, “what was it Robert said to you back at the circus before we left?”

“About the bear?” said Harris. “I can't believe I made such a fuss over it all. It turns out that brown bear wasn't
with
the circus. They were just transporting him. You see, his old trainer, another Russian, had found out where he was after many years of looking. He wanted him sent down to Sussex so they could spend their retirement together. I'm glad that our paths crossed again. Dear old brown bear. Of course I'd like to have a word with that chap too. Those were rotten conditions under which to transport that ol' boy.”

Well, it was a relief to know that there was a happy ending to it, and I felt a little easier as we jittered along, narrowly avoiding lampposts and other vehicles. Finally we came out of the fog well and were able to make better headway.

When we reached the Inn, instead of leaving me off, he directed me down to where the ships were moored. I managed to bring the car to a stop without getting too many more grey hairs. Mended brakes—ha! It appeared that the lorry had already returned from the circus, for Bowman came down the gangway to greet us rubbing his hands together.

“So,” he nodded, “the canvas has gone up to London. A very sweet bit o' work, that was! Well done. Boris has just gone to take the young lads back up.”

“That's fine,” said Harris. With an unexpected lightning movement, he seized my hand and plucked his keys. “Many thanks, Flynn, but I can handle the driving from here.”

Now I could get back to the Inn. It seemed like weeks since this morning.

“A good night to you both then.” I turned to go.

Harris took hold of my sleeve. “Ah, one moment there, Flynn. We'd best go aboard. There are a few things we should attend to.”

“Damn you, Harris. I've done enough today,” I said wearily.

“Oh very well, run along. I don't
own
you,” he replied.

“One would never suspect it,” snorted Bowman as he headed back up the gangway. “Good night!” he called out.

Tired and a bit light-headed from hunger, I began the walk to the Inn. It was infinitely preferable to another few minutes in the dreadful Harris-mobile. Seeing Katherine's welcoming smile at journey's end, I would happily have gone ten times the distance.

I walked into the heat and noise of the pub, and nipped into the toilet to clean up a bit. When I emerged, I looked about eagerly for Katherine, but didn't see her. To my surprise, Mrs. Beasley now came into view bearing a tray laden with glasses and foodstuffs. She looked flustered. It wasn't the usual thing for her to serve customers as well as prepare food, since her cooking was vastly more agreeable than her manner.

“Ah! Mr. Flynn, you're back,” she said. “Did all go well today?”

“Everything went splendidly, Mrs. Beasley. We made a good day's work of it and now all the boys have returned safe and sound.”

“Well, that's good then.” She bustled off, and returned not long after, the tray now piled with dirty dishes. “I suppose you'll be wanting your dinner. Go on into the kitchen—you'll find plenty about. You'll be serving yourself. I'm busy. I haven't time—Miss Katherine has gone missing. She never showed herself this morning and left me to do all her work in addition to mine.” She sniffed indignantly. “I find it quite extraordinary. Well, get along with you…wait! Take these dishes with you. And don't touch the roast beef. That's for customers. Have the mutton stew.” Leaving me with the tray, she smoothed her hair and made her way in the direction of the bar.

A moment later I was in the kitchen doing mighty work among the eatables, and puzzling over Katherine's disappearance. I wasn't overly concerned. She was a capable lass and had probably just gone up to the village for the day, though it was odd that she'd left no word. It occurred to me that she might be in her cottage. As soon as I finished, I went out and strolled by her door.

Still not seeing her, I walked back to the pub and asked Martin. He'd seen her at breakfast, and she asked about me. Martin hadn't heard about the circus, so he couldn't tell Katherine anything. “No one tells
me
anything,” he shrugged. “She'll catch hob from Mrs. B. when she gets in!”

I drifted back outside, wondering if there was cause for alarm. My body cried out for rest, but I was too unsettled to sleep just now. I began to wander along past the garden and onto the path that led down to the ships. I hadn't realised until now how much I'd been counting on returning to find Katherine in the pub, kind-eyed and ready to minister to a weary tent-thief.