The Voyage of the Golden Handshake (17 page)

‘Then why didn’t you think of that when you installed the balconies?’ asked Albert with faultless logic.

Duvet explained that in a survey conducted by Fairground Cruises it was revealed that virtually all passengers would like a balcony, but those who had one used it very infrequently.

‘Frankly,’ he confessed, ‘we didn’t expect our Balcony Suite passengers would actually want to use the balcony.’

Albert looked increasingly perplexed.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘this is a right carry-on. What now?’

‘I think we had better call the Admiral,’ said Duvet. ‘He will know what to do for sure.’

Albert set about to tidy the Suite and Duvet operated the handle on the phone to get in touch with the owner of the Line.

The Admiral had been attending one of Enzo’s language classes and quite frankly was not impressed. It was some relief to him when a steward tapped him on the shoulder and said that he was required urgently in one of the Balcony Suites. The Admiral made his way to the upper reaches of the ship and entered the Suite that was gradually filling up with interested parties. Albert introduced himself and explained as best he could what the problem was. Now it was the turn of the Admiral to climb the steps to observe a shivering Mrs Hardcastle covered from head to toe in a green liquid and smelling just like a high-class
hairdresser’s shop in Mayfair.

‘Mrs Hardcastle, Admiral Harrington here. How are you today? Enjoying the cruise, I trust?’

Harrington was never much good at rising to the occasion but today he excelled himself. Mrs Hardcastle took one look at him and threw an empty bottle of shampoo directly at his head. He recoiled and promptly fell off the ladder.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Hmmm. Yes, I see. Well, carry on then, Duvet,’ and with that he simply left.

Duvet looked at Albert in amazement but out of concern for his job said no more. Finally it was decided that Albert ought to go through the porthole to comfort his wife. The next morning when they docked in Libya, a ladder would be placed against the ship and the couple would be able to descend in perfect safety. Apart from her jumping into the sea in a lifebelt and being hauled out again at the stern of the vessel, Albert could think of no other way of resolving the problem and so he agreed to venture onto the balcony to join his fragrant wife. This he did. Ample warm clothing and bedding was passed to the couple, which they securely anchored, and this was followed by a complimentary bottle of Brown Ale for Albert and a flask of tea for Alice. The pair were assured that each hour, on the hour, someone would come to the porthole to make sure they were safe, and if they needed anything - anything at all - all they had to do was to ask. Thus they settled uncomfortably onto the airbed, which
they had had to blow up after it was handed through to them, and prepared for the night.

In the distance, somewhere on the ship, they could hear the melodious tones of Cousin Pedro giving his first performance. Although it was uncomfortable in the extreme on the balcony, they had to admit there was a certain romance about the whole situation, had they been fifty years younger. As it was, it was pretty terrible. Around four in the morning they managed to catch a few moments of fitful sleep. At six o’clock the coastline of Libya was in view but, alas, the ordeal of Albert and Alice was not yet quite over.

That night, under cover of darkness, Alice had removed her swimming costume and reluctantly thrown it overboard. It was a one-piece outfit with a very pretty skirt around the bottom and she was attached to it. However, it had got covered in shampoo and had also been torn during the failed attempt to return to the cabin, so overboard it went. To save their own clothes, various items of heavy clothing had been passed to them for the night. Albert received a blue seaman’s sweater with a thick pair of serge trousers, and Alice received a similar outfit. They both got a duffel coat, together with the inflatable mattress and plenty of blankets. Hot drinks were constantly supplied and Albert gratefully received a second bottle of Brown Ale.

As they approached Tripoli, they heard someone calling
them from the porthole. Albert struggled to his feet and saw that it was the Hotel Manager.

‘Mr Hardcastle,’ he said with a sheepish look on his face. ‘This unfortunate happening has been most embarrassing for the Golden Oceans Company and for the
Golden Handshake
in particular. This morning we are due to dock immediately next to one of the cruise ships belonging to Fairground Cruises. If they see you climbing down from your balcony by means of a ladder, I am afraid that our Captain, and the whole Line, will be subject to much ridicule. If you could bear with us, we will stop at a spot just before our assigned dock and let you off there. Our Port Agent will pick you up in a car and take you immediately to a hotel where you can get some new clothing.’

‘Well,’ said Albert, ‘if you say so. What do you say Alice?’

‘All I want is to get off this balcony,’ his wife said tearfully. The strain was now beginning to tell and she was very tired, having been on the balcony for at least twelve hours.

‘Good,’ said Radley. ‘Then that’s settled. Just await further instructions.’

The ship steamed slowly forward and they approached a dock. The ship drew to a halt. On the dockside they saw a small group of men in Arab dress with a long stepladder which, with much difficulty, they positioned so that it reached their balcony.

‘It’s a terrible long way down,’ fretted Alice.

‘Don’t worry, luv. I’ll go first,’ replied Albert, not a little
fearful himself. Udi had now appeared at the porthole and was peering through.

‘Well done, sir. Well done, madam. You OK now.’

Below, there was a great deal of excited chatter in a language that was totally incomprehensible to both Balcony Suite passengers. Gestures were made from the dockside and Albert, understanding that they were now to leave, stepped over the side and put his foot on the first rung.

Meanwhile, in the Port Office, Libyan Immigration officers had assembled for their shift. Some were assigned clearance responsibilities at Passport Control. Others were put on undercover duties to keep a watch for suspicious activities. That morning, a senior undercover officer, Mr Zlitni, was required to wear plainclothes and patrol the dockside. He trained his binoculars on the
Golden Handshake
as she entered the harbour and scanned the ship. As far as he knew, it had never entered Libyan waters before and so he took a particular interest in her. To his surprise the ship stopped before her assigned station.

This is unusual, said Mr Zlitni to himself.

He kept his binoculars trained on the ship. Suddenly he observed a ladder being positioned against the side of the vessel, just by a balcony where two rough-looking characters in duffel coats were standing. The smaller of the two stepped over the balcony onto the ladder and was instantly followed by the stout one. Immediately Mr Zlitni pulled out his radio and contacted
the mobile patrol car with the information that two illegal immigrants were leaving the
Golden Handshake
by stepladder and they were to be arrested immediately.

Albert and Alice continued gingerly down the ladder, frightened rather than encouraged by the shouting from the ground below. They felt immense relief when they both stepped onto dry land, even though they were surrounded by a group of chattering Arabs pushing and pulling to get a better view of the new entrants.

‘I wish that car would hurry up,’ said Albert. ‘These trousers itch like mad.’

No sooner had he uttered these words than there was a wailing of sirens and two large black cars pulled up with a screeching of brakes. Several men in sharp suits leaped out.

‘These must be the Port Agent’s men,’ said Albert cheerfully, and both he and Alice without needing any persuasion jumped into the back of the nearest vehicle. Another man got in beside them and they sped off at a tremendous pace. The man next to Albert addressed him but Albert could not understand a word. Albert mumbled something about not understanding and the man gave a dismissive laugh but refrained from asking more questions.

‘Is the hotel far?’ Albert asked innocently, after about twenty minutes.

Both the driver and the man in the back thought this question extremely funny and laughed loudly but did not reply. Another ten or so minutes passed and they pulled up outside a low brick building with armed policemen at the door.

‘Funny hotel this,’ said Albert, ‘but I suppose it’s an exclusive place and they have to guard their customers.’

The door of the car was flung open and the couple were pulled out, rather roughly, Albert thought.

‘Hold on,’ he said, ‘we can manage. You don’t have to grip our arms like that.’

No notice was taken of their protests and they were marched inside, into a room that did not look like any hotel Albert or his wife had ever seen. Uniformed men strolled around and on a bench sat a group of dejected-looking characters wearing chains.

‘Funny way to dress,’ said Albert, ‘but one can never tell what these foreigners get up to.’

After a moment or so, a man in a very smart dark suit with an open-neck white shirt appeared and beckoned to them to follow him. They did as they were told and entered a small room where they were motioned to sit on a bench. The man in the suit sat behind a desk.

‘I suppose this is their way of checking in,’ said Albert to Alice.

‘Quiet!’ barked the suit. Alice jumped and Albert looked surprised.

‘Passport,’ demanded the suit.

‘Well, it’s like this …’ began Albert.

‘
Passport
!’ bellowed the suit in an even louder voice. Both Balcony Suite passengers looked vacant. Their passports were with the ship, as were all their possessions. Albert spread his hands to indicate they had no documents with them. The suit wrote down something on a pad and then looked up at Alice.

‘You, Mister. Name.’

Alice was completely taken aback. Never in her whole life in Grimsby had she been called Mister. Mister, indeed. She stood up and thumped the desk.

‘I’ll have you know I am Alice Hardcastle from Grimsby and I am a Balcony Suite passenger and this is my husband Albert.’

The suit appeared surprised at the violence of the reply and stood also. He pressed a bell on his desk and two armed policemen entered. He motioned towards the Balcony passengers.

‘Take away,’ he said, and with those two words Albert and Alice were led to the cells.

Back on the ship, rumours circulated quicker than the waters at Messina.

The British Secret Service had landed two agents in Libya, went one.

Two Balcony Suite passengers had frozen to death on their balcony, went another.

The loyal crew refrained from telling passengers what had actually happened but precautions were taken and Captain Sparda confiscated the large spanner marked
Balcony Suites
so that no one would now be able to actually get onto their balcony. They would still, however, have the prestige attached to the fact that their suites were Balcony Suites at the very top of the ship and that, reasoned the Hotel Manager, was what was important.

Down in the depths of the ship, the poor chaplain continued to struggle with his sermon in the cramped conditions of the sickbay. He seemed to have had nothing but difficulties since he was persuaded to stay on board and, frankly, he was fed up. He hardly knew anyone apart from the Captain and the doctor, and they did not seem to have much time for him. As for the passengers, they had no idea that he was on board to assist them with their spiritual needs. He had no clothes, apart from his clerical suit and a pile of disposable nightshirts. No one had thought to tell him where the ship was going and when or where the ship docked. Fortunately, in order to board the ship with the Councillors’ party, he had had to bring identification and thus was in possession of his passport, so he could leave the ship and go home if he could find enough money for the fare. He was feeling very sorry for himself when the doctor breezed in.

‘Hello, old man,’ he greeted him. ‘Said your prayers yet?’

The chaplain managed a weak smile and continued to study a sheet of paper on which he had written some notes for his
sermon.

‘This is a cruise and a half,’ the doctor continued. ‘Rumour has it that a couple of Balcony types tried to jump ship to avoid their bar bills and have landed in prison.’

The chaplain looked up. ‘Where are we?’ he enquired.

‘The land of liberty,’ replied the doctor. ‘Libya, old boy. Just the place to land in jail, what?’

Libya rang a bell with the chaplain. When he was studying at the East Cheam Ordination Course, a fellow student, Guy Raleigh, tried to get him interested in sailing. As East Cheam was hardly the centre of the yachting world he went with Guy to Norfolk, where the bitter winds and dampness put him off sailing for life. The chaplain had little interest, and even less flair, for the activity and so that was that. Years later, it came as no surprise to him to hear that Guy had joined the ranks of the Society for the Protection of Underprivileged Fisherfolk and Ancient Mariners, and had been sent to man their outpost in Libya. He mentioned to the doctor that he actually had a clerical friend in Libya, but Doctor Hackett made no reply and so the chaplain did not explain further.

The doctor continued to sort out a pile of prescriptions on his desk.

‘These damn ships,’ he muttered. ‘Colds, flu, Novovirus. It’s like a zoo for ailments. Every disease known to man resides here, with one man to deal with them all. Me.’

Here he threw the papers into a tray and reached in the drawer for a snifter.

‘Join me?’ he offered generously.

The chaplain shook his head and the doctor poured himself a liberal measure.

‘This keeps the germs away,’ he said as he quaffed the beverage.

The chaplain made a face even though he was getting accustomed to the doctor’s drinking habits.

‘You said we are in Libya?’ he queried as the doctor returned to his paperwork.