The Voyage of the Golden Handshake (9 page)

‘Don’t be so silly, Albert Hardcastle,’ snapped Alice. ‘That’s a very poor joke and not at all funny.’

Neither felt like going down to breakfast and so they called for Udi who brought them tea and a medicine that he swore would prevent seasickness. The ship was still pitching sharply and it took all their best efforts to sip the beverage.

‘Very terrible weather, sir.’ said Udi as he collected the cups. ‘One day on ship grand piano thrown upside down. Chairs on deck overboard. Sea very terrible, sir, I promise you. You very strong lady. You very strong sir.’

The last thing Albert required was a promise of more terrible seas and so he thanked Udi for the tea and after wrestling once again with the door, let him out into the corridor.

On the bridge there was relief all round that the ailing rudder had withstood the storm. For most of the night they had pressed on without weather reports and had become so exasperated with constantly being told to relax to soothing classics that they turned off the radio completely and navigated as best they could. And so, twenty-four hours later, the SS
Golden Handshake
steamed slowly into Bilbao harbour and moored directly by the Guggenheim Museum.

Rear Admiral Harrington was feeling distinctly annoyed. The journey of a lifetime that he had planned and worked for so carefully had got off to a terrible start and now, to cap it all, he was stranded in Calais. He had telephoned his wife back in Frinton and she was most unsympathetic.

‘I never had a lot of faith in this venture, Benbow,’ she said unhelpfully. ‘Quite frankly, your whole career has been littered with what you like to call “unfortunate incidents”. I would call them something different. I can only hope you manage to find your ship eventually.’ And with that she hung up.

These remarks increased Benbow’s depression even further. Years of separation had resulted in both of them developing an independence of mind, but there were times when the Admiral would have welcomed a little more empathetic understanding. In times of difficulty he had learned to lean on the ever-supportive Harry, but even this prop was denied him now as, try as he might, he could not make contact with the ship nor with Harry. He had retired to a nearby bar to work out what to do when a dejected-looking character entered. He wore a distinctly worried
expression on his face and the Admiral heard him order, in English, a brandy - even though it was only ten in the morning.

‘Mind if I share your table?’ said the forlorn character, who wandered over from the bar clutching his glass.

‘Of course not,’ said the Admiral, glad to have some company.

The visitor downed his brandy in one gulp and signalled to the attendant for another.

‘The truth is,’ he said to the Admiral before they had introduced themselves, ‘the truth is that I have got mixed up with one of the most damn-fool operations I have ever come across.’

The Admiral listened sympathetically.

‘Ever heard of Golden Oceans?’ the man queried.

At this juncture the Admiral decided to say nothing. He simply nodded.

‘Well, let me tell you, it’s a real cowboy operation. It’s supposed to be a world-class cruising company. They couldn’t navigate the Serpentine, I can tell you. I was hired as Ship’s Doctor for the World Cruise, as I had some spare time due to leaving my practice prematurely. All very unfortunate. These days, one only has to make a simple mistake and out you go. I’m not proud to admit that I diagnosed a case of smallpox as measles, and the whole town was afflicted. It’s a mistake anyone could make, don’t you agree?’

The Admiral ordered another strong black coffee and nodded.
Good Lord, he thought to himself, we have hired this man.

If the Admiral had only known that his companion was relating but a fraction of his colourful past, which included being struck off the medical register in the Congo (a feat that very few members of the medical profession have ever achieved), plus failing to get a job as a counter assistant in Boots the Chemist, he would have been even more concerned.

‘Very unfortunate indeed,’ said Benbow, desperately trying to think what to say next. ‘What do you intend to do now? I would have thought it best for you to make your way back to England, wouldn’t you?’

‘Not on your life,’ replied the medic. ‘What can I do there? After another drink I’m going to hitchhike to Spain, where I hope to find the ship. I gather that it’s going to be there for a while. No one thought to give me a contact number in Calais so I am on my own.’

Even having heard only a tiny part of the past history of the doctor, the Admiral was not at all keen for him to join the ship. He couldn’t imagine how he had slipped past Harry, but it seemed that he had - and further, it seemed as though he was determined to get to Spain.

The Admiral quickly swallowed his coffee.

‘I must be off,’ he said. ‘The best of luck to you, doctor. I still think you might be better returning to England, you know.’

After a quick handshake he left the café and followed the signs to the main railway station. He arrived to be greeted with scenes of confusion. It seemed as though every school in the vicinity had planned to travel by train that day and the station was crowded with noisy French children, and their harassed teachers, all trying to board different trains. The Admiral fought his way to the information office and to his dismay discovered that to travel from Calais to Bilbao by train would be a very difficult journey indeed and the clerk doubted that he would arrive in Bilbao at the time he wished to be there.

‘Do you have much baggage?’ enquired the clerk.

The Admiral said that he had no luggage whatsoever as he had left his ship merely to take a stroll. He was too embarrassed to say that the ship left without him so he said that he was unavoidably detained and left it at that.

The clerk gave him a long knowing look and winked.

‘The quick way to get to your ship is with my cousin who can help you. If you have no baggage he can give you first-class transport right to the ship, no problem. You pay for the outward journey and for the return journey of my cousin.
Oui?
’

‘That is most kind,’ said the Admiral, quite taken aback. ‘Thank you very much indeed.’

He was more than glad to have a guarantee that he would arrive in time to catch the sailing. The clerk asked him to wait at a certain point outside the station and Cousin Jacques would
meet him with a sign bearing the word
Admiral
.

Admiral Benbow went to the appointed location and waited. Numerous taxis slowed down and invited his custom. He rejected them all. He was feeling increasingly anxious when he noticed an elderly man wearing what appeared to be a flying suit and a leather flying helmet approaching him, holding aloft a card with
Admiral
written on it. Benbow went up to him and in appalling French introduced himself. Fortunately the individual replied in perfect English that he was Cousin Jacques and would now transport the Admiral to Bilbao.

‘I confess to being a bit surprised that we are to fly,’ said Benbow.

Jacques looked startled. ‘Fly,
monsieur? Non
, you will travel in my speedy land transport. Come.’

He rounded the corner and there was an ancient Royal Enfield motor cycle, complete with sidecar. Jacques handed the Admiral a leather helmet identical to the one he was wearing.

‘This will be good for the wind,’ he said. ‘Please make your-self comfortable in the sidecar.’

It was too late for the Admiral to back out now, but he had genuine apprehension about this mode of transport, which had come as a total surprise to him. A large pair of goggles were on the seat and he placed them around the top of his head.

‘You’ll find a scarf on the floor,’ said the ever-helpful Jacques. ‘Use it if you like.’

The Admiral found a coloured woollen scarf and wrapped it around his neck. The Enfield took a little persuasion to get started and only did so after the Admiral had been politely requested to get out and push. Having struggled to get into the sidecar, he now had to struggle to get out. After a hundred paces or so, which completely winded the Admiral, the engine came to life but hardly with a roar. To his ear it sounded as though it needed a complete service but now was not the time for this procedure. He somehow got back into the narrow seat and off they set.

The first part of the long journey was uneventful, aside from one unfortunate incident. They were passing through a French village, totally unknown to the Admiral, when a raw egg shattered on the tiny windscreen of the sidecar. This was followed by several more, one of which caught the top of the flying helmet. The Admiral, well versed in military tactics, observed immediately that the missiles were being thrown from a passing car, the occupants of which were shouting and gesticulating as only the French can.

‘Go home!’ they shouted (in French, of course).

They continued their invective with increasing vehemence until Jacques was well outside the village boundary and they had turned off the road.

‘What was all
that
about?’ shouted the Admiral, wiping egg off his helmet as best he could.

It transpired that the scarf worn by the Admiral was a rugby scarf with the colours of a club that had soundly beaten the village through which they were passing. Naturally they were not too well pleased to see the colours that reminded them of their humiliation the previous week, and so had launched the attack. The Admiral folded the offending garment and placed it on the floor of the sidecar.

‘Drive on,’ he said to Jacques. ‘Time is at a premium.’

About three quarters of the way on this uncomfortable, and not altogether speedy, journey, Jacques shouted across at his passenger, ‘I think we ought to take a short break for coffee.’

Although time was going all too quickly, the Admiral agreed and they spluttered into a small petrol station with a wooden hut attached which seemed to be some sort of establishment where refreshments might be bought. Benbow once again eased his aching bones out of the sidecar and with Jacques leading the way, entered the shack.

Jacques went over to the counter and the Admiral was just about to sit down when he froze. There, sitting at a table, was the doctor with what appeared to be a large brandy before him. Always quick thinking, Benbow pulled the goggles down over his eyes, turned on his heel and marched smartly out of the room. He heard Jacques cry out, ‘Hey!’ but that was all he heard.

Not knowing what to do, he hid himself behind the shed, keeping the motorcycle in view so that when Jacques emerged
he could rush over and they could leave. As it was, the intrepid Jacques came out immediately, looked around and began to shout: ‘Admiral. Where are you?’

Benbow rushed across to the bike, goggles firmly in place.

‘Quick!’ he shouted to the startled motorcyclist. ‘I just realised I got the tides wrong. The ship leaves earlier than I expected. Start her up, we must be away.’

A puzzled coffee-less Jacques did as he was bid, the bike was kicked into life and the Admiral, seated as low down in his seat as he could manage, set off once again in the direction of the Spanish coast.

As they bowled along at a steady pace, the Admiral reflected on the situation facing him. The determined doctor had clearly been in luck with his hitchhiking and it looked as though he might get to the ship, after all. On the other hand, hitchhiking was a risky business and there was no guarantee that he would make it. If the doctor
did
get to the ship and boarded, then there would be acute embarrassment for both of them. In the end Sir Benbow decided that he would face the situation if and when it occurred - and not worry unduly about it. Doing his best to settle back in his seat, he once again pushed the goggles up across the top of his head as they got rather hot if he wore them constantly.

Suddenly he heard a loud tooting on a car horn. Jacques
looked agitated. ‘Damn drivers,’ he shouted. ‘He knows it’s not safe to pass here.’

The Admiral glanced behind and saw a little MG sports car bearing up on them. Suddenly, it pulled out and there, sitting next to the driver, was none other than the hitchhiking doctor. Once again the Admiral snatched at the goggles and pulled them firmly over his eyes. As the car drew alongside, the doctor put his thumb to his nose and gave a rude sign before the car accelerated and disappeared into the distance.

A road sign appeared.
Bilbao Port 25 kilometres.
The Admiral groaned, the bike spluttered and Jacques continued on his merry way, determined to get his charge to the ship before low tide.

Back on board, Captain Sparda, having enjoyed a refreshing sleep whilst crossing the Bay of Biscay and also a relaxing day in port, was preparing the ship for departure. After the nightmare of Calais, Bilbao had proved to be tranquillity itself. This time, Radley and the Cruise Director had organised the passengers into groups of ten, who were then escorted ashore to a duty-free establishment where they could purchase their supplies for the journey. The ever-helpful Spanish, anxious to offload their cheap brandy, were more than delighted to arrange transport to and from the ship and provided two mini-coaches, Radley being in charge of one and Enzo the other. These coaches went back and forth with the duty-free carried in a trailer hitched behind the coach.

There was a minor problem on the Cruise Director’s transport when the driver gave the passengers a running commentary as they passed through the dock area. Enzo, who was acknowledged on board ship as a language specialist, insisted on correcting the English of the driver, to the considerable annoyance of the same. Minor fisticuffs might have occurred but were averted
when the irate driver stopped the coach halfway between the ship and the liquor store and walked away! Fortunately, a passenger who had experience of driving a milk float, took the wheel and the passengers were able to get their supplies - with one exception. Albert. He did not want wine or spirits but a few cases of good old Brown Ale, a beverage he had drunk for fifty years or more. Unfortunately Brown Ale was unknown to the vintners of Bilbao. They could find a few cans of lager which rudely Albert referred to as ‘gnat’s piss’, and as there was nothing further to offer him, he reluctantly bought six cans.

Before noon, Captain Sparda again trekked down to the sickbay where the previous day he had visited the Councillor’s chaplain and made an instant diagnosis of his condition. The patient was now sitting up in his cot sipping a hot lemon tea and looking distinctly better.

‘Ah Padre,’ said Sparda in his usual hearty fashion. ‘I see you are well on the road to a complete recovery. Get dressed and prepare to disembark - we are due to sail this evening.’

The chaplain looked startled.

‘But Captain,’ he mumbled, ‘I am totally stranded. I only came on board to accompany the official party. Where are we?’

‘Spain,’ roared Sparda. ‘Espagna! You can find your way back to Southend from here, surely.’

‘But Captain, my head still hurts and I don’t have any money on me. All I have are a few Sainsbury’s petrol vouchers and my
passport, which I needed to get on board.’

Sparda snorted. ‘You could hitchhike, padre. That clerical collar might get an undertaker to stop for you.’ He laughed at his own joke.

‘Captain,’ bleated the poor unfortunate. ‘Please, I can’t get off in this state.’

‘Well, let me think. This is a World Cruise and we do have one or two religious types on board. I could sign you on as Chaplain, but I can’t promise to pay you. Understand that. You can have your meals and we’ll find a bunk for you somewhere or other. That’s the best I can do.’ With that, and without waiting for an answer, Sparda returned to the bridge assuming, correctly as it happened, that the offer had been accepted and the
Golden Handshake
now boasted a chaplain.

‘Where’s the Admiral?’ bawled Sparda when he returned to the bridge. ‘And has anyone seen the doctor?’

As the card security system continued to be non-functional, there was no means of checking who was or was not on board, and so no correct answer could be given concerning the two missing individuals. It was rumoured that one or two passengers, after the confrontation with the police in France, had returned home, and that several others, after sampling the Bay of Biscay, had also decided to call it a day - but no one knew for certain.

‘We can’t delay,’ Sparda said. ‘We’ve experienced enough
nonsense since we set out. Now on this ship, what I say goes.’ He was certainly getting into his stride as Captain of the
Golden Handshake
, making it clear that he was the boss and intended to act the part throughout.

Departure time drew closer. The hardworking crew had arranged the deck so that a ‘sail-away party’ might be organised. To compensate for the troubles endured by passengers during the first part of the cruise, a small quantity of cheap Spanish wine had been purchased by the ship in order to make Sangria which was to be served gratis during the departure. The final mini-bus of the day returned and the grateful passengers climbed the gangway with their supplies for the voyage. Once everyone was settled, the Cruise Director sounded the beeps throughout the cabins and passengers hurried to the Listening Posts to be told about the party, and that the ship would be sailing directly.

The party got under way and the Sangria flowed. The partygoers, glasses in hand, gazed over the side and watched the mooring ropes being discarded and preparations being made for the removal of the gangplank. Suddenly, an ancient motorcycle and sidecar were spotted racing towards the ship. A figure in the sidecar, dressed for all the world as one of the magnificent men in their flying machines, was seen to be standing rather dangerously and waving furiously.

‘Holy Mother!’ remarked Sparda from the bridge, as he
peered through his telescope. ‘It looks like one of Rommel’s men chasing us.’

The helmeted passenger leaped from the sidecar and raced towards the gangplank, reaching it literally seconds before it was withdrawn and the ship prepared to move. Loud clapping broke out amongst the passengers and yet more sangria went down the hatch.

Once on board the Admiral felt an enormous sense of relief at having caught the ship. He made his way to the bridge to inform the Captain of his arrival, and was just exchanging pleasantries and telling of his adventures, when their attention was drawn to what appeared to be yet another late arrival. Speeding towards the ship came a pony and trap, within which was an individual who was waving frantically at the ship. By now the gangplank had been stowed and the lines cast off. Captain Sparda examined the new late arrival through his telescope.

‘
Dio Mio
!’ he exclaimed as the figure came into focus. ‘It’s the
medico
turned up at last. Hold the ship! He must get aboard.’

The Admiral felt a deep sense of foreboding.

‘I don’t think so, Captain,’ he said, as sternly as he could command. ‘We had better leave immediately. We can’t afford further delays. Port fees, you know. Very costly.’

‘To hell with the fees,’ argued Sparda. ‘Compared to this ship, a Saga cruise would seem to be a rave party. Some old folks are bound to die and I have no desire to be an undertaker. We
need him.’

‘I still think we should leave now, Captain Sparda,’ intoned the Admiral.

Sparda ignored him and stepped outside the bridge to shout down at the deckhands.

‘Throw Dr Hackett a hawser!’ he bellowed.

To the great delight and amusement of the passengers, a line was thrown over the side and was ably caught by the doctor. He hung on for grim death and gradually, to much applause and shouts of encouragement from the partygoers and crew, Dr Stuart Hackett M.D. was slowly hauled aboard.

The Admiral swiftly retired to his cabin. This cruise was proving to be a little more complicated to run than the others of the Golden Oceans Line. Being a religious man he uttered a small prayer, followed by an oath, then laid his aching head on the pillow.

What next? he thought. Dear Lord, what next?