A Ship's Tale (17 page)

When I got back into the pub, I found Harris, Bowman, and Edward comfortably installed at a table near the fireplace. Bowman and Edward were embroiled in one of their unending disagreements. Harris gestured me to another table nearby where he joined me. We began discussing the matter of the sails. We'd given Brian dimensions for the full rigging of a three-masted barque, but since we stood in some doubt of using every piece, given the questionable state of the upper yards, it might be wise to speed completion of our sails by leaving the useless ones. Boris was the best judge of which to forgo and what to use. He'd be arriving shortly with final recommendations to tell Brian as soon as possible. We could only hope that he hadn't wasted much precious time over some of those unwanted pieces already.

We looked up to find Katherine standing over us with her tray. “Oh, three's a crowd,” winked Harris as he began to rise.

Katherine gave him an uncompromising smile. “Sit down Harris!” she ordered. His eyes widened. He sat.

“You keep right on with your important matters,” she went on briskly, “and don't ever let me catch you putting on that naughty-boy smirk on my account again!” She turned to me. “And I'll be seeing
you
later.”

We both stared as she went off. I was grinning with delight at the matter-of-fact way she'd mastered Harris and her unashamed manner regarding the two of us. Harris seemed stunned, and for once, at a loss for words. Bowman and Edward were still wrangling, as they had been since I first met them. It was quite amusing that this seemed to be the only way they could communicate.

“I swear, those two are always at it,” Harris said shaking his head. “Anyone might get the impression that they don't like each other very well. They're really quite devoted friends—they just never seem to agree on much.”

We listened in awe as explosive bits of Irish and Scots invective flew, to a lively musical accompaniment of Gracie Fields on the wireless. This, along with the general evening noise of a well-attended pub, muffled all sounds from the outside.

When Robert appeared at the door, I assumed that he'd come on his bicycle. He said he'd just finished delivering some “surplus” circus goods to the ship in a borrowed lorry.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “I loaded us things we might never have missed, and may never need, but at least we won't have to do without them.”

“Let's hope those
things
are of some practical use, whatever they are,” I muttered. Suddenly I realised something about his appearance. “Robert!” I cried, “You're bloody soaking wet! Did you fall in the water?”

He gave me a quizzical look. “Well, either I've taken up showering in my clothes, or it's pelting down with rain outside.”

We ran to the window and looked out. Sure enough, just as the boys had told us, there was our hoped-for rain. And not just rain, but quite a squall blowing in. We trooped outside and across to where the road overlooked the river and stood there laughing like idiots in the pouring rain. Of course it was too dark to see anything, but it had all the taste and feel of quite a storm driving in off the North Sea. I don't think any of us could have been happier!

Harris and I began dancing about and waving our arms in glee. Even Edward and Bowman kicked up their heels in a creaky jig. We were acting like schoolboys just let out on holiday, cheering and splashing through the growing puddles. At one point, Edward lost his footing and fell flat into a huge puddle. Bowman chortled at that, offering a hand to pull him out. As soon as Edward had got a good grip on Bowman's hand, he pulled
him
into the puddle as well. I decided I should go inside again before this turned into a real dust-up, as entertaining as that would be. Happily, Harris now moved in to restore order as I fled back to the pub, feeling that I'd really had all the wetting I could enjoy for the present.

Robert was waiting inside the door having had his dose of rain already. He must have thought we had all gone mad. Apparently Boris hadn't briefed him on the magnitude of the much-needed weather, so our behaviour seemed a trifle surprising to him. Katherine studied me with wondering eyes, but she was so busy with customers that she hadn't much time for speculation. Harris now brought in the two soaked but grinning old men. Robert alone had dressed for the weather, but even his mac and wellie-boots hadn't kept out all the wet. He began industriously piling logs onto the fire—there went tomorrow's measure of wood, I thought, but for now it was needed to prevent us all catching our deaths while I explained to him how this rain was the saving of us.

Bowman and Edward were installed as close to the blaze as they dared be. Soon they began to steam like a pair of hard-ridden horses on a winter's night. Harris and I turned round in the heat, wringing out the excess water. Katherine came up with mugs of hot tea, ignoring our pleas for something stronger, and muttered something about great stupid daft fools.

Edward scowled into his mug, his lips quivering. “Saucy bit of stuff, denying a grown man his wee dram,” he grumbled aside to Bowman.

Katherine had a good sharp set of the ears. “A
grown man
knows better than to go out in the rain without so much as a coat,” she retorted and flounced away.

“She's a terror, nae doubt about it, just like my Meg,” Bowman said thoughtfully as he watched her go.

Shortly after, Boris came in looking for something to eat. “Is ugly weather,” he remarked.

“But it's
beautiful
weather,” Harris smiled, “The loveliest weather that ever was!”

“Aye beautiful,” Bowman agreed with a crooked grin, raising his mug. Boris stood looking confused.

Boris's thick accent caught the attention of one of the locals at a nearby table, and he now began to stare at the Russian in a very unfriendly manner. He was obviously deep in his cups, and not quite in command of his senses. “Whole bloody country's overrun with dirty foreigners,” he declared rather too loudly. As an attempted insult this was a dismal failure, for Boris simply turned away with scarcely a glance in his direction and sat down with us. The man wasn't so easily put off and continued to stare sullenly. We did our best to ignore him, but when he unsteadily rose and presented himself at our elbows, he had to be dealt with.

“You've the wrong table, lad,” Harris said mildly, rising to his feet and looming. Friends at the other table now urged the rash challenger to sit down and not act like an idiot and get himself killed in the bargain. Boris tactfully removed himself over to the bar in the interests of international amity. I was now certain that I recognised this unwelcome chap as one of the players in last Friday's dart incident. He'd evidently not learnt his lesson, for he stood there swaying and heaping uncomplimentary remarks along with intriguing but biologically improbable speculations on our parentage.

His mates couldn't be bothered to come and remove him bodily, and in fact found much of his discourse hilarious. I might have thought the situation amusing as well, had I been unaware of the ominous significance of the beatific smile now blossoming on Harris's face as he stood taking in the drunken performance. The fellow waxed incoherent, working himself up into a fever of indignation. He finally decided that he was going to take the first swing at the nearest target: Harris. Needless to say, this constituted a severe error in judgment. Not only did he miss his mark completely, but Harris gave him three good knocks while he lurched about trying to keep his balance.

The drunk's two friends now took offence at this and made for Harris, only to be restrained by Robert and myself. This action was met with disfavour by some other locals who then leapt into the fray. A further contingent now imagined this to be a dispute over the relative merits of rival football teams. Suddenly we were in the middle of a first-rate, full-scale absolutely pointless brawl. There seemed to be no one, save for Boris, discreetly sitting this out, so I joined forces with Harris and Robert to see how quickly we could make an end to it. After we, mostly Harris, had cleared the tables next to us, we moved out into the room to subdue the main troublemakers.

As matters escalated, Mrs. Beasley peered round through the inner door then quickly pulled it shut as a glass shattered against it. She was not about to enter the pub under these circumstances and doubtless went off to ring up the police. Martin called to an old friend who, from time to time, served as a chucker-out. He was a big strapping lad who often spent his evenings here; unfortunately he'd been coshed with a chair at the start of this and was rendered unfit for immediate service. Harris was more than holding his own, occasionally pausing between assailants to restore himself with a drink from someone's pint, usually a different one each time.

Meanwhile, Boris got his food and drink from the bar and was making his way back to the comparative safety of the table where Bowman and Edward sat, repelling all comers with the fire irons. I marvelled as he wove in and out of an obstacle course of thrown punches, hurtled furniture, and flying bodies without ever being touched or spilling a drop. I was doing my best not to get involved, but pushed a few would-be troublemakers away from my side of the table.

Harris, standing over a heap of the fallen, finally lost patience, deciding that he wanted no more part of this. Leaping onto a table, he gave a roar, “RIGHT—THAT'S ENOUGH!” Heads turned, fists froze in mid-swing. “Let's have this over with right now before
I
start getting angry!”

There was a general consensus of opinion that Harris
not
angry was quite enough and that Harris
angry
wouldn't be necessary. The violence quickly subsided after that, and a sort of a post-hurricane quiet prevailed. The door to the ladies' opened cautiously, and the female contingent returned amongst us to rebuke or commiserate. Katherine emerged from behind the inner door with a disgusted look.

Returning to our table, we looked about and discovered that we were among the few combatants still standing. At first no one seemed able to locate the drunken fool who'd started the fight in the first place, but at last he was found looking very peaceful stretched out under one of the tables.

Katherine approached us with a decidedly stiff manner. “The whole World War and the male of the species still hasn't had his fill!” She looked about the room in distaste. “Luckily for
you
, Mrs. Beasley hasn't managed to get hold of the constable yet.”

“Could you tell her it's safe to come in now please?” I said humbly. “
We
didn't start it!” followed by a despairing, “We'll help clean it up!” Now that the dust was settling, I was chilled by a gnawing fear that this little affair had scotched our developing closeness. I sat feeling miserable, watching patrons limping out into the storm, some being lectured by wives or girlfriends as they went.

A little later the landlady stood near the bar surveying the carnage. None of this would sit well with her, and I was resigning myself to immediate expulsion. When she came over and halted before us with hands upon hips, I was prepared for the worst. She fixed me with that all-too-familiar accusing glance.

“So,” she said, “Katherine tells me that you and your sailor friends subdued the troublemakers and sent them on their way.”

“Well, yes,” I faltered. Her eyes travelled coldly over Robert, Harris, Boris, Edward, and lastly, with obvious revulsion, Bowman. “Imagine this group being good for something! I do appreciate your breaking up the violence tonight. I understand that you've also volunteered to put the room right again. Certainly a reward is in order.” She turned. “Martin?”

“Yes?” he replied from his refuge behind the bar.

“Please give these gentlemen a drink apiece for their contribution.” She looked about. “I wish I knew who was responsible for this.”

“He was!” we cried together, and all pointed to the outstretched body under the table.

She peered down at him. “It's Lottie Pilford's boy, Giles. He always was a bad lot. Even as a baby, he was an ill-tempered little brute. Of course, what could one expect? I know there weren't many marriageable men after the Great War, but I do think Lottie could have been a bit more selective. There's
no
accounting for some people…It was surprising enough to find him fathering children. Perhaps if Lottie had sent him away to school, he could have learnt to pass for a decent human being. Well! Young Pilford won't be enjoying
my
hospitality again soon, I can assure you!” She paused to take a breath, then turned to go. “Just throw him out,” she finished with a dismissive gesture and vanished back through the inner door.

“My God,” Harris laughed, sitting back in his chair. “I never thought I'd live to hear a kind word from her Royal Hind-Arse. Dare we accept praise from such a quarter? Dare we accept free drinks?”

“We dare!” Robert and I chorused stoutly.

Soon we were enjoying our welcome, but far-from-princely payment for services rendered. Harris had his nose deep in his glass when he suddenly frowned and set down the drink.

He looked over at me. “Did I hear us volunteering to clean up?”

“Well,” I said awkwardly, “it would be a nice gesture.” He continued to regard me reproachfully. “Never mind Harris, I'll do it myself.”

I finished my drink and set to work. I swept up broken glass and other debris and went into the scullery for the mop. When I returned, the others were busy attending to the rest of the job. That miserable Pilford bloke had been removed and lay just off the walkway. Damaged furniture was set aside for later attention, and the room was speedily restored to order.

“Right,” Harris said, sucking a raw knuckle, “It's back to the
Bonnie
for us, lads.” The crew struggled into coats and macs and made ready to venture back out into the storm, which was steadily increasing in violence. As they battled their way out the door against the buffets of the wind, I was thankful that I hadn't any need to stir outside.