A Ship's Tale (6 page)

There was silence for quite a while as we went aboard and walked her deck. Harris took Robert below to show him around. Still there was silence. I could tell Robert was weighing the pros and cons. I knew the expression he wore very well.

He looked at me, then Harris, and began to laugh. “Perhaps I've gone daft, but I'm in! I believe there's a pint with my name on it back at the pub. I have quite a few questions though, quite a few, but they can wait.”

Harris seized Robert's hand in a strong silent shake of gratitude. Once it was released, Robert looked over his hand, pretending to assess the damage. Harris then handed his flask around as we took another look about the ship. We made small talk of the work ahead, and short work of the flask. At last we piled into the car and rumbled back up the road.

“I don't see how you're going to sail her out of here free and clear,” Robert said. Harris smiled, “As I said, I've no intention of doing so.”

“You don't?” I said baffled.

“You don't know either, Flynn?” Robert asked in shock and surprise.

“Uh…well, all things in good time,” I said sheepishly.

We clambered from the car and bolted for the Inn door to find all as we'd left it. I made a point of going for a drink, but I needn't have bothered. The lovely bar maid met me with a glass of my favourite beer. Seeing her close up like this, I understood my attraction. Her hair flashed with glints of chestnut and auburn, all in a lovely halo for such a sweet face. I couldn't understand why I had not noticed all this about her before. I realised that I was staring and turned away in embarrassment as she continued on her rounds. Bowman noticed my interest.

“If I were you, I'd keep my rod in my britches and my tongue in my mouth,” he said.

“You'd do no such thing,” I said firmly. “Besides, if you did do so you'd piss yourself while starving.” Bowman gave me an evil look as Harris laughed.

“Hold your hand out, naughty boy!” sang Robert.

“Come on, come on,” Harris clucked, “let's keep to the business at hand. Now then, this is Monday and most of us have got work to do, so let's get together on Thursday and decide how to handle the circus and anything else that's not been decided.”

“And why not sooner?” asked Robert. “I don't have that much on the go by day.”

Harris raised a finger. “We all have our little missions to accomplish in the next few days. Plus we should be going about our usual business, so no one will take notice of what's about to happen.”

Boris lifted his head off the table, “Something is going to happen?” he asked blearily.

“No, not now,” Bowman sighed. “We'd best be off. Come on Boris, get up.”

We all got ready to brave the cold again and headed for the door. I found that I had to pass the barmaid and paused to lose myself in her blue eyes once more. “Good night love,” I said, tipping my cap. “See you around if Mrs. Beasley doesn't kill me first.”

She smiled a glowing smile and I felt myself go soft inside. In the next instant Harris had brusquely pulled me out the door.

“And just what are you on about?” I barked, sourly.

“Didn't want you making a fool of yourself,” he laughed.

“I wasn't doing so badly!” I said in protest.

“Quit while you're behind, Flynn,” Robert laughed.

“Come on boys, I'll give you a ride,” Harris said, leading the way towards his car.

“Courage lads!” I called after them thinking of Harris's driving. I turned to the stairs that led to my waiting pillow, all the while remembering that warm smile and those haunting blue eyes.

Chapter 5

THE ORPHANAGE

The sun was just peeping through the trees on the hill, but I was already on the job. I was locked in a life-and-death struggle with a hateful vine whose roots were sprawling everywhere. I had already spent most of a rainy Wednesday sweating over the wretched thing. Here it was Thursday, and I was still slaving away at it. I looked up and saw Mrs. Beasley approaching from the kitchen garden with a large spray of rosemary in her hand.

“Good morning, Mr. Flynn,” she said stiffly. By her floury apron I guessed that she was at her baking, and when she was at her baking she was even testier than usual.

“Good morning, Mrs. Beasley,” I panted from atop a mountain of torn-up growth. “However did this come to be so overgrown?”

“Well, we've been at war,” she said pettishly.

“So I heard,” I responded dryly, “in fact, it was in all the papers.”

She gazed at me for a moment, her expression blank. “Yes of course,” she said, with evident annoyance, and then fixed me with an accusing eye. “As you well know, there's been no one to keep up this place as it once was, since my young gardener ran off and joined the RAF. I promised that his position would still be here for him after the War. But really! Years on duty and another year in hospital. He
says
he expects to be fit enough to return in the spring. You young men!” she sighed, as though it were
our fault
.

“And there's the pond over there.” She pointed to the well-tended haunt of a chattering flock of assorted waterfowl.

“Yes, that's a fine little pond,” I said, making an effort to be agreeable. “I've cleaned it out and cut back the weeds and trimmed the edges.”

She scowled, “Well, it was never intended that there should be a pond there you know. What a single German bomb accomplished in one night would have taken five men weeks of work. But there it was in the morning, a monstrous great hole in the place where my nice larch trees had stood. The poor things simply vanished. The rains kept it full, and then the ducks and geese came. That was some consolation at least. I do have the odd egg or two from them. After the bomb, I had to replace nearly every pane of glass on the Inn. And the roof! Slates everywhere!”

Again I had the impression that she felt it was somehow all our doing. She turned to go, then paused, “I do hope you'll be finished with this vine soon. I can't think why you're taking so long over it. Thank heavens I'm not paying you by the hour! Oh, yes, I nearly forgot, I've put together a few things for the orphans. When you have a moment, perhaps you can drive them up.”

From where I stood, I had a clear view of the orphanage on the rise to the west. Pulling a thorn from my finger I said, “Perhaps it's time I took a break. I could run your donations up to the headmaster straightaway.” This vine was beginning to take its toll on my patience, not to mention my epidermis, so I welcomed the opportunity to escape it for a little while. And escape
her
too!

Most of the time Mrs. Beasley was one of earth's most irritating people, and could drive anyone mad. But she must have had a grain of kindness, for she regularly donated food and clothing to make life a bit easier for the boys who lived at the orphanage. I had never been there before and had heard only little about it.

I cleaned myself up a bit, and then slid into the seat of the landlady's decrepit Austin. Driving the road up to the old building provided a great view. The rolling hill sloped gently downward until it flattened into the marshy banks of the Thames estuary. As I wound along, I looked back where the Beasley Inn stood among its few trees, with the water behind it. To the east, past the Isle of Grain, was the naval base of Sheerness on the Isle of Sheppey, lost in the haze. To my eye, the broad waters and the land merged into a murky distance. I knew that not far beyond lay the foot of the North Sea, hard by the Straits of Dover. I stopped the car for a few minutes and enjoyed the sight of the river's traffic. There was a little Tyneside collier coming in with her hold full of sea-coal, and an outbound merchantman with the Channel Pilot escort she had picked up at Tilbury. Here the estuary was four miles wide at high water, but I could make out nothing of Southend or its mile long pier, which I knew lay across on the Essex side.

There was precious little working sail on the river these days, so it was a thrill to see one of the old Thames barges come into view upriver. With russet sails, it looked much as Thames barges had for centuries. Below and eastward, I could see the three old barques with no proper pier or landing. They stretched out what masts and yards they had between them, tasting the sea wind that once made them skim proudly over the waves. The sight of them caught at my heart. By God, I thought, soon
one
of them will have her keel in deep water again! Somehow.

I came to myself and remembered my errand. I gave a salute to the old hulks, climbed back into the car, and continued on my way to the orphanage. Pulling up by the building, I could see it had once been a stately and elegant mansion. As I climbed out of the car, a man walked over to meet me. He looked for all the world like some sort of vampire with his thin form and pasty colour. His formal black suit, sombre but costly looking, only served to reinforce that Dracula impression.

“I am Mr. O'Connell, the headmaster here,” he said in a haughty tone, without offering his hand.

“Flynn's the name. I work for Mrs. Beasley. She's sent along some things.”

The skull-like features softened almost imperceptibly. “Ah, the dear lady,” he responded in the same lofty manner, glancing into the car with genteel interest. “Boys!” he cried, “Please assist Mr. Flynn in carrying these goods inside.”

Two thin young men in threadbare blazers came pelting down the steps. The headmaster bent a malevolent look upon them. “Boys, please, have you no manners? Are we animals here? Are we savages?”

They looked to be about thirteen, but I later learned both were fifteen.

The boys, with a murmuring of “No, Headmaster, sorry, Headmaster,” duly composed themselves into a semblance of respectful orderliness and stood at attention. They waited there uncomfortably as O'Connell continued to glare. After a few moments O'Connell seemed satisfied with his authority, and directed them to carry on. Springing into action, they unloaded the car, doing their best to appear well behaved as they peered eagerly into the boxes and bags. They exchanged excited glances as the unmistakable fragrance of Mrs. Beasley's baking wafted from a cloth-shrouded basket.

“Never you mind what is there,” snapped the headmaster, “just take it to the dining hall.”

“Yes, Headmaster, sorry, Headmaster,” the boys chanted mechanically, as they laboured up the old stone steps after him. I followed on, carrying the rest while O'Connell stalked ahead empty-handed, plainly above such a menial task.

We made our way through a still-splendid marble and stone entry, surmounted by a great bronze plaque of a rather later vintage which read: The Jacob Newington Starke Benevolent Home for the Care and Instruction of Unfortunate Boys. Well, there was no mistaking that these boys were unfortunate, having to endure life under the heel of a dried-up old tyrant such as O'Connell. I later learned that they referred to the Home, with fitting irreverence, as Jake Starkers. Once inside the entry, I looked about curiously. Ahead, much of the solid Georgian structure stood intact, but to my right there had been appalling destruction. I stopped in my tracks. Picking my way through a ruined doorway, I surveyed the remains of the bombed-out wing. It was all too familiar a sight: a jumble of broken stones lay heaped within what survived of the walls. The vanished roof, a skeleton of charred beams was all open to the elements. This was no blessing in disguise like Mrs. Beasley's surprise duck pond. I wondered if any boys had been caught in the explosion.

“Mr. Flynn! Mr. Flynn!” the headmaster protested fussily from without, “We do not go in there.”

“Oh? Are you afraid I might damage something?”

His thin nostrils flared, “I shan't dignify that with an answer, young man. Just get out of there. Out this instant, I say!”

Arrogant sod! I had one or two such schoolmasters, the sort I would like to meet with a fresh cowpat in my hand—preferably produced by the largest bovine ever to walk a field. I mastered my resentment and withdrew from the forbidden area with good grace. As I passed the old man, I half expected to feel a cane fall on the backs of my legs. I didn't argue with him, as I reasoned the boys would pay for his subsequent bad temper. I privately reserved the right to settle with him in my own time.

I followed him through the main doorway, up a flight of stairs and into a large, nearly empty room in which our footsteps echoed dismally on the stone floor. This bleak cavern served as the dining hall. There were no rugs, and the only furniture was a long wooden table lined with benches, on which Mrs. Beasley's donations were heaped. I added my own burden to the lot. The two boys stood warming their hands at the hearth, in which glowed a sorry bit of coal that did nothing to take the chill off this immense space. Over the mantel hung a large Victorian-style painting I presumed to be the likeness of the benevolent Mr. Starke. The painting glowered dourly upon the room. Clearly, the present headmaster was carrying on in the spirit of this founding father. These were but the sorry remains of the original orphanage, but I doubted conditions were as bleak as what I saw now. The boys appeared ill clad and ill fed and the gaunt O'Connell was obviously not fattening on provisions denied his young charges. One did have to wonder, however, how he managed to afford such an expensive new suit amidst all this privation.

I began to feel that I had wandered into a Dickens novel and looked about half-expecting to see a great copper of gruel all a-bubble. This had to be the most cheerless place I'd ever visited. The one-time beauty and comfort of this hall had faded due to more than just the War. Pure neglect was everywhere. To one side of the hearth lay a fishing net filled with coal. I guessed at once it had been brought up from the old coal barge by some of the men there. At least
they
cared enough to send along a bit of warmth.

The eyes of the two young men darted from me to the donations and back again with the liveliest curiosity. O'Connell regarded them sourly; he then clapped his hands brusquely. “Boys!” he barked, “back to your History. You wouldn't want to fall behind, now would you?”

The boys marched out hastily, with a murmured “No, Headmaster,” seemingly an automatic response. I wondered what the penalty was for falling behind. Flogging?

O'Connell turned his attention to me. “Thank you, Mr. Flynn,” he said in a dismissive tone, “Now I must return to the managing of this establishment. Do convey my thanks to Mrs. Beasley, and tell her that I will call on her in the near future.”

“Yes, I must be off. I wouldn't want to keep you from your duties,” I returned levelly. “I know how devoted you are to the welfare of these unfortunate boys. I'll show myself out.” As I turned to leave, I fancied that I could feel steam leaving my ears. One more minute of him, and I don't know what I might have done. I had visions of swabbing the floor with this pale skinny twit. Grief!

I went down the great stairs into the morning, only to be startled by the sound of a bo'sun's pipe. Looking back, I noticed a courtyard beyond the high stone wall alongside the building. Again I heard the familiar shrill sound.

As I headed towards the gate, O'Connell came hurrying along behind me. “Mr. Flynn! Oh, Mr. Flynn!” he called out, but I pretended not to hear. I stopped at the gate, which stood slightly ajar, and looked in. A mast had been erected as a flagpole, complete with yardarms and rigging. Standing with the boys were Harris and Boris. Puzzled, I pulled at the gate just as O'Connell came up and seized hold of my arm. I was so surprised that I did not react immediately.

“Mr. Flynn!” he said sharply, “I thanked you for delivering Mrs. Beasley's goods, and I'll now thank you not to interfere with my boys at their studies. Your presence is no longer required.”

I shook him off with considerable force, protesting that I knew these men and had heard about their work with the boys.

O'Connell scoffed, “That does not surprise me in the least, nevertheless it is absolutely none of your affair. These two teach a class in seamanship every week, though it will never be of use in the modern world. I consider it no more than history instruction. Those crude, vulgar sailormen cause quite enough disruption on their own without the further intrusion of common and ill-mannered strangers.”

I moved closer and he, seeing the look in my eyes, stepped back involuntarily as my blood began to boil. “Mr. O'Connell,” I said as evenly as I could manage, “it is my best guess that those crude vulgar sailormen have done a good deal more to better the lot of
your
boys than you could possibly understand. And I am also sure those crude, vulgar sailormen have helped keep a bit of the cold out of this place. I'm willing to wager that much of the coal you use comes from the wrecked coal barge down there,” and I pointed to the masts of the old ships, just visible at the bottom of the hill.

“Nonetheless, I must ask you to leave,” he said. This was pronounced with such a starchy presumption of authority that words are not adequate to describe just how utterly obnoxious it sounded. I had had enough of this nasty little man. I began to feel impulses of a distinctly common and ill-mannered nature coming over me.

“Headmaster O'Connell,” I said firmly, “have you ever had your nose broken?” I clenched my fist in anticipation. Just then, the heavy wooden gate was thrown open with such force that I was robbed of my opportunity. The black-suited figure was swept neatly away behind the great panel, which slammed back against the wall. Out walked Harris.