A Ship's Tale (8 page)

He smiled at my bafflement. “One of the lads likes to keep watch with my old spyglass, and he alerted me when he saw the black government car heading along the shore. By the way,” he added, apparently apropos to nothing, “coming down from the orphanage there's a daisy of a shortcut for someone on foot.

He then advised me to be careful driving Beasley's car up to the orphanage. It would only be a matter of time before its brakes were extinct. The trick, he said, was to only drive it
uphill
.

“Oh, that's a great comfort,” I said, with my enthusiasm thoroughly dampened.

He gave me a hearty slap on the back. “That's the spirit! Well, I'll be calling for you later,” and off he went.

I sighed and returned to my unending assault upon the vine with roots in Hell, though this time I thought to first make a quick raid on the shed and get myself a pair of heavy gloves. Thus armoured, I could consider myself a bit more equal to the struggle. I returned to my assault upon the vine.

That night, I was awakened by the sound of someone tossing pebbles at my window. Still half asleep, I couldn't account for this and did my best to ignore it. After a time, I gave over holding the covers over my head, and went shivering to the window. I opened it just in time for a pebble to come crashing through one of the small glass panes. Fetching my torch, I soon spied Harris, looking up from the shrubbery below.

Oh damn, I thought, there goes another night's sleep out the window. I listened to see if the noise had roused Dame Beasley, but all was still. I pulled on my clothing, gazing sorrowfully at my warm bed. I went down the stairs as silently as was possible, then stole outside. I looked to be sure no one else was about and found Harris lurking amongst the oleanders.

“You've broken one of my little windows with your gravel pitching,” I whispered. “And to what do I owe this visit?”

He put a warning finger to his lips and led me down the road. He said he spoke with Robert and arranged for the lads to take down the tents in four days. We had already discussed this at length earlier and his latest tidings could have easily waited till morning.

“Don't you ever sleep?” I asked, feeling very put-upon.

“No, I've been pacing and thinking,” he said.

“Then go think somewhere else and don't fling stones while you're about it. Some of the world is trying to sleep, in case that had escaped your notice.”

“It doesn't leave us a lot of time,” Harris continued as if I hadn't spoken. “Taking down the tents will be a good day's work, and then cutting and sewing them for sails may be a problem because of the time involved. I'm not certain how long that's going to take, but I'll get some idea tomorrow when I go back up to London and see Brian.”

“Very well, splendid—but why must you drag me out of bed to tell me this?”

“Because I want to keep you up to date on what's going on. When things start happening, they're going to happen fast.” This still didn't seem like a reasonable explanation for my lost sleep. I told him that it made me unhappy to see him becoming an insomniac, and if he woke me again, I would cure him of it with a large heavy object.

Harris simply ignored this threat and we stood off in the darkness as he talked a bit more. He shared his plan for how the rigging would be set. The powers that be planned to leave the sunken outermost vessel, the old coal barge, permanently where she lay in the mud. There was something that had to be rehearsed, but on this point he was mercifully brief. I was nearly falling asleep by then. The
Auld Lass
, long since looted for parts, would be taken first. He estimated that it would be another three weeks before “they” could get about doing anything with the
Bonnie Clyde
. One could almost hear the little wheels whirring busily inside his head as he spoke.

“Harris,” I said.

“Yes?” His fanatic eyes glinted.

“Go and get some sleep, so this weary figure before you can too,” I yawned.

I started walking back to the Inn, but before long I fancied I could detect stealthy footsteps behind me. I had momentarily thought that I heard them when Harris and I were walking along before, but between trying to stay awake and taking in all he said, I had dismissed it as imagination. Then I heard the unmistakable snap of a twig. I pretended not to have noticed the sound, and walked on until I was level with a tall bunch of marsh grass standing at the edge of the road, and I quickly sidestepped behind it. As my follower came by, I jumped out, tripped, and fell, knocking the other over as well. There was a muffled scream, and we finished up in a heap at the side of the road.

I took the torch from my pocket and flashed it on the face of the sinister figure, only to find myself looking into the startled blue eyes of the beautiful barmaid.

I was so embarrassed at having thus assaulted her that I hardly knew what to do or say. I hastily released her and we brushed ourselves off. We sat looking awkwardly at one another.

“What on earth are you doing here at this hour?” I demanded; then I winced at my ungallant words.

“I might be asking the same of you,” she sniffed, tugging a leaf from her hair. “You've been keeping such interesting company of late, I was curious what you were up to.”

“Why are you following me? Spying for Mrs. Beasley?”

She rolled her eyes. “Mrs. Beasley?” she laughed. “Oh, really! I may be her barmaid and cook, but she doesn't own my soul. I'm longing for the day this job will all be a memory long forgotten.”

“Why then?” I said, adding, “please?”

“Ever since you came here, Mr. Flynn, I've been doing my best to make your acquaintance, or even to engage in polite conversation with you. You know, I only started here a week before you. But you've made it difficult, especially when you've been storming in and out of places, and always in the company of certain men who are not regarded very highly by the landlady.” She blinked and shaded her eyes, “Now could you get that light out of my eyes, please?”

“I'm sorry.” I said humbly, switching off the torch. I offered her my hand and pulled her to her feet. “I
am
sorry about knocking you over. I didn't know who was following me or for what reason. The least I can do is walk you back to the Inn.”

Now that the ice was broken, although a bit roughly, she told me a little about herself. Being Mrs. Beasley's slave was hardly what she fancied as a career, but it allowed her to put aside the odd penny against the day to make a proper start elsewhere.

Suddenly she stopped and I carried on a pace or two and stopped. I turned to look back at her. “Is there something wrong?” I asked.

“Here,” she said in a suspicious tone, stepping up to me. “You don't even know my name, do you?” she asked in that soothing Irish lilt of hers. I could see her smile in the dark.

“Katherine. I know because I'm always hearing Mrs. Beasley calling after you,” I admitted. I wondered why I hadn't noticed till this moment what an enchanting name that was, or was I just so captivated that any name attached to her would have seemed the essence of grace?

“Well, Katherine, we'd best get back to the Inn before someone thinks we're carrying on together,” I laughed.

She laughed as well. “Oh, I wouldn't fret myself over that. I saw Mrs. Beasley slinking off with Mr. O'Connell about an hour ago. Mind you, she always tries to get back before dawn.”

I laughed at the picture this conjured up. I didn't realise so many others knew about their sordid little affair. It was amusing to find that Harris was not the only one who was privy to the dark secret of Mrs. Beasley's great romance. I related to her my encounter with O'Connell earlier that day and how Harris had come near breaking his nose with the gate, thus depriving me of the pleasure of performing the operation myself. She giggled delightedly.

We went round the Inn to Katherine's cottage door. As she paused in the doorway, I plucked up my courage. “I say, Katherine?”

She turned. “Yes?”

“Would you care to have tea with me tomorrow?”

Her face lit in a warm smile. “Yes, Mr. Flynn, I'd like that very much.”

“That's great,” I exclaimed in relief. “Well, then, good night.”

“Good night,” she said softly, as the door closed between us. Moments later I was full of euphoria as I struggled up the stairs to my bedroom. I crawled into bed and stayed awake till dawn, not so much because of Harris and his disturbance, but because of nearly being drowned in those blue eyes, and the prospect of having tea with their owner later in the day.

Chapter 7

THE GOOSE, THE CAT, AND HIGH TEA

I woke the next morning to the sounds of waterfowl screaming. I suppose they wake up before the rest of the world and demand that everyone else follow suit. The shore of Mrs. Beasley's pond was less than forty feet from my window. Like it or not, I had a proper box seat to fully appreciate all the activity.

The sun had hardly made its appearance, but I knew it was high time I addressed the day. I spent a restless night assailed by thoughts of the ship, Harris, and above all, Katherine. I put on my gardening clothes and hunted about, wondering what I had done with my boots the night before. I have this pernicious habit of brutally kicking them off across the room at night, and they take their revenge by going to earth and cunningly hiding themselves in the most improbable places. The left boot I surprised in the open, but it took ten solid minutes of searching to track the right to its cover in the bin by the desk. Well, score one for me.

I went downstairs to take my breakfast in the kitchen with the rest of Mrs. Beasley's help. To my disappointment, Katherine was not in attendance. She probably didn't care to linger when Mrs. Beasley had no duties for her. I joined Martin, the licensed barman, and we chatted pleasantly over our food. I noticed that he always read
The Times
, not the usual paper for a man running the bar, and I asked him how this came about.

“Oh, you could blame it on my misspent youth,” Martin said. “It was the paper my father read, so I've got used to its style. Also, I get it cheap because I'm still registered as a student with them,” he laughed. “I had a friend working at the paper who arranged it some years ago, and although he's now at the
Daily
Mail
, somehow the sub stays the same. Personally I couldn't abide the thing, especially with its front page nothing but small ads, but then I usually got my news from the radio at six o'clock each evening.

Our breakfast was suddenly interrupted by a commotion at the pond. Amidst a rising babel of honking, quacking, splashing, and flapping, there came the sharp tortured scream of a cat. Martin and I exchanged glances. The noise got closer, passed through the garden, and rounded the corner by Mrs. Beasley's parlour. Then came a chilling shriek. We could tell instantly whose voice
that
was. We knew those dulcet tones only too well, but didn't know what the kerfuffle was about. A moment later Mrs. Beasley burst into view, running full tilt, and sped through the garden with her precious Purdy close behind. What an odd sight. “Miserable beast!” I muttered, then gasped in delight.

In hot pursuit of the cat was a large goose, about the size of a mastiff and to my eyes much more formidable. Perhaps Purdy had ventured too close to the pond while trying to pick off lesser waterfowl. Whatever the reason, the sight was one destined to live in the memory.

I was cheering for the goose. There was flapping and hissing as the enraged bird chased the desperate cat. Relentlessly, with neck outstretched and parallel to the ground, the goose kept close to Purdy's heels. Flee where he would, the goose ran after. Martin and I moved from one window to another to follow the action.

“Now
there
is a goose with a mission,” Martin sputtered. The two of us stood with hands and noses pressed against the glass like boys looking in at a toy-shop window.

Purdy darted with surprising speed for a cat of his bulk, running flat out with the goose behind every inch of the way. At last he decided that discretion was the better part of surrender and shot up the nearest tree, a powerful bill snapping scant inches from his tail. Every hair on the cat stood on end. He clung to the topmost branch and hissed furiously, while the goose matched him hiss for hiss below. All of this had taken very few seconds in reality and we had hardly time to react when the landlady burst in, nearly hysterical, imploring us to “save poor little puss!”

Breathless and weeping with rage, Mrs. Beasley glared wildly from one to the other of us.

“If you catch that goose, I'll pluck it alive, I will, and roast the horrid thing over a slow fire!” She was alarmingly savage, her ample bosom heaving with primitive bloodlust. She composed herself and said in a more civilised tone, “Of course, if you fetch Purdy instead, I'd be ever so pleased.” She seated herself at the table, and with a shaky hand poured out a cup of tea. I looked at Martin and he at me. There was nothing for it but to go and try to remedy the situation.

“Shall we go after Purdy or have a go at the goose?” I asked.

“To the hunt,” said Martin.

I fetched along a few slices of toast by way of provision, and we went out. We stood for a moment surveying the field. The goose still fizzed about under the tree with undiminished zeal while Purdy still fizzed above. One would think that given time they'd simply run out of fizz and go their separate ways. This seemed a hopeful thought, but a glance back at the Inn revealed Mrs. Beasley now posted at the window, urging us on to battle with vigorous gestures. Clearly, as Minions of the Amazon Queen we must now perform as warriors born.

“Well, goose or cat, which do you think would be easier?” I sighed, nibbling at my toast.

“It's not so much a question of being
easier
, as of being the lesser ordeal,” said Martin. If we try to get the cat, we have to dodge the goose. Either way, we've got to deal with that bird.” He rubbed his eyes. “Damn it, I hate mornings.”

I heard later this particular goose had acquired quite a reputation as a tireless pursuer of intruders who wandered too near the pond. No watchdog could rival it for vigilance and sheer viciousness.

I began, “I don't much fancy going up the tree and getting myself scratched to bits by Purdy. As much as I love roast goose, I suppose that our safest course would be to chase the blasted bird back to the pond from whence it came.”

Martin eyed the creature, “And how do you propose doing that?”

“There are ways,” I said airily. I walked round to the tool shed and came back with two brooms. I handed one to Martin. “Now, you stay constantly on its left and I'll be constantly on its right, and we'll just move it along back to the pond.” With my toast securely clenched in my teeth, I hefted my broom, feeling quite the valorous knight. The elegant simplicity of this plan made me confident of success, and it really seemed to go very smoothly. I remember thinking it far easier than herding cattle, admittedly an occupation with which I was quite unfamiliar.

At
first
things seemed to go very smoothly. But this definitely
was
in fact a goose with a mission, and an opponent to be reckoned with. After falsely encouraging us with a moment's surprise at our unfamiliar weaponry, to our shock, it bent to the attack in earnest. With a mad snapping, horrible to behold, it did its best to tear off every tuft from the brooms and was plainly looking for any opening to get at us. The wind of its flapping wings buffeted us, and my confidence seemed but a flimsy delusion now. I cursed my folly at not having brought rakes or spades instead. Martin's broom had taken the brunt of the attack.

“Christ,” he gasped, “you don't suppose it's carnivorous, do you?”

“Mmph,” I replied through my toast, still held between my teeth, and then had a sudden inspiration. While the goose was busy with Martin, I impaled some of the mangled toast onto my bristles. I thrust the toast into the gaping bill of the monster, where it was immediately torn to bits. I thought my ploy had failed, but then fancied I could see a wait—what-was-that? light come into his eyes.

“Stand off,” I cried to Martin, and we quickly stepped back.

The great bird feinted at us, but was clearly preoccupied in finding the bits of that nice food that had fallen to the ground. It hastily gobbled them up, darting glances at us all the while. At the same time we were carefully backing away. I broke up and strewed the remaining remnants of the toast. When every bit of toast was eaten and it had picked through the grass for stray crumbs, it seemed a much more peaceable goose and no longer interested in us.

I daresay it had quite forgotten Purdy, who was now quietly observing developments from his perch above. The goose turned its head to favour us with a last long look, coughed—it was rather dry toast— shook its feathers, and then took itself off unhurriedly towards the pond. No doubt it needed a drink, and I quite knew just how it felt.

When we returned indoors, perspiring but laden with glory, Mrs. Beasley, visibly pleased, thanked us for the rescue of dear little puss and fetched our breakfasts back out from the oven. We thanked her in turn and set to eating. She was still standing by in what I dared to hope was a sort of solicitous kindly-old-mum posture.

That notion was soon dispelled as she began grilling me over every minute detail of the garden work I had done. Martin and I did our best to make short work of our food, while my inquisitress picked over each point.

I felt the need to change the topic. “I say,” I began, “about the pond and that goose. I'm sure some of those larger rocks could be set a bit closer to the water's edge, and that would slow him down should he think to attack Purdy again.”

“I should hope that Purdy has learnt his lesson about going near the goose,” she said. “Just look at poor little puss up there in the tree.”

Martin and I looked first at one another and then out the window again. It was easy to see Purdy sitting comfortably in a crotch of the highest branch, languidly grooming himself. He seemed in no imminent peril, and surely would come down of his own accord in due course. All he lacked was attention, and every now and then he looked about and gave an enquiring meow.

Mrs. Beasley wrung her hands. “You simply
must
get him down from there,” she agonised. “Be very gentle with him, Purdy is a sensitive creature. I don't think you properly understand cats, Mr. Flynn.”

Martin looked at me expressionlessly and then rose from the table. “I've some straightening yet to do before we open the pub.” He began to drift almost imperceptibly in the direction of the inner door.

I snagged him by the back of the collar. “If you so much as
try
to leave, I'll throw you to the goose!” I threatened. “Now, we are going to get the cat down!”

“We're going to get the cat down,” he echoed woodenly. Then he shrugged unenthusiastically, and we both trudged to the door with all the alacrity of condemned men on their way to the gibbet.

Once we were outside, clear of the kitchen and its ears, I looked him earnestly in the eye. “Now, Martin, we're going to get the bloody cat down because we'll never hear the end of it if we
don't
, even though the bloody cat is quite capable of getting himself down!”

“Just how do we do that?” he asked.

“Well, I could give you a leg up and you could just climb to the top of the tree, grab hold of him, and carry him down again. Of course, you'd be flayed alive in the process.”

Martin scoffed unappreciatively at my levity. “I have a better idea,” and picked up a handful of good-sized stones.

“Here, none of that!” I said, “Mrs. Beasley would probably have you behind bars if she suspected you even
thought
of such a thing.”

“I know, but a man can dream!” He sighed. “Very well then, have you got any better ideas?”

I looked idly about at the garden. I noticed a garden hose neatly coiled nearby. Inspiration coiled likewise, then struck.

I showed a smug face to Martin. “I have a plan. Such a lovely plan! One which takes us no closer to the tree than we are now.”

“Is there a gun in it?” said Martin.

“Don't be crude,” I admonished. I went and turned on the water, adjusting the nozzle of the hose to its most powerful spray. I directed it at the herbaceous border, admiring the sparkling effect of the droplets in the sun.

“I need you to keep close watch out for Mrs. Beasley. This won't take long, but she mustn't see.”

No sooner had I spoken than we heard the door behind us. Turning, I hastily turned off the nozzle, and hid it behind me as our dread sovereign lady herself appeared.

“Have you thought of a way to get him down yet?” Mrs. Beasley asked anxiously.

“Nearly there, Mrs. Beasley. We're working on it right now,” I said. “We must go carefully. After all, these things must be done delicately.”

“I'm relieved that you understand,” she said, turning to go back inside. “Oh dear, I can't think what's keeping the milkman! I suppose I shall have to go out front and watch for the worthless wretch myself. I do so want a bit of cream to help comfort poor Purdy when he's safely down.”

Once she had gone, I clasped my hands together and cooed, “Poor Purdy!” Martin laughed. I wasted no more time and brought round the hose, making sure my position afforded me a good clear shot at the cat. Purdy looked down at me, and I up at him. I thought of those nights I had come in to find a damp, cat-sprayed bed. “Well, my little man,” I murmured, “a spray for a spray. Turnabout is fair play!”

I twisted the nozzle on, aimed carefully, and gave that ginger devil a proper dousing. He tried several times to avoid the water by leaping from branch to branch, but the merciless stream always sought him out. In a scrambling bound, he was down the tree and halfway across the lawn. I turned to Martin triumphantly and he gave me a pat on the back. There came the clinking of bottles. Quick as a flash I hid the hose out of view, and was looking quite innocent as Mrs. Beasley came round the building with the long-awaited milk and cream.

Suddenly she exclaimed in surprise, “Purdy is out of the tree. Thank heavens!”

“Oh yes,” I said smoothly, “It didn't take very long.”

She looked about eagerly. “Well, where has he got to?”

“I haven't the least idea. Did you see which way he went, Martin?”