The Voyage of the Golden Handshake (4 page)

For the second time in a week Albert Hardcastle found himself in the private office of the Manager of the Yorkshire Prudent Bank - Grimsby branch. This time the Manager’s chair was occupied by none other than Darren Worthington who, following the rapid departure of his predecessor to unknown territory, had received swift promotion.

‘I am delighted to see you again, Mr Hardcastle, and under much happier circumstances. I should inform you immediately that the lottery money is now safely in your joint account, and a cash sum has been transferred to Mr Jason Smith to ease any inconvenience he may have suffered as a result of the bank’s error. Of course we have asked him to keep this whole matter confidential, and Mr Smith has no idea that the money belonged to you. We are strict on confidence at the Prudent Bank, Mr Hardcastle, very strict.’

‘Well, thank the Lord for that,’ said Albert. ‘You gave me and the missus a nervous moment, I can tell you. Do you know that Jason Smith, thinking he had won millions, actually phoned the Head Office and told them what to do with his job? Had he
not had a drink or two which befuddled his reasoning, he would have been in real trouble. As it was, he mistakenly got through to the Co-op Funeral Department, who thought someone was ringing to arrange Jason’s funeral. His wife herself nearly died when the Funeral Director called round with his little black book.’

Mr Worthington maintained a discreet silence and jotted something down on a pad before him. He looked up and addressed Albert once again.

‘I well understand you wanting to keep the fact that you have won a substantial sum of money secret, Mr Hardcastle. As we are all aware, this whole affair has caused so much speculation in Grimsby that I would advise you to say nothing further and to keep your head down. Perhaps get away with your wife for a week or so. After all, you have now retired and no one would think anything of it if you went on an extended holiday. As it might cause comment if we were seen lunching together, I have taken the liberty of ordering a light lunch here in the office. Some smoked salmon and just a glass of champagne.’

‘Very considerate, I’m sure, but I would prefer Brown Ale,’ said Albert, unwilling to change the habits of a lifetime.

‘Brown Ale it shall be,’ said the ever-tactful Manager - and smoked salmon and Brown Ale it was!

Albert arrived home that afternoon after what he considered to
be a most insubstantial lunch. He had no love for brown bread at the best of times, especially when it was cut so thinly that the slightest draught would have blown it off the plate. As for the salmon, it tasted like no salmon
he
had ever come across. Often his wife would open a tin of sockeye red and that, together with lettuce, radishes and sliced hard-boiled eggs was the sort of high tea he knew. That was real salmon, not the uncooked muck he was obliged to swallow at the bank. However, it was a kindly gesture even if, throughout the meal, Mr Worthington made several attempts to get him to transfer the six or so million pounds out of his current account into ‘something more suitable for such a large sum’. Albert was having none of it. The money stayed where it was and he would draw on it whenever he might need it.

Alice was doing the ironing when he entered the kitchen through the back door.

‘Wipe your feet, Albert!’ she cried. ‘I’ve just swabbed the floor and I don’t want you messing it up with your great clodhoppers.’

Albert did as he was bid, wandered into the living room and sat in his chair by the fire. Casually he picked up a copy of the
Grimsby Soapbox
, a newspaper he had known since he was a lad. Clearly they were struggling to find fresh news for this edition. The story of a local MP, who in an attempt to gain popularity took on ‘Bruiser Barlow’ in a local fairground and had still not
recovered consciousness three days after the bout, continued to run. Otherwise fish, or the shortage thereof, dominated the columns.

Turning the pages, he could not fail to see a large advertisement headed by the picture of a Naval Officer in full ceremonial rig.

Golden Oceans, he read. First World Cruise. See the world in luxury. First come, first pleased!
For Albert, whose horizons were limited indeed, this was heady stuff. A chance to see the world. A chance to see for himself what this world had to offer. The wonderful thing was that he had the cash. The sum required to pay for two on this exotic journey of a lifetime would hardly make a dent in his six million.

‘Alice,’ he called out. ‘Come here, luv.’

His wife appeared from the kitchen.

‘Have you seen this?’ he asked, holding out the newspaper.

‘Of course I haven’t,’ she replied indignantly. ‘Do you think I’ve nothing better to do than gawk at the paper? It’s a rag anyway. I hear Jimmy Ockshott is still unconscious. As he spent most of his time in Parliament asleep, it ought not to make much difference to him anyway.’

She took the newspaper from his outstretched hand, adding, ‘Well, what’s so important?’

‘Look,’ he urged. ‘The World Cruise.’

‘World Cruise,’ she repeated. ‘World Cruise. Who in their
right mind would want to spend God knows how much being seasick and eating foreign muck?’

‘I think this might be different,’ said Albert hopefully. ‘If you read on, it says that there will be traditional British home cooking and that the modern ship is equipped with all the latest devices they can afford. They even have balconies.’

Alice read on. ‘Aye,’ she murmured. ‘They do make some claims, of that there’s no doubt.’

Her husband cut her short.

‘If we went, Alice, we could visit Cousin George in Australia.’ He was getting more enthusiastic by the moment. ‘We’ve not seen him since he left on a ten-pound passage years ago. He were but a lad then.’

‘It’s a lot of brass, Albert,’ Alice said with her customary Northern caution. ‘A lot of brass.’

‘Against six million it’s nowt,’ replied Albert. ‘Nowt but a trifle.’

To make such an assertion indicated a major move in his thinking. Within twenty-four hours, Albert and Alice Hardcastle had sent off for a brochure containing complete details of the journey of a lifetime.

Harry Parkhurst was a happy man. Since placing the advertisement in
The Times
and having had it picked up by virtually every local paper in the British Isles, applications for brochures had flooded in. He was especially gratified when a travel piece he had written, under the pen name of Bryson Paxman, appeared in a popular magazine. He deliberately chose the surnames of two well-known personalities in the hope that members of the public might think that the piece had been written by one or other of these two discerning gentlemen and thus have
gravitas.

What could be more delightful, began the blurb, than to relax on the balcony of your suite, under a tropical sky with a refreshing drink in hand. A gourmet dinner awaits, followed by the best entertainment money can buy. All this and more with Golden Oceans, the Line everyone is talking about.

The piece went on to describe the new Flagship of the Line, and to make special mention of the fact that the company enjoyed the expert direction of a retired Naval Officer, of the most senior rank, whose experience of matters nautical was unrivalled.

Captain Sparda, ‘a jovial and seasoned sailor’ was praised for
his hospitality on board and his skill when facing the elements.

During the sea trials of the Golden Handshake,
wrote the spectral Bryson Paxman,
I had the pleasure of dining at the Captain’s Table. An honour indeed and one that will be accorded to all passengers who book a Balcony Suite. Never have I experienced such charming and wise company. Alas, the occasion went far too quickly. It was an evening to remember. A magical evening.

Judging by the number of applications received for Balcony Suites following the publication of this piece, there were plenty of prospective passengers who desired to dine with the former Master of the Messina ferry. Harry was delighted. Bryson and Paxman had done them proud.

Down in Southend-on-Sea, Radley Duvet was feverishly provisioning the ship for the first leg of the World Cruise. He seemed to have acquired an extraordinary quantity of baked beans and milk powder, but had been assured by his ex-Army friend that he would never regret having these two faithful standbys in his locker.

‘Everyone likes baked beans,’ he was informed. ‘As for milk powder, it is invaluable when mixed with dried egg to form scrambled eggs. Cheap, nourishing, and served with a sprig of parsley it is very appealing.’

The
Golden Handshake
was moored at the end of the pier reputed to be the longest pier of its kind in the British Isles. Harry, with the permission of the local Council, had pitched a reception marquee on the promenade and had been able to staff it with several elderly ladies who always volunteered for anything and everything in Southend. Several years previously they had named themselves ‘The Southend Sea Belles’ and their prime mission in life was to be helpful to everyone and anyone who visited the town. They were determined to correct
the erroneous image of ‘Essex Girls’ and replace it with a positive picture which more accurately reflected the true character of this delightful county.

Enzo Bigatoni, the fledgling Cruise Director, had written to, or emailed, each person who had booked for the voyage and asked them to send him a passport-sized photograph. He felt that if he could see the face of the individual then it would be a relatively easy matter to match it to a name. What he failed to take into account was the vanity that afflicts most of the human species. Almost without exception, the photographs he received were totally useless. A seventy-year-old passenger sent in a faded picture taken at a formal dance sometime in the nineteen nineties! Since then he had increased in weight considerably, and his now wrinkled face bore little resemblance to the individual posing next to all Master of Hounds. Another showed a Mr Robert Jones, now aged eighty-six, dressed in a cricket blazer at a match he had played in 1979. The Brylcreemed hair he then possessed had now departed, leaving his head as smooth as a billiard ball. Enzo silently cursed the vanity of the cruising public and resumed the arduous task of attempting to commit to memory the passenger list.

During the last few days before departure, Captain Sparda, the Master of the
Handshake
was nowhere to be seen, having been locked in urgent discussions with the Chief Engineer. The two of them spent the better part of each day in the engine
room. The engineer appeared at odd intervals when he was seen frantically ordering large quantities of engine oil, which was swallowed up as soon as it arrived. A fisherman, enjoying an afternoon’s sport at the end of the pier, swore that he witnessed Captain Sparda leap over the stern of the ship and spend at least half an hour wrestling with the rudder. This assertion was vehemently denied by the Captain but, when he developed a very heavy cold, suspicions were aroused.

Meanwhile, Admiral Benbow Harrington had visited the Naval outfitters in town and ordered a full set of whites for each of his senior crew.

‘My little gift for you all,’ he had said. The gesture was much appreciated, even though some alterations were required as the Admiral had, in fact, bought a job lot which had been ordered by the Navy of a far-away country where the largest sailor was barely five feet tall!

‘Thank God for the Southend Sea Belles,’ said the Admiral, as he handed across several dozen whites for alteration. These were quickly converted from long white trousers into shorts by the ever-helpful Belles.

On the day before departure the Admiral and Lady Harrington arrived in Southend where they had booked a room at a leading hotel. Lady Harrington had wisely decided that she would not join her husband on this voyage; her past experiences of life at
sea had completely cured her of any desire she might have once had to see more of the world.

That evening, there was to be a pre-cruise reception, to which local dignitaries had been invited. The Admiral had hoped that a royal personage might attend the reception but, as the Princess Royal was visiting a cat-food factory in Liverpool and the younger members of the Royal Family were busy shooting up bad men in far-flung parts of the world, or more domestically, changing nappies at home, it was left to the Chairman of a nearby local Council to do the honours. Councillor Paddy Patterson and his partner Bernie Bollinger were duly booked. The Band of the Royal Marines were invited to play but, alas, cuts in the Defence Budget prevented this and so the Featherthorpe Secondary School Brass Ensemble under the direction of Rodney Stope MA stepped into the breach. Specially invited passengers were to attend the reception, and the main body of travellers would arrive the following morning ready for an afternoon departure.

The evening went pleasantly enough. As the Admiral had instructed that whites would be worn for the reception, he was the only person to arrive in long trousers. The other senior staff turned up wearing shorts, which caused some comment as spring had not yet arrived and the evening was a little chilly, to say the least. Unfortunately, due to the Education Secretary ordering Featherthorpe Secondary School to convert into a
night school, most pupils were occupied with their studies and only three members of the Ensemble were able to be present, a trombonist, a tuba player and a percussionist who was learning to play the triangle. The latter was not always heard above the general chatter of guests and the playing of the brass, but he did well enough and was roundly applauded at the conclusion of the evening. Rodney Stope, who had missed his bus, arrived much to his disappointment just as the guests were departing. However, the Admiral promised him a free cruise around Poole Harbour, which somewhat compensated him. The Chairman of the Council made an unusual speech about the merits of Gay Marriage, which greatly angered the Admiral and Lady Harrington, who did their best to try and cancel his appearance at the departure the following morning. Alas, there was nothing they could do at such a late juncture and so the arrangements went ahead.

Dawn broke and Harry arrived at the marquee before the town was stirring for the day. Exactly at six in the morning the first group of the Southend Belles arrived and began to lay white cloths over the wooden trestle tables. One of their number appeared with a box of plastic cards which were to act as identification for the passengers and also as electronic door keys for the cabins and suites.

Radley Duvet dragged in a large cardboard box full of plastic
beakers and placed them next to a sizeable container holding a suspicious-looking orange liquid which he claimed was fresh orange juice. As earlier, one of the Belles had seen him empty a packet of crystals into the container, he was given little credibility for accuracy. Unfortunately, the cable linking the tent to the mains electricity supply had mysteriously disappeared during the night and so it was impossible to play recorded music as was originally intended. The problem was soon resolved when one of the Belles went home and returned with an ancient gramophone and a plentiful supply of 78 records which she played throughout the morning. The Admiral was not too happy with the selection, as they did not exactly convey the modern image he so wanted to display, but ‘retro’ was all the rage these days, thank goodness.

A local Scout troop had been hired to collect the passengers’ luggage on arrival and transport it along the pier to the ship - a distance of over a mile! Radley was in charge of this operation and briefed the lads as soon as they appeared at eight o’clock. He had borrowed several wheelbarrows from the Southend Gardening Club, which he thought might be of considerable help to the boys, who were willing, but could not possibly manage some of the heavy luggage which was to come their way.

‘Where is Enzo Bigatoni?’ shouted an irate Harry as the clock approached nine. ‘That man has the one and only passenger-list, without which we cannot let anyone board.’

One of the Scouts was dispatched to a nearby boardinghouse where the Cruise Director had been accommodated for the night. A bleary-eyed Director finally arrived at nine thirty,
without the list
, which he had left behind in his haste to get to the ship. He had spent most of the night attempting to memorise the names of passengers and attach them to faces, but the task defeated him. He was in very low spirits indeed when he finally took up his position behind the first trestle table.

By ten o’clock the Admiral, the General Manager, the Hotel Manager and the Cruise Director were all assembled in the tent ready for the first passengers to arrive.

‘Where is Captain Sparda?’ the Admiral asked irritably. ‘He ought to be here to greet the first of the passengers on this all-important occasion.’

Enquiries were made and it seemed that he had last been seen the previous evening making his way to the ship when the reception broke up. The Admiral trained his telescope on the distant vessel moored to the end of the pier and observed a figure clambering over the side and jumping onto the jetty. It was none other than Captain Sparda … and he presented a sorry sight. His white shorts, so carefully tailored by the good ladies of Southend, were streaked with grease and oil. His hair was dishevelled and it was clear that he had not shaved.

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed the Admiral. ‘What on earth has Sparda been up to?’

The unfortunate Captain eventually staggered into the tent and was immediately handed a cup of orange liquid by Duvet, which, after taking one gulp, he promptly spat out.

It transpired that the worthy man had spent the whole night with the Chief Engineer, pouring gallon after gallon of oil into the engine and attempting to get the rudder to operate correctly. He assured the Admiral that everything now seemed well. As it was too far to go to the hotel to get cleaned up, he was escorted to a local Public Convenience where he did his best to make himself presentable for the first guests.

At exactly eleven that morning, all was in place. The Scouts were lined up at the entrance to the tent, each lad with a wheelbarrow. Captain Sparda had been able to borrow a pair of clean tennis shorts from one of the Belles and, providing he stood behind one of the trestle tables, he looked presentable as only his top half was visible.

Enzo, who guarded the entrance to the tent from unwelcome visitors, kept an anxious eye open for the first passengers to arrive. Suddenly he heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and a landau rolled into sight, pulled by two rather tired-looking carthorses. It stopped by the entrance and the coachman leaned over and addressed Enzo.

‘Hey, you mate. Is this where folks enlist?’

Enzo looked shocked. ‘What do you mean, Sir?’ he replied haughtily. ‘This is where passengers embark for the World
Cruise on the
Golden Handshake,
if that is your meaning.’

‘Oh,’ said the coachman, glancing at the Scouts. ‘I thought it was Bob-A-Job week.’

Enzo went to open the passenger door.

‘Watch out mate,’ said the driver. ‘It’s liable to come off its hinges if you ain’t careful.’

Enzo cautiously opened the rickety door to none other than Mr and Mrs Albert Hardcastle. Mrs Hardcastle wore an enormous hat decorated with a selection of what appeared to be tropical fruit. Her husband sported a black overcoat and a flat cap. Since deciding to go on the cruise, Albert thought that he ought to do things in style for once in his life. He had visited a local gentleman’s outfitter and bought himself a new suit. Well, quite new. It had been returned the previous week and only required minor alteration to fit him, and of course it was a very reasonable price. His wife’s wardrobe was largely made up from items bought from a Grimsby departmental store when they went into liquidation, and from a Marks and Spencer’s sale, along with a variety of homemade summer dresses. She had fashioned the hat herself and was immensely proud of it.

It was Albert’s idea to arrive in this fashion. He reasoned that, as they were miles away from Grimsby, he and Alice could get away with a little flamboyant behaviour, hence the coach and horses. Enzo assisted the first passengers down from their equine transport and Mrs Hardcastle, being kindly disposed
towards animals, went to pat one of the horses. Before the coachman could issue a warning, the animal took one large snap at the delicacies displayed on the hat and in a trice had munched through them all.

‘My God, Albert!’ she cried. ‘Me hat - me lovely hat. He’s bloody well eaten it all.’

Quick to act in any crisis, Enzo took Mrs Hardcastle by the arm, and followed by Albert, the party were ushered into the tent where Radley was waiting to thrust a plastic beaker into their hands. One of the Belles, who had witnessed the whole unfortunate episode from a peephole in the canvas, ushered the distraught Alice Hardcastle to a chair.

‘Never mind, dear,’ she said soothingly. ‘There are plenty of fresh bananas on board and I am quite sure the handicraft instructor will be able to repair the damage done to your lovely hat.’

Mrs Hardcastle dabbed her eyes with a violet handkerchief and Albert looked uncomfortable. By now other passengers were arriving and the boarding operation was swinging into action. The World Cruise was almost - not quite but almost - ready to go.