by Tony Wilson
Chapter 26
After the realignment of the natural forces at El Campo I spent a few weeks away, but not by design, Mark was undergoing hopefully the last of his operations on his eye in Russia and he wanted me there with him, and so did his parents, so it was nice to be where I was wanted. Robin, Emma and I spent many an hour idly chatting about this and that as Mark lay sleeping, and Robin finally wheedled the truth out of me about what had recently transpired, and Emma, who had been reading a magazine and half listening, put her two penn’th in, ‘perhaps you are going stir crazy in that place’, and perhaps she was right, El Campo did have all the characteristics of a prison sometimes. I couldn’t just wander out for a quick coffee at the local cafe any time I felt like it; David would go ballistic. On my return perhaps I should try to broaden my horizons, but how? Then I had an idea. Every Thursday Lady Hyacinth’s four star restaurant, the one hidden under the mezzanine floor was up and running for business.
First off, most Monday mornings, one of Marcel’s staff would ring the first four people on the list (that was getting longer and longer by the day). They could invite one person each (usually their husband or wife), and each of those eight persons had to tell him (or her) their favourite meal, complete with any idiosyncrasies. Everyone knew the rules so it always made for an interesting menu three days later, and either I or a member of the ‘A’ team would be there, not only to brush up on our own communication techniques, but to act as referee, so when I returned back home from Russia I ‘took the table’, not to show off, but to meet real people. I was well into my roast beef and Yorkshire pudding when a gentleman with a liking for Beef Wellington invited me along to his local yacht club for Sunday lunch. It wasn’t one of the more prestigious clubs that I occasionally visited (unfortunately most of their members were right up their own backsides, any further and they would be seeing daylight), but after he assured me that it was more ‘relaxed’ than my usual haunts, I agreed, and Sunday morning found us both in my Palm Islander 420 making our way towards the Spinnaker Yacht Club. We had a slight problem coming alongside the ‘visitor’s pontoon’, it was crowded with smaller boats, but my crew finally manage to nudge its way in, and dropped us off, they then went off to find a buoy somewhere, have their packed lunches, and await my command.
The club house and surrounding areas, including the pontoons had that well-worn look, but were not quite approaching their ‘sell by dates’ yet, and they were bustling with ‘grotty yachties’. As I walked up and down the pontoons with Simon, my new friend, with James trying not to fall between the slats, not to far behind, I quickly understood his definition of ‘relaxed’. As sure as ‘eggs were eggs’ everyone recognised me (if their glasses hadn’t fallen overboard like one poor soul) but the most I got was ‘Hi Mr Michael’s, fancy a quick one before lunch’ and then finally, after saying ‘please call me Andrew’ a few hundred times it was ‘Hi Andy, throw this down your throat’. By the time it was dinner time (I was in little England now, dinner was at lunch time) I had developed a very comfortable glow, and was introduced to the Commodore, not because he especially wanted to speak to me, it was traditional for him to greet all the members on Sundays, if he was ‘on board’, and then we made our way to our table, not a special one, just one that was vacant in the middle of the mêlée. Finally, after Spotted Dick and custard, it was a large brandy in the bar, and then Simon asked if I wanted to come on a quick test drive to put his mate’s new engine through the mill. I politely declined but insisted on him going, I would be fine here, and he should take all the time he wanted, I had no intention of leaving this little haven for a while yet. The yacht club was on a peninsular that curved around a small natural bay, and there was a chandlery, and a showroom for new and used boats, and a few nautically associated shops, but the most striking thing about the whole place was a huge spinnaker shaped rock separating the Yacht Club from the town and river on the other side, giving the Club its name. It meant that with just one barrier, and a couple of security guards the whole place was in splendid isolation, if you were there, you were a yachtie. After my brandy I made excuses to my new friends and went for a stroll to clear my head, and risking David’s wrath I instructed James to have a coffee on the veranda, and for the first time in a long, long, time I strolled alone, back along the jetties. It was as though I was a long lost friend returning from the outback, not someone that they had met for the first time a couple of hours before, and after a few polite refusals I accepted a coffee from two delightful ladies of indeterminate age, on the deck of their beautifully kept motor yacht, although they weren’t too sure about the motor part, the yacht hadn’t been to sea in ten years, and as I sat there in relaxing company I made yet another of my instant decisions, if I was invited, which I had been about ten times already, I would join the club, this island of tranquillity was just too good for me to miss. With this in mind I eventually made my way towards the showroom, as it looked as though I would be in the market for ‘something a little smaller’. The 4-20 was way too big (and I also had to bring a crew along, who knows, they might just cramp my style), and the RIB’s were just too powerful for a quiet potter about on the ’oggin. The showroom looked as though it was still open; I imagined that they did most of their business at weekends, so I wandered in, passing below that ominous sign B & S Skinner, yacht brokers that hung above the doors.
It was a large, airy, and it was full of Tupperware boats, (fibre glass boats) but I spotted trouble looming on the horizon, if her name started with S, I was straight out of here. She was tall and slim, had short salt and pepper hair and had a short-ish nautically themed skirt on, with a sailor blouse, and she looked absolutely knacke done in.
‘Hello Mr Michaels, my name is Breena Skinner, I was hoping you would call in, I need a new tyre for the Toyota.’
‘Phew’, I thought, that was close, but I was not out of the woods yet, not only had she got a sense of humour, she also had a delightful Geordie accent.
‘Please call me Andrew’ I said and then continued ‘Breena? That’s an odd name.’
‘It’s short for Sabrina, but if you call me that I will scratch your eyes out, I’m only a 34C.’
Obviously it was the standard family joke that was often cracked in front of comfortable friends, not total strangers, so she went bright red and quickly continued ‘but I only move onto first name terms when a sale is concluded’.
‘Hurry up and sell me something then, I quite like Breena,’ and then we both went into fits of laughter, although I didn’t think it was all that funny.
Within fifteen minutes I had found out that she was divorced, Skinner was her maiden name and B was for Brian, her brother. She had joined the brokerage firm six years ago following her divorce. She didn’t have enough money left over to buy anything suitable outright so she invested it in her brothers firm and moved in with him and his wife. Touch wood (touching my head) things weren’t going too badly, despite the recession.
‘Touch my head again woman and I will kiss you’ I thought, and then we got down to boats, after first apologising for spilling her life story. ‘I must be tired’ she said, ‘it’s been a long week, but at least tomorrow is my day off.
I explained my dilemma, and after sympathising profusely ‘at my condition’ we started looking for a suitable boat, it had to be small-ish – but not too small, fast-ish – but not too fast, easy to handle solo, I was certain about that, and I definitely didn’t want plastic.
That narrowed the field down a bit so she said ‘do you mind ‘pre-loved’, I much prefer it to ‘second-hand’.
Second-hand, I’m a billionaire, I don’t do second hand, then I thought about my Hunters, Aquarama, and the railway engines that were starting to turn up on my door step, well not many anyway.
She had an idea and we went outside. Under an oversized car port was a beautiful looking boat, just a smidging over 36 feet (11 Meters), and it was a hybrid, her chined hull was plastic ‘but a very good plastic’, but the rest of her was pure wood. Someone
had spent a lot of time and money on this one, and she had a lovely clean bottom (but back to the boat). Even though she was out of the water I could tell that the designer had the high speed rescue launches and motor torpedo boats of another era at the back of his mind (it really was a man thing), and I quickly followed Breena up the ladder, at this stage I would have followed her into a blast furnace, but unfortunately my charismatic charm didn’t seem to be working at the moment. The smaller rear cabin was only for show, underneath the gleaming canopy were two shiny Volvos, and they were huge, then forward of the large open cockpit (although there was a cunning cover for inclement weather) was the galley, lounge, and right in the bow the Captain’s cabin, complete with head and shower, it was only really a two berth ‘but friends could always doss on the settees’ she said.
Not on your Nelly I thought, although with the right colour sheets I imagined that the cabin could be made to look quite nice. It looked almost new so I asked Breena about ‘G Wizz’s’ history.
It had been built just over two years ago by a bespoke boat builder in the South of England, to very strict specifications, and as money was no object to the owner to be, no corners were cut. Upon taking delivery of ‘G Wizz’ (if I bought it, that name would have to go) the new owner decided rather than have her transported to the Mediterranean, it would be a good idea for him and his new wife to sail it there, via the French canals. The canal system is a proven way of ferrying small craft to the Med but unfortunately by the time they arrived in the Med his new bride hated the noisy, smelly, cramped ‘little thing’ with a vengeance, and when it finally came to a standstill in the Spinnaker Yacht Marina, and silence finally assaulted her ears she presented him with a choice, ‘it or me’. For some obscure reason he chose her, and so the ‘one owner, hardly used’ G Wizz was put up for sale, but unfortunately it was so ‘individual’ that it would only appeal to a very limited clientele. It wasn’t in any sense of the word - economical, it had limited accommodation, and had so many extras piled on it that it was excruciatingly expensive for its size; I wonder what it would look like in green. When we returned to her office we talked turkey, what was her bottom line, I was still thinking of the sight of her climbing up that ladder, and when she told me I nearly fainted, but if it meant that she would call me Andrew then it would be worth every cent.
‘How about a test drive’ I asked.
‘Certainly’, but she couldn’t have it in the water before midday mańana.
‘Isn’t Monday your day off?’ I asked her.
‘Oh I will do almost anything for a quick sale’ (hold that thought, I thought), ‘even give up my day off’.
Drat, but I did notice that she didn’t offer to let her brother do the driving.
Simon then turned up to play gooseberry, so after making a date of it I reluctantly left, but I would return, and at the crack of mid-day I stood on their pontoon and watched Breena edge the G Wizz (or G to her friends) towards the jetty, she had just negotiated a new mortgage at the fuel bunker to top up the tanks, and after nimbly climbing on board (and sucking in my tummy at the same time) she eased the launch out into the mirror smooth Mediterranean. First she showed me what G could do, then I was allowed to put her through her paces, and I was so impressed that I almost forgot about the tight jeans and plunging neck line, almost, but not quite. As it was technically her day off apparently she could relax her self-imposed dress code slightly, any more relaxed and she would be arrested I thought, but who’s complaining. As we surged past El Rincon, the restaurant that I had stolen from Vicente and Lady H, I asked her if she was feeling a bit peckish, and nodded to the prestigious eating hostelry.
‘There, oh it’s to die for’ she said ‘but it’s a national holiday, you have to book at least a month in advance to get a table on a fiesta day.’
‘More like six weeks, give or take’, I thought, then said in a hopeful voice ‘Well let’s give it a try shall we?’
‘You get us in there and I’ll have your baby, or maybe even two’.
Now really hold that thought, I thought again, and smiled to myself, I was definitely starting to turn into a right devious little so and so. Two years ago, as the prices and standards started to drop slightly I mentioned this to Emilio, the owner, and I had his tale of woe.
‘All restaurateurs were feeling the pinch and doing the same’, but I put it to him that if one of the top flight establishments held their nerve and kept, or even improved on their standards then clients with a fine palate, and a wallet to match would flock to it. ‘You may lose a few of your regulars, but would more than make up for it with new ones that were becoming dissatisfied with their regular hostelry’.
‘Possibly’, he said, ‘but I don’t have the finances to take the gamble’.
But I did, so I became a silent partner. First off I purchased some waste land behind the hotel and turned it into a landing strip, more for my own convenience, but over the following two years it caught on, especially when the Spanish Royalty discovered it. I also had my marina people construct a landing stage to encourage the nautical visitors, but that didn’t seem to be as much of a hit at first. After climbing to the top of the steps the last thing that clients wanted was something to eat, oxygen maybe, but not food, until today. With Carol’s interest in a funicular railway between the Marina and the Miniature railway I investigated the possibility of having a small one installed up from the pontoon, and it had opened for business only hours earlier, so I eased G alongside a rather large schooner, that was taking up the whole of the pontoon (arrogant so and so, who does he thing he is - me?). It was standard practice if pontoons are full, just as long as you had clean fenders and were using the correct footwear, stiletto heels can wreak havoc on a timber deck. I helped Breena down onto the pontoon and we made our way up the funicular, but we were almost at the top before I realized that we were still holding hands, oops. I noticed also that the car park was full of big shiny cars and there were at least two helicopters and a Cessna parked out the back, although I wasn’t surprised that one of them was Twinkle, David or James must be lurking in the shadows somewhere. Breena nervously gripped my hand as Emilio approached, and was shell shocked when he kissed her on both cheeks and said, ‘Nice to see you again Ms Skinner, or please may I call you Breena, your brother and his wife not with you today?’ He then turned to me ‘Hello Andrew, your table is ready, as always’ and led the way.
I may be a silent partner, but no way was I going to be an absent one.
Over our lunch I came clean about El Rincon, but told her that I still wasn’t going to let her off the babies. She gave me a scowl, but didn’t make any comment, although was that a hint of a blush on her cheeks? And when a fairly Senior Spanish Royal came over to say ‘adios’ on his way out, was she impressed, or what.
On our way back down the funicular Breena must have suffered from altitude sickness as she insisted on a spot of mouth to mouth resuscitation, and when we clambered on board G, a very serious dilemma arose. As we had consumed the best part of a rather nice bottle of Rosé between us, we couldn’t decide if we were over the limit or not, so we decided to err on the side of caution and have forty winks first. Fortuitously she had called in at the haberdashers as well as the fuel bunker this morning so it wasn’t too uncomfortable in the Captain’s cabin, although we did get coitus interruptus’ed after twenty of them, the schooner wanted to leave.
They transferred our mooring lines to the pontoon and tied us up again as it slipped out, but just as the skipper was about to set off into the wild blue yonder he indicated to my inside-out shirt and muttered, ‘that explains it, the amount of rocking about your boat was doing - the least I expected was a Storm Force ten’.
As I was dragged unceremoniously back down to the cabin I thought, ‘at my age I’m lucky to reach a Gale Force eight’, but Breena didn’t seem to mind. Now about those remaining twenty winks? - and as we lay there waiting for the Rosé to wear off (and perhaps a Gentle Breeze Force three to kick in) we swop
ped sea stories about our past lives. She knew about Sheila and Sandra from the television, but Sasha hadn’t caught the media’s attention as much, so I bought her up to date on that episode in my life, but Breena was a bit nervous about coming clean about her exploits, but I was a big boy, I didn’t expect her to be all virginal, after all she had two children.
Her marriage had lasted almost twenty-five years, which in this day and age wasn’t too bad, and then her husband went off to give his secretary some personal dictation, and just after her divorce had been finalized, she had met up with the wrong kind of guy, but fortunately she saw the light just before the cheque cleared. Once she was settled in Spain she met a very nice gentleman at the yacht club, but after six months it ended in tears, not hers, his, he was sooooo boring, then after a year of self-inflicted celibacy she met another very nice gentleman, who bought a very nice boat from her, and they were quickly on first name terms, but unfortunately there was one very small problem, his wife (she was only five foot two), so for four years she was the ‘other woman’, which worked out fine for both of them. Then last October her ‘friend-with-benefits’ finally took his still blissfully ignorant wife back to the UK, permanently, although he did return to ‘put the villa on the market’ a month later. She took a week’s holiday, but on the first night that they actually ‘slept’ together, up until then there hadn’t been much time for actual sleep, she found out that he snored terribly, so the next morning she was back at the brokerage, and he put the villa on the market. The affair had run its course, no one had been hurt, and his wife thought that it was very sweet that he came back three days early.
As we made our way sedately back to the marina I confessed that I had been sold on G Wizz from first sight, but had kept it from her.
‘What’ she shrieked, ‘you mean that I didn’t have to drop my knickers to get the sale’.
I told her to ‘wash her mouth out, and stop telling porky-pies’, she hadn’t been wearing any, and then threw her overboard. Fortunately she could swim so I quickly had her back on board again, (who said I was boring), but then we nearly had our first tiff. She liked the idea of the Hunter green hull, but didn’t like the idea of the gold stripe, and whilst she was on the subject, ‘I don’t like her new name either, ‘Tender to the Lady S’ just doesn’t trip off the tongue’, although I knew exactly where I was going to keep her, there was a nice little space between the funnel and the hangar where she would fit perfectly.
We tried to do the whole courting bit, but finally decided that we were a bit too long in the tooth to waste valuable time, so after spending the following weekend with me at El Campo she sort of just didn’t go back, and she fitted in brilliantly. When I took her to meet Sheila, George and Millie it was a lovely day, so we just lounged around on the cushioning inside the volcano, talking if we wanted to, being quiet when it suited us, and I realized that at this moment in time I was where I wanted to be, with someone that I wasn’t trying to impress, or trying to emulate. We were both about the same level socially, and both liked the same things, although if I had met her six years ago I definitely wouldn’t have had an affair with her, but it might have crossed my mind briefly. As I lay there dozing, my head on her lap, she finished her novel and slapped me on the stomach with it ‘here’ she said ‘try reading this, I think you might like it.’
I looked at the cover, ‘Road to Recovery’ by Tony Wilson. Perhaps another tiff was brewing; I thought I had told her that I liked techno-thrillers – not the history of the RAC.
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