The Voyage of the Golden Handshake

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The Voyage of the Golden Handshake Page 3

by Terry Waite


  Havergill rolled his eyes, closed one and fixed Albert with a glassy stare.

  ‘You can’t see my account, old boy. Private. Secret, you know.’ Here he touched the side of his nose with his forefinger and shook his head.

  ‘I want to see MY account, Mr Havergill. MY account, not yours’. Albert was now running out of patience and not a little apprehensive. The prospect of lunch seemed to be receding by the minute, and as for his account - he seemed to be making no progress whatsoever.

  ‘Call Withington, old boy,’ mumbled Havergill. ‘Withington is just like Jeeves. He knows everything. Withington?’ he bawled. ‘Wallington, where the hell are you when needed? Wiverington.’

  Once again the door opened and Darren reappeared.

  Mr Havergill turned in his chair, and this time missed his balance and fell under the desk. Both Albert and Darren rushed across the room and helped him back. When he was seated, he shook himself rather like a dog emerging from a pond. He straightened his tie and cleared his throat.

  ‘Mr Jeeves,’ he began. ‘Mr Hardacre wants to see his account.’ With that, he placed his head between his arms on the desk and began to snore loudly.

  ‘I really must apologise to you, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Darren, clearly disturbed by the events of the last hour. ‘I was hoping Mr Havergill would break the news to you himself. It is rather alarming, I must admit. I’m afraid The Manager seems to have lost your account. There is no record whatsoever of you ever having an account with this bank, and no record at all of any money being received from the National Lottery.’

  Albert dropped his half-empty glass of Brown Ale onto the beige carpet.

  ‘My God!’ he uttered. ‘That’s terrible. No record whatsoever?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Sir.’ We were searching the computer records all night long, and first thing this morning we contacted the Lottery to see if they could throw any light on the problem. All they know is that the money was paid in here two days ago and that it has gone out of their Lottery account.’

  Albert collapsed into the nearest chair and stared at the expanding brown stain on the carpet.

  ‘No record,’ he muttered. ‘No record?’

  ‘Please try not to upset yourself, Mr Hardcastle. I’m sure that once Mr Havergill is feeling himself again, all will be well.’

  ‘What about Head Office?’ asked Albert. ‘What do they say about all this?

  ‘Well, the truth is that they don’t know at the moment.’

  Darren paused as Mr Havergill gave a low groan, followed by an exceptionally loud snort. He continued: ‘Mr Havergill was hoping that something might turn up before he was obliged to let them know. As soon as he is well again, he will start another search. Of that I’m certain.’

  Albert got to his feet. ‘That’s it then. I’d better be off.’

  Darren helped him on with his coat and handed him his scarf before opening the door. Albert followed him down the corridor and back into the customer area. As he made his way to the exit, the counter clerk gave him a wan smile.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Hardcastle.’

  Albert nodded and stepped into the street. A light snow was falling and with a heavy heart and feeling somewhat hungry he set course for home.

  As he approached his former workplace, to his surprise he noted that the blinds were drawn across the windows and the main entrance appeared to be closed. He stopped for a moment, fumbled inside his coat and consulted his pocket watch - 2.45. He couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t a public holiday. No Royal Personage had died, as far as he knew. Why was the Co-op not open for business? As he stood by the entrance he could hear sounds of laughter inside and he was sure that he heard one of the girls from the stockroom shouting, ‘Good old Jason.’ He was just about to resume his journey when the door was flung open, and who should appear but Jason himself.

  ‘Albert, come on in and join the party. No work today, nor ever again for that matter!’ exclaimed Jason, somewhat flushed in the face. Increasingly puzzled, Albert crossed the familiar threshold and the door was firmly secured behind him. Littered around the floor were several empty bottles which had once contained the Co-op’s finest champagne. A large iced cake from the display cabinet had been attacked and it seemed as though all the pork pies had gone from the provision counter. A glass was thrust into his hand and was immediately filled from a freshly opened bottle of champagne.

  ‘An amazing story,’ gurgled Jason as he gulped the sparkling beverage, like water. ‘I only wish Heather was here to celebrate with us instead of being with her ailing mother in the Outer Hebrides.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about, Jason?’ asked an increasingly mystified Albert. ‘What is going on?’

  ‘Well,’ said the jovial trolley-keeper, ‘each week my wife buys a couple of lottery tickets. She checks the numbers and I don’t pay much attention, for we never win. Today I went home for lunch as usual and there was the mail with our joint account statement from the Prudent Bank - and guess what? I looked at it and saw that we had been credited with six million, six hundred and sixty six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six pounds and six pence. Six million quid! Heather must have checked the tickets, got in touch with the Lottery folks - and bingo. There is the lovely cash in our account. That’s why I am treating everyone, see? Drink up, lad. There’s more where that came from.’

  Albert could literally feel the colour drain from his cheeks.

  So that explained it, he said to himself. That drunken old fool of a Bank Manager had credited Jason and Heather Smith with his legitimate winnings. The situation would have to be put right, but there was bound to be trouble.

  ‘Drink up, Albert,’ said Jason as he flung an empty bottle across the room, narrowly missing the Co-op cat and striking a pile of biscuit tins.

  ‘Hold on, lad,’ said Albert. ‘You can’t damage the place.’

  ‘Oh yes, I can,’ said the increasingly inebriated trolley man. ‘I’ve telephoned the office and told them what to do with their rotten job. I’ll pay for the party today and for any accidental damage that might be caused. Have a pie Albert.’

  By now Albert was ravenous, having missed his lunch, so he accepted a Melton Mowbray special and bit into it gratefully. What on earth was he to do? The shop looked as though a tornado had hit it and the staff would have done credit to pre-Lent festivities in Munich.

  Albert was still trying to work out in his mind how this appalling mix-up was going to be resolved when there was a loud ringing on the shop’s telephone. As he was the only sober person present, he picked it up and answered it. Immediately he recognised the soft lilting tones of Heather Smith.

  ‘Hello, is that the Grimsby Co-op?’ she asked.

  ‘It is,’ said Albert, just as there was a mighty crash and a display of baked beans went cascading across the floor.

  ‘Goodness, what’s that?’ asked Heather. ‘And to whom am I speaking? I need to speak to Jason, please.’

  ‘It’s me - Albert. The cat’s just knocked some tins over, nothing to worry about. I’ll get Jason for you.’

  Jason lurched out of the back room, champagne bottle in one hand and pork pie in the other.

  ‘It’s Heather’ said Albert in a stage whisper. ‘For God’s sake, sober up!’

  Jason dropped the pie and grabbed the receiver.

  ‘Heather chuck. My dream girl. My angel. You are wonderful. Well done my sweetie. Well done.’

  He dropped the phone with another crash, picked it up and resumed his monologue. He was quickly cut short by Heather.

  ‘Jason, are you all right? Whatever is the matter? And what’s all that noise? You don’t sound at all well, my dear. What is it? I hope you are well, as I am ringing to ask you to collect me from the station at six this evening.’

  ‘No problem, my honeybun. No problem whatsoever. I’ll have a car meet you. Do you prefer a Rolls or a Bentley?’

  ‘What are you talking about, Jason?’ asked Heather, now becoming seriously alarmed at
her husband’s telephone manner.

  ‘The lottery, my pet. Why didn’t you tell me earlier we had won? You are a real little tease, of that there is no doubt.’

  ‘Lottery?’ queried Heather. ‘Won? Jason, I haven’t done the lottery for the past two weeks, as it’s not at all easy to get tickets up here in the wilds of Scotland.’

  Jason froze and for once that afternoon was speechless. He gently put the champagne bottle down and looked directly into Albert’s eyes.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  5

  Admiral Sir Benbow Harrington was in a jovial mood as he tucked into his breakfast kipper. ‘Delicious, my dear,’ he remarked to his wife as she poured him another cup of coffee. ‘Do you realise, Felicity, that there is only one genuine smoke-house left in the Isle of Man? I once stayed with Jumbo Chessington the Governor, and he was seriously alarmed at the state of affairs on the Island. Oak chips are what are needed. Oak chips.’

  Felicity, whose knowledge of smoking fish was limited, simply nodded her head in agreement.

  ‘Well,’ continued the Admiral, helping himself to a liberal spoonful of thick-cut marmalade, ‘today is the big day. If it’s fine I will meet the team in the garden where we should be able to have an uninterrupted briefing before the launch. Harry assures me that the sea trials have gone better than expected. He took the ship along the route he knows so well in Southern Italy, and apart from some difficulty in strong currents with the rudder, all seemed to be well.’

  ‘I hope he’s right, dear,’ Lady Harrington replied with a somewhat worried look. ‘A World Cruise is an ambitious venture, Benbow, and you can’t afford to have too many problems.’

  ‘All will be well, dear, don’t concern yourself. With my long experience in the Navy and Harry’s extensive knowledge of choppy waters, plus a seasoned Captain in Sparda, we don’t have a worry in the world.’

  Lady Harrington reflected silently on how frequently she had heard these self-same sentiments uttered by her husband across the years, and she shuddered slightly.

  The Admiral folded his napkin, picked up his daily copy of The Times and made for his study. He had only been gone a few moments when Lady Harrington heard her husband cry out.

  ‘Felicity, dear! Felicity, come here this instant. Make haste.’

  She rushed along the hallway to the study where the Admiral was seated with the Travel Section of The Times open before him.

  ‘Just look at this,’ he chortled in delight.

  Harry Parkhurst had certainly not wasted any time following the trials, for there was a half-page advertisement announcing the Inaugural World Cruise of the SS Golden Handshake.

  Rear Admiral Sir Benbow Harrington (Rtd)

  Owner of the Golden Oceans Cruise Line

  proudly announces the First World Cruise of a

  brand new addition to the company’s fleet

  the SS Golden Handshake.

  The Golden Handshake now sails alongside

  the Golden Guinea, the Golden Crown and the Golden Sovereign

  and is the Flagship of the Line.

  Applications are invited now

  for a place on what will be a unique experience.

  Tickets will be issued strictly on a

  ‘First come, first served’ basis.

  The Admiral picked up the receiver of the candlestick telephone and dialled Harry’s number.

  ‘Splendid work,’ he congratulated him. Today’s The Times is excellent. Well done.’

  Harry was duly modest in his reply.

  ‘My old friend at Carnard was helpful in drafting the text and we have been able to get a mention in all the local papers around the country. Just watch the applications roll in. We will certainly be oversubscribed.’

  The Admiral replaced the receiver and resumed staring at the newspaper. He remained at his desk throughout the morning-a happy and contented man.

  Back in Grimsby things were less tranquil. Albert hauled Jason up from the floor and poured a glass of cold water over his head. News of the disaster had yet to reach the party-goers in the staffroom, and unfortunately Albert was the one who had to bring it.

  He gingerly opened the door to a scene of complete chaos. Mary Ellsworth, late of the stockroom, was performing what she considered to be a Spanish dance on the table. Crystal Weathergate, previously in charge of the drinks department, was surrounded by bottles from that said department, the majority of which were empty.

  ‘Albert, old pal’ cried Andy Pink, one of the van drivers. ‘Where have you been all my life. Come in, old friend. Take a pew. In fact take anything you like.’

  ‘Shut up, Andy,’ said Albert sternly. ‘Shut up, the lot of you.’

  A silence descended on the room as they all stared at him in amazement.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ said someone. ‘It’s not often we have a party.’

  ‘No,’ said Albert, ‘and unless you sober up and clear up pretty quickly, this will be the last party you will have for many a year. And your last job!’

  He began to explain how it seemed as though there had been a ghastly mistake, and it appeared that Jason’s wife had not won the lottery, after all. Looks of amazement crossed the flushed faces of the once-jovial revellers, to be quickly replaced by expressions of panic and despair.

  ‘Hell’s Bells,’ said Andy. ‘Who’s going to pay for all this lot if Jason can’t?’

  Albert did not answer directly.

  ‘If I were you,’ he said, ‘I would clear this mess up and get the shop opened pretty quickly. You can worry about payment later. Come on, the lot of you. I’ll help.’

  Jason, who was too far gone to take part in any activity other than sleep, was left in the staffroom while the remainder of the staff set about clearing away the debris and piling up the cans of beans. An hour later, the shop was reopened for a final hour of trading and Albert departed for home sober, starving and not a little relieved that his fortune now seemed to be secure.

  6

  Rear Admiral Benbow Harrington glanced at the brass ship’s clock in his study. It had been salvaged from the first ship he had commanded - the very vessel which unfortunately had sunk during a naval exercise off Southend-on-Sea. The fact that the maiden cruise of the SS Golden Handshake was due to take place in several days’ time from Southend Pier had caused the Admiral to pause and wonder if he might be tempting fate. However, he dismissed such thoughts from his mind and turned his attention to the meeting shortly due to take place with several of his senior staff members.

  Harry, the invaluable Harry, would be there, of course, for he had been responsible for the recruiting of most of the ship’s company. The Admiral was looking forward to making the acquaintance of Captain Peché Sparda, recently retired from long and distinguished service as Master of the Messina ferry and soon to be Captain of the flagship of the Golden Oceans Line. He was due to arrive at three that afternoon, along with his friend Enzo Bigatoni, the newly appointed Cruise Director. The irritation that the Admiral felt when these two senior officers failed to master their Satellite Navigation system on the M25 had long since passed, for like many senior Naval Officers the Admiral was a religious man with a forgiving nature.

  A new person on the scene was also expected that afternoon - a certain Mr Radley Duvet (pronounced like the bedding) who also had been recruited by Harry and who would occupy the all-important role of Hotel Manager. For many years Mr Duvet had assisted his wife in the running of a Bed and Breakfast establishment in Scarborough and on occasions had taken a summer job running the canteen on the Dover-Calais ferry. Harry was convinced that he would have all the necessary skills to ensure that the ship was adequately provisioned and the passengers made to feel at home.

  At exactly ten minutes to three o’clock the Admiral heard a motor vehicle crunching its way along the gravel driveway in front of the house. He peered through the window of his study and observed a large black car which, for all the world, looked like t
he sort of transport that followed the hearse in a funeral procession. The doorbell issued its nautical chime and within a few moments, Lady Harrington was ushering a party of four into the study.

  ‘I’m sure you would like some tea,’ she said when the introductions were over and the party was seated. Without waiting for an answer she left the room and the Admiral took command.

  ‘Now gentlemen,’ he began, ‘today is an historic day. A day that will go down in the annals of the Golden Oceans Line. You gentlemen compose the heart and soul of the Golden Handshake and we are meeting for the first time to agree our plan of action. For this unique and historic voyage I intend to sail with you, but I shall not interfere. You have responsibility for your own area of work and for the overall welfare of the ship and her company. Captain Sparda!’

  The Captain, who had been attempting to decipher a large nautical map hanging on the wall, visible jumped.

  ‘I have not had the pleasure of your company previously. Perhaps you will report on the recent sea trials.’

  The Captain, a diminutive man of no more than five feet four inches, rose to his feet.

  ‘Sit down, Captain,’ ordered the Admiral. ‘This is all very informal today, although once on board we shall have a little more discipline and order than that which is usually found on cruise ships. Today we can relax.’

  ‘Thank you Admiral, sir’, Sparda began. ‘The engine was a little rusty and made quite a lot of noise but, once we had insulated it with thick cardboard, it seemed well - although the insulation must be changed every other day. The balconies, six in all, were riveted outside the six top-grade suites. Alas, there was not the time to fit balcony doors, but the portholes are reasonably large and most passengers should have no difficulty in squeezing through. The former stables have been converted into very handsome, pre-fabricated suites, and the old cattle trough has been kept for sentimental reasons but also to provide a pool where passengers can sit with their feet in the water. It will remind them of seaside holidays.’

 

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