The Voyage of the Golden Handshake

by Terry Waite

  Out of politeness Albert did not like to refuse and so held out a beaker for Sir Archie to fill.

  ‘Hold on, my dear fellow,’ said Sir Archie. ‘I know this wine is first-rate, but I have not yet taken to drinking it out of a tumbler!’ He seized a wine glass from the side of Albert’s place and proceeded to half-fill it. Albert took a gulp and decided there and then that Brown Ale was, and would remain, his drink. From the look on his face, Sir Archie saw that the wine was not entirely to his fellow passenger’s taste.

  ‘No matter!’ he exclaimed. ‘Veronika won’t drink the poison either. All she will take is yak’s milk, or vodka.’

  He went to pour some wine in Alice’s glass but she politely declined.

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Sir Archie cheerfully, not at all put out. ‘All the more for me.’ And he filled his glass to the brim.

  13

  Meanwhile, back in his tiny office, Enzo Bigatoni, Cruise Director, was feeling totally exhausted. He had not been able to sleep the previous night due to the fact that the ship had to be prepared to sail first thing the following morning. He had had to turn his hand to some hard manual work, to which he was not accustomed. As soon as the clearing up tasks were completed, he had to ‘meet and greet’ passengers for the second time, and this duty was followed by endless announcements as the ship sailed.

  The first port of call, Calais, had been a total disaster and a very frightening experience. He seemed to have spent hours locked in the back of a police van, after which he was questioned endlessly in both French and English. Given that he had lost his little French phrase book in the mêlée, he answered everything in English, and the French policeman, who had been told that Enzo was a language teacher on board, thought that he was obstructing the police in the course of their duty and became increasingly furious. Eventually, having been released from the van with a warning to never ever again come to France to support a strike, he had had to run for his life when the police arrived the second time and chased the passengers back to the ship.

  Now there was more trouble, this time with lecturers. The Admiral insisted that there must be lecturers on board as they were extremely popular with the guests. Enzo had to acquiesce but secretly he resented their inclusion in the programme as their sessions got in the way of his language classes. The Admiral believed that during a cruise there were many passengers who would like to improve their education and, taking a leaf from the book of other companies, he ordered Harry to engage several lecturers.

  ‘Get a mixed bunch,’ said the Admiral one day. ‘Music, the Arts, Geography, what have you. See if you can get hold of some well-known names.’

  Harry spent many hours attempting to secure the services of eminent speakers. He would be able to offer a free cruise, but there could not be a fee, of course, as the cruise would be very expensive if the lecturer had to pay for it himself. He did not take into account the fact that many lecturers of renown were not particularly interested in just cruising but required payment to keep body and soul together. Eventually he found several individuals who fancied what they thought might be a cheap holiday, and promptly engaged them.

  The first two lecturers engaged, Sir Horace Beanstalk and Dr Ludwig Bernstein, had been due to join the ship in Southend-on-Sea, and it was thought they were on board. Due to the initial confusion and the failure of the plastic card checking system to work, no one had any idea who was on board or who was not. After repeated calls over the loudspeaker system, which had passengers scuttling to the Information Posts every few minutes, Sir Horace appeared in the Cruise Director’s Office ready for duty. Dr Bernstein, an authority on the music of Stockhausen, was nowhere to be seen. Eventually it transpired that the Admiral, not altogether familiar with classical music, had thought of doing a little preparatory work and had purchased a CD of Stockhausen’s music. The sounds that emanated from his player at home not only frightened the dog but caused Lady Felicity to threaten to disable the equipment if such a din continued. The Admiral, being a man of action, immediately cancelled the appearance of Ludwig Bernstein who, understandably, was most upset. He had been looking forward to taking his audience through the world of modern music, culminating in a step-by-step analysis of the symphony in which not a single note was played. The Admiral thought that this latter work would certainly be preferable to Stockhausen, but nevertheless the series was cancelled.

  Neither Harry nor the Cruise Director had been informed by the Admiral of this cancellation, and consequently were left to fill the gap in the programme. As always, the resourceful Harry came up with a solution. He had heard that there was a certain Toby Troy (British Empire Medal) who, when he was in foreign parts attempting to sell Bibles to Hezbollah, had been captured and had spent many years in solitary confinement. Newspaper reports said that it was Mr Troy’s own silly fault that he got caught as he would keep pestering Hezbollah, and eventually they got so tired of him appearing at their secret headquarters with a cartload of Bibles and hymnbooks, that they took him inside and kept him out of harm’s way for several years.

  Harry had been informed that Mr Troy, now a firm disbeliever, was always willing to jump up and speak for hours about his exciting life, and so he was engaged. Mr Troy, it was hoped, would join the ship somewhere in Spain.

  It was late when Enzo put the finishing touches to the programme for the first sea day when they would be crossing the Bay of Biscay. There was no time for the poor man to join the passengers for the Gala Dinner that evening. Wearily he sent the events sheet to the print shop, ordered a sandwich, and then retired for what he hoped would be a restful night.

  ‘Golfo de Vizcaya,’ muttered Captain Sparda as he studied a chart. ‘Where the hell is that?’

  This was the Captain’s first venture into the mighty oceans of the world, and he was not totally conversant with charts, especially as the one he was studying was in Spanish. Fortunately the Staff Captain was more familiar with the wide world beyond Italy, having served on a banana boat for many years.

  ‘Bay of Biscay, Captain,’ he replied promptly.

  The Captain fixed his gaze on the document before him. ‘It doesn’t seem too bad,’ he replied. ‘We should arrive in Bilbao on time.’

  The leg they were now starting began in Calais and would take two nights and one day to complete, providing the weather held up.

  ‘It can get pretty rough around here,’ warned the Staff. ‘It’s been a graveyard for many vessels, but at the moment we seem to be doing OK.’

  ‘We can only hope the rudder holds up,’ the Captain remarked. ‘It ought to be fine - but who knows’.

  The helmsman remained mute whilst the two senior officers engaged in this discussion. He was not at all sanguine about the steering gear. From time to time the wheel would act as if it had a mind of it’s own, and it took him all his strength to keep the ship on the set course.

  The Captain had gone directly to the bridge from the dining room where he had hosted his first table of the voyage. This again was a new experience for him and it had had its trying moments. First, the welcoming of passengers and photographs at the entrance to the dining room was a bore once he had greeted the first dozen or so guests. His social hostess, Angela Fairweather, had stood in for Enzo the Cruise Director and she had a problem sorting out who was who as the passenger-list was by no means complete. Several dozen passengers corrected Angela as to their true identity, which she then whispered to the Captain who, being a little hard of hearing, frequently misunderstood and got the names wrong again. The photographer had set up an enormous flash unit, which blinded the Captain each time a picture was taken, so that for much of the time he was both blind and deaf. It was with some relief that he greeted the last of the passengers, after which Angela was able to guide him towards their table.

  Once seated, he again faced the task of attempting to remember with whom he was dining. Eventually he decided to forget names altogether and just get on with the evening.

  ‘Lovely to see you, Captain,’
said a rather overdressed lady. ‘This is my fifteenth World Cruise but I don’t suppose it is anything like as many as you have done Captain.’

  As this was Sparda’s first circumnavigation he evaded answering directly but simply said he had spent most of his life at sea.

  ‘A very unfortunate beginning to this cruise,’ remarked another diner. ‘I can’t say that I’ve undergone anything like that before.’

  Captain Sparda replied that it was a most unusual beginning and indeed most unfortunate. He was grateful to have such an experienced crew and he could assure passengers that all would be well for the remainder of the cruise.

  ‘How is Admiral Harrington?’ asked another diner. ‘I thought he might be hosting our table tonight.’

  Here Captain Sparda had to answer very carefully indeed.

  ‘When on board,’ he said, ‘I am in command and the Admiral takes a back seat. Tonight he is otherwise occupied but I have no doubt that from time to time he will be at a table in this very dining room.’

  What the Captain omitted to say was that, at that very moment, Rear Admiral Benbow Harrington was fuming in Calais, having missed the ship. Unaware of the strike, he had set out at a brisk pace to visit the town, but could not get hold of a taxi to take him back to the ship, and therefore was left stranded. Due to the non-functioning card system he was not missed until the radio operator received an extremely irate message ordering the Handshake to return immediately and collect him. As turning the ship in strange waters and with a suspect rudder did not appeal to the Captain, it was decided that the Admiral would catch the Bilbao ferry and join the cruise in that Spanish port.

  The meal dragged on. Only those known to be very wealthy were invited to join the Captain for dinner, and one or two of these, who were cruising for the first time, demonstrated their ignorance of matters nautical by asking such questions as: ‘Where do the crew go at night, Captain?’ or ‘From where does the ship get its electricity supply?’

  Sparda answered with great patience, but he could see that after several meals of this kind his patience would be drawn very thinly indeed. The cheese was about to be served when a steward approached Captain Sparda and whispered something in his ear.

  ‘Eh?’ queried the Captain, ‘speak up, ragazzo.’

  The steward increased the volume, upon which curious diners overheard the word ‘chaplain’ and ‘distress’ but that is all they gleaned.

  ‘Please excuse me,’ said Sparda, not at all sorry to be called away. ‘Angela will look after you. Buonanotte.’ With that he hastened away towards the reception area where he was met by Radley Duvet, the Hotel Manager.

  ‘Rather serious news, I’m afraid, Captain,’ said the anxious-looking Duvet. ‘I would not have involved you, had the chaplain not asked to see you urgently.’

  ‘Where is the man?’ Sparda queried. ‘I have not seen him since the very first day of the cruise.’

  ‘He’s in the sickbay,’ said Duvet glumly, ‘and he won’t rest until he’s seen you.’

  Captain Sparda descended into the lower regions of the ship where there was still a distinct equine odour - a reminder of many previous voyages taken with very different passengers.

  The chaplain lay strapped in a small cot. He was as pale as the freshly painted walls of the former cattle stall and he was mumbling to himself.

  ‘Buona sera, padre,’ said Sparda cheerfully. ‘Not feeling too good eh?’

  The chaplain opened one eye and closed it quickly. Sparda turned to the young attendant. ‘What is the matter?’he asked. ‘Is he dying?’

  ‘That’s what he thinks, sir,’ the fellow replied. ‘It seems that he left the platform party to attend to a call of nature in the heads. He had just entered the cubicle when the ship lurched, he hit his head against the wall, and the door was completely jammed. He remained there until he was discovered half an hour ago. He believes he is dying, and as you, sir, perform all religious duties when there is no chaplain on board, he wants you to hear his confession.’

  ‘Crazy nonsense - tutto pazzo,’ said Sparda as he aimed a kick at the cot. ‘Undo those straps and sit the man up. Tell him to report to me tomorrow.’

  ‘As you say, Captain, but he’s not the ship’s chaplain. He was simply accompanying the Chairman of the Council. He really ought not to be on this ship.’

  ‘Too bad for him,’ said Sparda unsympathetically. ‘We will ship him ashore in Spain.’

  The chaplain now opened both eyes and gave another groan.

  ‘Has the doc seen him?’ queried Sparda.

  ‘We can’t find the doctor,’ said the attendant. ‘He may have also got left behind in Calais.’

  Sparda thought for a moment.

  ‘I’ll have a look at the Medical Guide for Ships’ Captains, and if I come across Locked in the Heads syndrome I’ll let you know how to deal with it. In this fellow’s case he has been locked in the heads, knocked on the head and consequently has gone daft in the head. That’s my diagnosis.’

  With that he turned on his heel and made for the bridge.

  At midnight Captain Sparda left the bridge and retired to his small cabin located just a few paces away. The radio was playing up again, and instead of receiving regular weather reports, the bridge party were treated to loud bursts of Classic FM playing soothing music throughout the night.

  ‘It’s blowing up a bit,’ said the Staff Captain, ‘and from what little I can gather, the wind might get stronger as the night goes on.’

  ‘Well, don’t disturb me,’ said Sparda. ‘The last few days have been stormy enough. I need some sleep.’

  And so he departed, leaving his juniors to deal with the terrors of the night.

  The least said about the Bay of Biscay the better. Suffice to record that it was rough. Very rough. Albert and Alice clung, for all they were worth, to the handrail at the head of their double bed. Albert was thrown out twice and Alice felt so ill that she managed to stagger to the tiny bathroom, where she spent the remainder of the night. When the storm had subsided somewhat and Albert was able to get to the bathroom himself, he found Alice wedged in the tiny bathtub sleeping fitfully.

  ‘Some bloomin’ holiday this is,’ he said ruefully. ‘By go, if I’d known this was to happen I’d have gone to Butlin’s instead.’

  ‘We’ve paid for it, and we’re not packing up now,’ said the resilient Alice, still feeling the effects of a night in the bathtub.

  ‘Ee our Alice,’ said Albert, in an attempt to inject some humour into the situation, ‘when I saw you in the bath, it gave a whole new meaning to “Knights of the Bath”. Night in the bath, more likely.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly, Albert Hardcastle,’ snapped Alice. ‘That’s a very poor joke and not at all funny.’

  Neither felt like going down to breakfast and so they called for Udi who brought them tea and a medicine that he swore would prevent seasickness. The ship was still pitching sharply and it took all their best efforts to sip the beverage.

  ‘Very terrible weather, sir.’ said Udi as he collected the cups. ‘One day on ship grand piano thrown upside down. Chairs on deck overboard. Sea very terrible, sir, I promise you. You very strong lady. You very strong sir.’

  The last thing Albert required was a promise of more terrible seas and so he thanked Udi for the tea and after wrestling once again with the door, let him out into the corridor.

  On the bridge there was relief all round that the ailing rudder had withstood the storm. For most of the night they had pressed on without weather reports and had become so exasperated with constantly being told to relax to soothing classics that they turned off the radio completely and navigated as best they could. And so, twenty-four hours later, the SS Golden Handshake steamed slowly into Bilbao harbour and moored directly by the Guggenheim Museum.

  14

  Rear Admiral Harrington was feeling distinctly annoyed. The journey of a lifetime that he had planned and worked for so carefully had got off to a terrible start and now, to cap it all,
he was stranded in Calais. He had telephoned his wife back in Frinton and she was most unsympathetic.

  ‘I never had a lot of faith in this venture, Benbow,’ she said unhelpfully. ‘Quite frankly, your whole career has been littered with what you like to call “unfortunate incidents”. I would call them something different. I can only hope you manage to find your ship eventually.’ And with that she hung up.

  These remarks increased Benbow’s depression even further. Years of separation had resulted in both of them developing an independence of mind, but there were times when the Admiral would have welcomed a little more empathetic understanding. In times of difficulty he had learned to lean on the ever-supportive Harry, but even this prop was denied him now as, try as he might, he could not make contact with the ship nor with Harry. He had retired to a nearby bar to work out what to do when a dejected-looking character entered. He wore a distinctly worried expression on his face and the Admiral heard him order, in English, a brandy - even though it was only ten in the morning.

  ‘Mind if I share your table?’ said the forlorn character, who wandered over from the bar clutching his glass.

  ‘Of course not,’ said the Admiral, glad to have some company.

  The visitor downed his brandy in one gulp and signalled to the attendant for another.

  ‘The truth is,’ he said to the Admiral before they had introduced themselves, ‘the truth is that I have got mixed up with one of the most damn-fool operations I have ever come across.’

  The Admiral listened sympathetically.

  ‘Ever heard of Golden Oceans?’ the man queried.

  At this juncture the Admiral decided to say nothing. He simply nodded.

  ‘Well, let me tell you, it’s a real cowboy operation. It’s supposed to be a world-class cruising company. They couldn’t navigate the Serpentine, I can tell you. I was hired as Ship’s Doctor for the World Cruise, as I had some spare time due to leaving my practice prematurely. All very unfortunate. These days, one only has to make a simple mistake and out you go. I’m not proud to admit that I diagnosed a case of smallpox as measles, and the whole town was afflicted. It’s a mistake anyone could make, don’t you agree?’