The Voyage of the Golden Handshake

by Terry Waite

  ‘A fine little ship,’ he commented to Roger Hallworthy, the Staff Captain, who was somewhat miffed that he had been usurped on the bridge by Sparda.

  Having previously served as Captain of a dredger he found hosting tables rather a strain, especially as it seemed that he was now required to do so each evening. When questioned by passengers about his previous sea-going experience he simply said that he had spent much of his life clearing some of the major waterways of the world, which gave the passengers the impression that he was some sort of security expert - and he did nothing to disillusion them.

  As Gibraltar hove into sight, Captain Sparda instructed Enzo to suggest, via the address system, that passengers might wish to come out on deck where they would get a splendid view of their destination and perhaps see some interesting shipping also.

  A large group gathered and the ever-helpful crew served beakers of the orange-coloured liquid and small pieces of toast and Marmite for refreshments. Captain Sparda went to the microphone on the bridge.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are approaching Gibraltar which, as you know, is more British than Britain herself. We have many British passengers on board and many of us have lived in the United Kingdom, so we are always attracted by this charming location.’

  One of the bridge officers who hailed from Spain glowered angrily but kept his peace.

  ‘Enjoy the magnificent view from the ship. Thank you. Gracias.’ He signed off and, picking up his telescope, surveyed the land.

  Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the ship began to turn around completely and head back towards the Rock. The helmsman wrestled with the wheel - but to no avail - as Sparda gave order after order and frantically cut the engines. After much heaving the ship was turned around and, to the relief of all, resumed its proper course. It seemed as though the faulty rudder was playing up once more.

  Sparda again addressed the passengers.

  ‘You will have noted,’ he said rather breathlessly, ‘that we did a little circuit in order to give you all a better view of Gibraltar. Now, if you look towards the starboard side, you will see approaching us one of the greatest ships ever to sail the oceans - the QE2!’

  In the middle distance passengers gazed at this massive ship which was rapidly coming towards them and would soon pass by. The QE2 drew nearer … when once again, without warning, the helmsman had to start wrestling with the wheel. The Golden Handshake was veering to starboard, and heading directly across the bows of the mighty Queen! At first, the passengers thought that good Captain Sparda was doing this to give them all a better view, and took out their cameras and snapped away. Some applauded and waved their thanks to the bridge. Their jubilation was short-lived, however, when it appeared that unless the Handshake moved with greater speed she would be hit side-on by the larger vessel. Captain Perkins, the officer in command of the Queen, did his level best to slow his ship down, but realised that this was an impossible task. He sounded the whistle repeatedly and instructed his crew to stand by the lifeboats in case there was a collision.

  On the bridge of the Golden Handshake there was panic. Sparda was issuing orders in both English and Italian. The helmsman continued in combat with an unresponsive wheel. Various other bridge officers ran up and down, not knowing what to do.

  The passengers had now scattered in confusion. Several clambered into a lifeboat and hid under a tarpaulin. Others ran to collect their valuables from the cabin. It was a scene of utter pandemonium. By nothing short of the grace of God, a collision was avoided and the mighty Queen of the ocean sailed by, leaving the Golden Handshake bobbing like a cork in the turbulent waters. A large wave sloshed over the deck, drenching any passenger who had not sought shelter. Captain Perkins, normally a mild-mannered Christian man, came on the radio to Captain Sparda, and his remarks are not printable. Eventually order was restored and the Golden Handshake, complete with a very traumatised group of passengers and crew, sailed into Gibraltar.

  Gibraltar came as a rude shock to many passengers who had been persuaded to buy their liquor in Seville, for here in Little Britain real bargains were to be obtained. The only two people to be delighted were Albert, who was able to purchase a reasonable supply of Brown Ale, and the doctor, who found enough brandy to last even him for a week or so. The remainder complained that they had been ripped off in Spain and that they ought to have been warned, but their complaining got them nowhere and reluctantly they bought more supplies in Gibraltar to last them even further into the cruise.

  Albert and Alice were doubly delighted for, in Gibraltar, they found that they could enjoy fish and chips just like the fish and chips back home in Grimsby. Albert ordered two portions and declared Gibraltar to be ‘a grand little town’. There was a slight delay to the departure of the ship as an inspection party had to be summoned to check the rudder. This time Captain Sparda did not venture underwater but contented himself with the report which said that no problem could be found but a proper investigation could only take place in dry dock. As such a move would mean cancelling the cruise, the Captain ruled it out and decided to continue to chance his arm.

  There was only one minor incident that caused some alarm to a few passengers. They had decided to take a break from a diet of beans and have a meal in a restaurant situated high up on the Rock, with superb views over the ocean. The group sat at an outside table and were perusing the menu when one of their number turned to give his order to the waiter, and to his alarm, rather than a black-coated attendant, he was confronted by some sort of ape. At first he wondered if the vino he had been consuming was stronger than usual, but when the ape cuffed him across the ear and took several slices of bread from the table, he realised that the animal was real enough.

  All the table panicked and began to run towards the covered part of the restaurant, chased by this formidable and hungry native of Gibraltar. A waiter rushed from the kitchen with a water pistol, which he proceeded to fire off, but as he was no marksman, instead of hitting the ape, he drenched several passengers.

  The only person to be pleased by this event was of course the doctor, as two or three of the party suffered from minor cuts and bruises obtained when they stumbled when fleeing from their assailant, and one had a very sore ear. The doctor now had his brandy, which was good, but he reckoned that a few fees would also be very acceptable - and he welcomed his patients with open arms.

  19

  It was Sunday morning and the ship was bowling along at a merry pace towards the super-rich territory of Monaco. The Admiral was not happy about this port of call for, as a religious man, he was firmly against gambling in all its forms and regarded Monaco as one of the gambling capitals of the world. Harry was insistent that the venue be included as he reasoned that many of the passengers would love to see the Casino and even perhaps risk staking a euro or two. The Captain was not bothered in the slightest. If Monaco was on the list he would go there. If not, no matter. Monaco was included and so on a lovely sunny morning, the good ship Golden Handshake, set sail for the Principality.

  As it was a Sunday morning, the Reverend Justin Longparish was due to take centre-stage and conduct morning worship. If there was no Chaplain on board a British Registered ship, then the Captain of the vessel took Divine Service. Because the Handshake, thanks to an unfortunate incident, did have an official cleric on board, now was the time for him to perform.

  The Admiral was faced with a dilemma. His conscience told him that he must attend Sunday worship, but he had not yet determined how he was going to deal with the situation when he came face to face with the doctor. He decided that worship should come first, and knowing what he did about the doctor, he doubted that the man would turn up to sing any hymns. Of course, he thought, if the doctor had been consuming his normal intake of brandy he might be more than happy to sing about angels, sunbeams or anything else one might care to name.

  At ten o’clock the Admiral, Captain and senior officers, plus the Hotel Manager and the Cruise Director, gathered in the auditorium. Harry Parkh
urst was seated at the piano which was somewhat out of tune, but passable if he played loudly enough. Angela Fairweather stood at the door with a bundle of hymn sheets that Harry had been able to obtain from the Salvation Army in Huddersfield. She handed one to each passenger as she bade them a cheery good morning.

  Eleven o’clock approached and the Captain became agitated.

  ‘Where is that damn man?’ he whispered to the Staff Captain, who was beside him. ‘And where is the Golden Glory Choir? He said he was going to have them in top form for today. I know Harry obtained some old curtain material which he said could easily be adapted into the most attractive vestments for them. Surely they would be glad to show off.’

  As the minutes ticked by without any sign of the chaplain, Enzo the Cruise Director became more and more worried for, unless the service started soon, people would be late for his Albanian language class at eleven. Enzo was not the only one to be concerned. By now the Captain was furious. He turned to the Admiral.

  ‘You start the service and I’ll go and hunt for the man.’

  Although small in stature, Captain Sparda was most agile. He leaped from the stage and proceeded at the double towards the Medical Centre.

  The ever-dutiful attendant flinched when the Captain burst in and shouted, ‘Where is he? Doesn’t he know the time?’

  The attendant, thinking that the Captain required the doctor, pointed towards the medic’s small cabin.

  ‘I think he’s asleep, Captain,’ he stuttered.

  ‘Asleep?’ roared Sparda. ‘Asleep? I’ll put him to sleep for good when I see him.’ With that he threw open the door and revealed a supine doctor fast asleep clutching an empty brandy bottle.

  ‘What in God’s name is this?’ Sparda seethed. ‘This isn’t the chaplain.’

  The terrified attendant remained mute.

  ‘Come on, fellow, stir yourself. For the last time, where is the damn chaplain?’

  The attendant pointed a trembling finger towards the tiny sickbay and without more ado the Captain entered to reveal the chaplain, attired in a dressing-gown and seated at a small table.

  ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ he roared, as only little men can roar. ‘Stand up, man. Well, explain!’

  The chaplain stood as he was commanded, but remained mute, which increased the Captain’s fury.

  ‘Are you a total imbecille?’ he shouted, using the forceful Italian word. ‘ Explain. E - S - P - L - I - N - E’.

  He spelled out the letters of the word one by one.

  Still not replying, the chaplain fumbled in a drawer and produced a pencil and paper on which he scrawled: I have a very serious throat condition. I am forbidden to speak. Tomorrow I am allowed four words per hour.

  ‘Diavolo!’ cursed the Captain as he aimed a kick at the chair on which the chaplain had once again sat. ‘As soon as your quota of words increases, report to me.’

  And with that he stormed out of the sickbay to resume Divine Worship.

  When Captain Sparda returned to the service, it was almost over. The Admiral had managed to make things up as he went along but, due to the fact that they had been depending on the chaplain to provide the readings and prayers, it was impossible to arrange these at such short notice and so he filled in with hymns. When Sparda entered, the congregation were on their tenth hymn and approaching exhaustion. Captain Sparda took his place on the stage as the worthy passengers were singing about golden corn waving in some far-off land. He signalled to Harry to bring the hymn to a halt and introduced the final hymn - the ‘sailor’s hymn’ as he described it: ‘Eternal Father, Strong to Save’.

  ‘After this hymn,’ he announced, ‘there will be a collection for Mrs Hubbard’s Fund for Shipwrecked Sailors. Please be generous.’

  The weary congregation waded through the restless waves, contributed generously so that Mrs Hubbard did not lose face, and then speedily hastened towards their cabins for a drink and a rest.

  ‘Thank you all,’ said Sparda to the stage party. ‘The chaplain is currently indisposed, but will be back on full duty shortly.’

  The moment the congregation had gone, Enzo scurried off to explore Albanian lexicography; Radley went to the kitchen to make his peace with Chef Tucker; Harry went to the bar area which now had a limited stock of drinks and where he was due to play the piano during the hour before lunch, and Captain Sparda returned to the bridge, leaving the poor old Staff Captain to escort the eighty-year-old twin sisters from New Zealand who were celebrating their birthday in the Golden Chopsticks restaurant with a plate of noodles and perhaps a slice of date pie with custard.

  The remainder of the sea day passed tranquilly enough. During the afternoon, a game of deck quoits was arranged, but so many quoits were lost over the side that the game was brought to a premature halt. At the Sunday-evening dinner, Mike Tucker and his team excelled themselves, having bought extra supplies in Gibraltar. After several days of beans in various disguises, some fresh fish or a beef steak were much appreciated by the travellers, who warmly applauded Mike when he appeared in the dining room wearing his traditional Chef’s gear. Prior to this evening he had remained well out of sight for fear of being attacked by irate passengers.

  Another member of the ship’s company who continued to remain in hiding was the owner of the Line, Admiral Benbow Harrington. He still could not puzzle out how he was going to deal with the problem of the doctor. He had requested that Captain Sparda monitor his performance and get passengers who visited him to fill out an evaluation sheet. If there was rampant displeasure with the man, then this would give grounds for putting the fellow ashore. What was clear was that he, the Admiral and shipping magnate, could not remain in hiding on his own ship simply because he was embarrassed by a rogue medico. He determined that the following day he would confront the fellow and have things out with him once and for all.

  That evening, the Admiral, as usual, had dinner alone and later on, when the ship was quiet and there was only the sound of the ancient engine throbbing its weary way through the water, he took his customary stroll around the deck. He was just about to return to his cabin when he caught his foot in a deck quoit which had been left behind following the abandonment of the game that afternoon. He went down with an almighty crash, hitting his head on some object or other and immediately lapsed into unconsciousness. Some twenty minutes later, he was discovered by a deck-hand who sounded the alert. A stretcher-party arrived and the poor man was bundled through the narrow corridors of the ship and down to the Medical Centre.

  The same weary attendant was on duty and he suggested that the stretcher be laid out across a table so that the doctor might examine the patient. The attendant, who had had too many nervous encounters with his superiors on the ship, paled visibly when he was informed that the figure lying prone on the stretcher was none other than Admiral Benbow Harrington, the owner of the Line. He said that he would summon the doctor immediately and disappeared.

  It was the practice on the ship not to broadcast emergency messages across the information system so as not to cause unnecessary alarm. However, coded messages were relayed. The doctor had been given a code name ‘Fairylight 42’ and ‘Fairy-light 42’ was requested to make his way to his post immediately. That evening, the doctor had been for dinner with several passengers and had greatly appreciated their hospitality, especially their willingness to share with him some of their spoils gained from a visit to Gibraltar. Several bottles of wine were dispatched, and had not the host, an elderly gentleman from Godalming, become alarmed at the rapid rate at which his precious stock was diminishing, most of the table would have finished up on the dining-room floor.

  After a most convivial dinner, the doctor withdrew to the library where he accepted a very large cigar and engaged two or three of his dinner companions in a game of pontoon. Some rather cheap brandy, which a passenger had bought in Seville, was produced and the evening progressed nicely. The library was one of the places on the ship with a loudspeaker and, at a particularly
tense point in the bidding, the said speaker sprang into life.

  ‘What the hell can that be?’ queried the doctor. There was much laughter as the appeal went out for ‘Fairylight 42’.

  ‘Perhaps it’s approaching Christmas,’ said one wit, ‘and they want to decorate the tree.’

  More laughter followed as the appeal was repeated.

  The doctor was too far gone to recognise his code-name, even if he had remembered it - which he hadn’t. When the message was repeated a fourth time, he looked up and threw a solid glass ashtray at the speaker, which fell silent at the very same moment as it fell off the wall.

  The merry group resumed their game and ‘Fairylight 42’ continued to do damage to the brandy bottle on the table. Half an hour later, the door of the library burst open and the worried medical attendant entered. He took one look around, spotted the doctor and moved to his side.

  ‘Sir,’ he began.

  The doctor waved his hand at him, saying, ‘Sit down, laddie. We’ll deal you in next time.’

  The attendant did not sit down but tugged at the man’s sleeve.

  ‘Sir,’ he pleaded. ‘You are urgently needed.’

  ‘I know that,’ the Doctor said dismissively. ‘A doctor is always needed on board a ship.’

  ‘Sir,’ repeated the boy with increasing anxiety. ‘Now sir. Please - come with me.’

  One of the group, a certain Mr Coles who had been more moderate in his imbibing that evening, stepped in.

  ‘I think he wants you to go with him immediately,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there is an emergency?’ It took all the persuasive power of the attendant and Mr Coles to get the doctor to his feet and propel him in the direction of the Medical Centre where he arrived some very considerable time after the Admiral had been carried in.

  Never has anyone in the living memory of drinkers across the ages sobered up so quickly as the doctor did that evening. He entered the room, took one look at the semi-conscious figure on the table and cried out, ‘My God in heaven, who is that?’