by Terry Waite
Enzo was still wearing the eye-patch which, in fact, enhanced his appearance and gave him a certain romantic air.
‘Admiral Benbow Harrington has had a long and distinguished career in the Royal Navy and we are fortunate that he not only founded Golden Oceans but planned this very cruise himself. Friends, let me ask you to rise and offer a toast to “Golden Oceans”.’
There was a clattering as diners struggled to their feet, raised glasses and mumbled something incomprehensible before sitting again.
The Admiral rose to his feet. He cut an impressive figure as, for this special evening, he had decked himself out in his finest gold braid complete with an array of medals that would have put a shooting gallery to shame.
‘Fellow cruisers,’ he began. ‘What a wonderful evening. I am sure you will want to join me in thanking those responsible, especially our Head Chef Mike.’
Giovanni’s accordion sounded out several triumphant chords and Mike appeared yet again. When the applause had died down, the Admiral resumed.
‘Life has its high moments and its low episodes. I owe you an explanation. Some of you will have been alarmed by incorrect stories concerning the security of this ship. Let me say clearly, as an officer and a gentleman, that all ships which pass through this region have full security. All ships - and the Golden Handshake is no exception. You may sleep soundly in your bunks.’ (Here he quickly recalled that he was addressing cruise passengers, not ratings of the Royal Navy and quickly altered bunks to Suites.)
‘You may sleep soundly in your Suites and cabins, knowing that you have a Golden Guarantee of security. The gentleman who got too much sun, and therefore became over-excited during his lecture, will leave the ship in India. Now, let me hand you over to the Master of this great cruise liner. Your Captain and Friend, Captain Peché Sparda.’
The Admiral’s moving little speech engendered tremendous applause. Guests banged their tables and rattled the glassware. Never in his life had the Admiral been so well acclaimed.
Now it was Captain Sparda’s turn. During this cruise he had become increasingly confident and had grown into his role as Master of the Golden Handshake. The ship had faced more problems than he had ever anticipated but, so far, if Angus MacDonald and his team could keep the steering gear under control, then all seemed set well. Gradually he was getting to know the abilities and shortcomings of his team. Duvet was competent and unemotional. Bigatoni had his heart in the right place but needed a firm hand to direct him. Angela was just lovely, unobtrusive and charming to all she met. Harry Parkhurst, not really a member of his team but under his command whilst he was Captain, was a trusted and wise adviser. The Staff Captain, Roger Hallworthy, was a seasoned sailor and able to take command at the drop of a hat. Head Chef Tucker knew his job and could come up with wholesome food, even if some passengers said it was not exciting. He, the Captain, didn’t want his meals to be exciting. He wanted good nourishing food, or ‘tucker’ as he had heard the doctor refer to it once. As for Doctor Stuart Hackett, well he was unquestionably a one-off, but so far he hadn’t killed anyone, at least so far as he knew - and most people seemed to like him. Arthur Chub remained in the background as his job demanded, and seemed an able security man. That brought him to the chaplain, the Reverend Justin Longparish. Sparda had begun with a very low opinion of the fellow, but had been completely taken by surprise in Libya by the cleric’s ability to resolve a problem that would have defeated the greatest brains in the United Nations.
Captain Sparda got to his feet and Felix de Barkley, the comedian of the lecture theatre, unable to contain himself any further, shouted, ‘Seconds out. Round one.’
This brought him a very disapproving stare from his wife, but the other passengers, emboldened by complimentary wine, enjoyed the joke and laughed heartily.
Sparda, always ready to rise to the occasion, adopted a defensive stance by clenching and raising both his fists, which again caused laughter.
‘Dear Friends,’ he started. ‘Tonight is one of life’s Golden Moments for us all.’
An audible groan echoed from the doctor’s table but Sparda continued undeterred.
‘This cruise has had its challenges, but life at sea is full of challenges. In all my years spent sailing the deep, I have encountered storm and tempest, fire and flood, but with the aid of my trusty crew we sailed on, confident that we would reach port.’
‘Is he auditioning for a part at the Old Vic?’ whispered the doctor.
His table companions ignored him as they were listening intently to the Captain.
‘Tonight, I want to honour a very special and humble man.’
The doctor looked at Albert. ‘What have you done, Mr Hardcastle?’ he asked.
Albert looked flustered, but made no comment.
‘That man is with us tonight. May I ask the Reverend Justin Longparish MA to kindly step forward.’
‘Who the hell is that?’ asked the doctor, genuinely surprised.
On Angela’s table, the chaplain stirred uneasily. Angela took hold of his arm.
‘It’s you, Justin,’ she said gently. ‘He wants you to go forward.’
‘Me?’ he said. ‘What for?’
‘Just get up and join the Captain,’ she said.
The chaplain got uneasily out of his seat, and to shouts of, ‘Good one, Justin!’ he walked slowly forward and stood alongside Sparda. The Admiral then rose and positioned himself on the other side of the chaplain so that it looked as if they were about to march him away to the brig.
‘Chaplain, I know you are a modest man and I shall not embarrass you further,’ said the Captain, ‘but I have to say that you, and you alone, have saved this cruise and the good name of Golden Oceans. We now present you with the highest award this company can offer. This award, normally called “The Golden Eagle Award”, has been specially renamed in your honour as “The Golden Chalice”.’
The Admiral picked up a small case which he handed to the chaplain, and then all three posed whilst Harry Parkhurst took a photograph. Giovanni struck up ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ and the whole dining room stood up and sang along. When they had finished, cries of, ‘Speech, speech!’ resounded around the room.
The chaplain, totally lost for words, thanked everyone and declared that he could not think what he had done to receive such acclaim. He did not ever intend to come on a cruise but here he was. He had been very ill, but the doctor had been very good to him. He rambled on but no one was really listening and it did not matter what he said. Everyone was determined to hon-our a hero and honour him they would. When he started to talk about his curacy in Littlehampton and how much he owed to his mother, the Captain touched his arm and the chaplain stopped in mid-sentence and promptly sat down to further applause.
‘I have never been so humiliated in my life,’ Alice fumed to Albert after they had returned to their Suite following the dinner. ‘How was I to know that Christine Potts would take the same paper pattern out of the Ladies Friend and make the same dress as myself?’
Albert had no answer to that question. It was way beyond his competence.
‘It were a nice evening,’ he yawned, ‘but I wouldn’t want to do it every week’. And with that he turned over and went to sleep.
Following the Golden Dinner, passengers faced several days at sea before they reached their next port of call, Cochin in South India. Enzo, now back with the responsibility of arranging the programme for entertainers and lecturers had been able to produce a more sensible schedule. In consultation with the Hotel Manager, an extra act had been brought onto the ship at Eilat. This was due to a brainwave of Harry’s, who wanted to provide the passengers of the Golden Handshake with a very special experience. As far as he knew, there was no record of any cruise ship providing a circus for the entertainment of passengers.
Through one of his many contacts he had heard of a unique act involving animals - and he asked for more details. A full-blown circus was quite out of the question, but a discreet act, involving a few members of
the animal kingdom, might go down very well indeed. Eventually the information came through to him and he was in luck. It seemed that a certain entertainer by the name of Rupert van der Loon had just been performing in Tel Aviv. He was due to fly home to England for a period of rest but could be available to sail with the ship for several days.
Although not quite what Harry had in mind, the act seemed to him to be most unusual and worth booking. Mr van der Loon was, by all accounts, a hypnotist who travelled with a parrot which he claimed was a mindreader. He also had a dog, Charlie, who could whistle! Harry would believe that when he saw it, but, as Mr van der Loon was going cheap he snapped him up and secreted him and his two travelling companions on board in Eilat. Although the dreadful Toby Troy had observed the security guards, he had missed van der Loon and his fellow performers, and no one, apart from Harry, Enzo and the Security Officer, knew that the trio were on board.
It had been a peaceful day for the doctor. He had spent an hour of so in his surgery dealing with the usual run of coughs, colds and heart murmurs. Rarely did anything of real interest come up, and he wasn’t too sorry about that as it was a long time since he had had a medical refresher - and since that time, the world of medical science had undoubtedly moved on. His evening surgery was equally uninteresting, and it was with some relief that he went to the Golden Dinner. The table he had been given to host was dire, but he tried to liven things up a bit - without much success. He was fairly generous to himself with the beverages on offer and finally got to bed about one in the morning.
He always slept soundly, but at about 3 a.m. he was snatched from the world of dreams by the ringing of his bedside phone and a sharp knocking on his door. He stumbled out of bed, uncertain what to do next. Answer the phone or open the door? He decided to open the door. A worried-looking passenger stood there wrapped in a frayed dressing-gown and in the company of a steward.
‘Can you come immediately, Doctor? It’s my wife. A medical emergency.’
‘Hold on a moment,’ the doctor replied. ‘The telephone.’ He picked it up and it was Reception, asking him to go to a Balcony Suite for an emergency call.
‘Trouble always comes in threes,’ he said cheerfully as he quickly slipped into a tracksuit. ‘I expect a carrier pigeon will arrive in a moment with the same message.’
He trotted off behind the two messengers, down the corridor and up the steps to the top of the ship.
‘I suppose you sing “Nearer My God to Thee” every night up here, do you?’ he said to the Balcony Suite occupant. ‘One can only hope that it is truly heavenly.’
The doctor and the dressing-gown entered the room, leaving the steward outside. Once inside, the doctor observed a lady in bed moaning to herself.
‘It’s my wife, Doctor,’ said the dressing-gown. ‘She was at the dinner tonight, and almost as soon as she got back here she complained of feeling terribly ill - nauseous and breathless. I should add that she is a diabetic.’
‘Ah,’ said the doctor. ‘I thought you had been raiding the chef’s fruit store. That explains the smell of over-ripe apples. Good evening, Ma’am,’ he said politely to the patient. ‘Tell me, did you fall foul to the culinary efforts of the great Chef Tucker?’
The patient moaned. ‘I couldn’t resist the Golden Syrup Pudding,’ she said weakly. ‘It was so good, and then I had the Golden Shred option also. Oh, I feel dreadful.’
‘Ketones,’ said the doctor confidently. ‘That’s what it is, ketones. Get me her kit,’ he said to the dressing-gown. Then: ‘No, man - not her clothes, her diabetic kit!’
He quickly did a blood test and then injected her with a top-up of insulin.
‘No problem now,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Ketones often make the breath smell, you know.’
The woman looked startled. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘I didn’t know that. Is that right?’
‘Oh yes,’ said the doctor, ‘It’s quite common and very noticeable. People don’t usually pass comment, but they know all right.’
‘Well, blow me down,’ said the husband, looking relieved. ‘I never knew that.’
‘Perhaps you have recently married,’ said the doctor, ‘and you haven’t noticed. If ever this dear lady’s blood sugar goes high again,’ the doctor told him, ‘get up close and it will be obvious.’
Both occupants of the Balcony Suite now looked even more confused.
‘It’s incredible,’ said the patient groggily. ‘How can an overindulgence in Syrup Pudding possibly make my breasts swell so quickly? Put on weight eventually, perhaps, but an instant increase in the region you mention seems totally incredible. Are you a properly qualified doctor?’
‘My dear lady,’ the doctor said patiently, ‘I said breath smell, not breasts swell. Here.’ He pointed towards his mouth with his forefinger. ‘Over-ripe apples. Here.’
He pointed again.
‘Breath. Well, I must return to the Land of Nod. Watch your figure, young lady, and lay off the syrup otherwise you’ll swell all over. Toodle pip, and I won’t say sweet dreams, just happy ones.’
He left the suite laughing to himself. As he descended to the lower regions he could have sworn he heard a sound that he had not heard since his days in the Congo. Was that a parrot? He listened again, but all was silent.
Perhaps Bigatoni had got some extra props to go with his eye-patch, he thought and continued to his quarters. He was soon to learn otherwise.
31
Sunday morning dawned and the chaplain woke in his double bed in the Balcony Suite. The sun was streaming in through the porthole, filling the little room with warm beams of light. Compared to the cot in the Medical Centre this was heaven, although he felt rather guilty at having been so honoured by the ship when all he did was accompany the Port Chaplain on his delicate mission. Perhaps, he reasoned, he had played a part in providing moral support to his old college friend. It was best now to forget the past and get on with doing what he had been requested to do, and that was be the chaplain on board.
Last night at the Golden Dinner, he had been very embarrassed and, had it not been for the supportive presence of Angela, he would not have been able to go through with it. Everyone congratulated him on his speech, but it was terrible. He had had no idea what to say or how to say it. Sermonising had never been his strong point. He suddenly realised that tomorrow would be Sunday, and a sea day, and he was due to take the morning service. What was he to do? The doctor had warned him not to exceed three minutes for his sermon and the Captain wanted half an hour at least. He would consult Angela who had a good mind for planning and would surely be able to help him resolve this dilemma.
It was well known on the ship that the aggressive Mr Toby Troy, once honoured by the State for his great skill in dealing with complex foreign affairs, would be leaving the ship in India and would deliver no more lectures. The chaplain understood that the unfortunate man was now locked in the brig, waiting to be put ashore. As chaplain, he felt it was his duty to visit the captive and to offer him some comfort in his distress.
Later that morning, he approached Captain Sparda whom he caught in the reception area. ‘Ah Padre,’ said Sparda, in his jolly confident manner. ‘Well done last night. Lovely evening and you were the star turn.’
The chaplain blushed, an unfortunate trait which had caused him much suffering at school.
‘I was thinking of visiting Mr Troy today,’ he said, ‘and wondered if this would be acceptable to you.’
‘It would be acceptable to me if you took the little fellow and threw him over the stern.’ Sparda replied. ‘Never have I seen such mischief contained within so small a frame. Visit him by all means. I’ll ask Harry Chub to give you the keys.’ The Captain strode away and the chaplain went in search of Harry.
When the ship was converted into a cruise liner, there had been much discussion as to whether there ought to be a special place in which to confine miscreants, or not. Some argued that they could be secured easily in a cabin. Others said that as there might be s
ome individuals who, because of drink, had lost control, a secure cell or brig would be more appropriate. It was decided that there would be such a place, and a very small area was utilised, which had formerly been used to store potatoes. Harry escorted the chaplain to the brig, unlocked the door and left him. Troy was sitting on a low stool reading by the light of a lamp attached to the wall.
‘May I come in, please?’ the chaplain said politely.
‘If you must,’ said Troy. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he groaned. ‘God’s last hope for a fallen world.’
The chaplain entered and sat on a ledge attached to the wall.
‘I am so sorry to find you here,’ he began, but Troy responded before he could continue.
‘Well, who did you expect to find? Sleeping Beauty? Aladdin?’
The chaplain was taken aback. ‘Well no, of course not. That was just a figure of speech. I meant that I was sorry that you have been confined to this dungeon.’
‘Well, let me tell you,’ said Troy, in a voice filled with righteous anger, ‘I am not a bit sorry! Not one bit. As soon as I leave this ship, this whole floating outpost of MI6 will be exposed to the world. It is no coincidence that there is an Admiral on board. They say he is retired. Tripe! My guess is he is a serving officer of the security services and that his lackey, Sparda, had deliberately endangered the lives of innocent people by sailing into dangerous waters to spy!’ He almost shouted the last word.
‘This is clearly a spy ship, Mr Holy Chaplain, sir, and you are complicit in a huge espionage operation involving the Mafia, Mossad, MI6 and a dozen or more private operatives.’
‘Really,’ said the chaplain, ‘how can you make such an assertion?’
‘With ease,’ said Troy confidently. ‘Did not the Captain loiter off the coast of Libya until he was chased away? I have seen with my very own eyes armed men prowling through this ship after cover of darkness. I am not easily fooled, you know. I know Hezbollah and their ways. I understand Mossad. As for the spooks from MI6, they are under deep cover as passengers or crew members. Mark my words in red ink, and reflect on them long after I have exposed this whole outfit through Wikiwatts.’