The Voyage of the Golden Handshake

by Terry Waite

  The group assembled by the gangway in the early evening, covered from head to foot in insect repellent. Radley had very kindly issued them with an evil-smelling potion which he claimed would not only keep mosquitos away, but would prevent unwelcome attention from other inhabitants of the region. Not that the ladies of the party had a great deal to fear. He previously had instructed them that they would be going to a home where they would be given a meal and entertained. They all clambered into a mini-bus just large enough for eight, plus Radley and the driver. All the group held on tightly as once outside the port area the driver put his foot down. They had become accustomed to rapid movement on the ship, but this experience was even more dramatic than that. The driver, singing to himself in Malayalam, whizzed past pedestrians, cyclists, motorbikes, autos and handcarts, and brought several chickens to within an inch of the cooking pot.

  Before they had gone half a mile, Mr Potts, who was a retired plumber from Dartford in Kent, expressed regret at leaving the ship. His wife told him to, ‘Be quiet, Thomas,’ in a tone of voice that would have caused ice to appear on the windscreen had she been in the front of the vehicle.

  Felix de Barkley, never one to hold back, addressed the driver. ‘Being chased, are we, squire? Done a bank robbery or something?’

  The driver, totally failing to understand British irony, smiled broadly. ‘Very good, sir. I like English, sir. You live in Billericay, sir? I have sister in Billericay. Very lovely, sir. I like drive in Billericay, sir. I see you in Billericay, sir?’

  ‘You won’t see me for dust,’ said de Barkley, holding on tightly.

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the driver.

  They continued at breakneck speed along a very dusty road until, to the relief of all, with the possible exception of the twin sisters, they arrived at their destination. The Parkinson twins were clearly made of very stern stuff.

  ‘What a lovely journey,’ said Petra sweetly to the driver.

  ‘So lovely,’ echoed Philippa. ‘I do hope you will be taking us home,’ she continued, as the driver helped her down from the bus.

  ‘At the rate he was going, we’ll all finish up in the eternal home,’ de Barkley muttered.

  His wife pushed him towards a small welcoming party who stood with garlands in their hands, ready to drape them around the necks of their visitors.

  Albert, who after much persuasion was wearing an Hawaiian coloured shirt along with his flat cloth cap, stood rigid as a young sari-clad lady placed the string of coloured flowers around his neck. It was slightly damp as it had been refreshed prior to the girl bringing it out of the house, and Albert felt a slow trickle of water running down his back.

  ‘After a while you may remove them,’ said Radley, ‘but on no account leave them behind. That would be very rude.’

  The party, now all welcomed and adorned, moved onwards through to what seemed to be a coconut grove. Suddenly Albert felt an insect that had crawled out of its fragrant home biting his neck, already made sore by sunburn. He made to remove the garland but Radley waved his hand and whispered, ‘Too early - later.’

  ‘Oh, do be still!’ snapped Alice, as he continued to fidget with the garland. ‘It’s impossible to go anywhere with you, Albert Hardcastle.’

  As she spoke she smiled broadly, just in case Mrs Potts was watching. Old Man Potts remained as morose as ever and meekly followed his wife. Years of squeezing under sinks and dealing with bathroom leaks had accustomed him to water and outwardly at least he remained untroubled by the irrigation of his flowers.

  ‘Our hosts would like us to sit,’ said Radley, once they were in the grove.

  ‘Looks as though the bailiffs have called,’ said de Barkley, unable to keep quiet for a moment. ‘Not a stick of furniture to be seen, is there?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Barkley, do you really think so?’ asked Petra, with concern in her voice. ‘How good of them to give us a meal when facing such hardships themselves.’

  Some coverings had been laid on the ground and with much effort the party sat down.

  Their host, a stocky man with a dark face that shone and glistened by the lights of the coloured bulbs that had been draped over a rough wooden structure, gave a small speech of welcome. He said that he was honoured, his family were honoured, the whole village was honoured, and they would all remember this evening for many a year. Now some of his eleven children would sing a song of welcome which said how honoured they all were.

  ‘This part of the world must dominate the New Year’s Honours List,’ quipped de Barkley, but no one was listening. All eyes were focused on several young men clutching hand microphones, and two or three young women in saris who appeared from the house.

  One of the party, a youth clad like his father in a long white cloth which wrapped around the body like a skirt, began to sing and was soon accompanied by the others. The words made no sense whatsoever to the visitors, and the tune was one that was certainly not played regularly in the Hardcastle household. They listened politely as the ancient loudspeakers did their best to relay the welcoming message. When that was over, the young men sat down and the girls put a large banana leaf in front of the visitors.

  ‘Ye gods,’ quipped de Barkley. ‘The bailiffs have taken the crockery as well!’

  Each visitor was handed a small glass and this was filled with a milky-looking liquid by one of the young women.

  ‘Toddy,’ said the host.’ Very good toddy. Drink, please.’

  Radley whispered that the drink was fermented coconut milk, and if they didn’t want it then there would be bottled soft drinks available later. The twin sisters were the only members of the party to quaff their beverage immediately, and to accept more when it was offered. The host was delighted and filled their glasses for a third time, much to the alarm of Radley, who motioned to their host behind their back that enough was enough. The girls then came along and, after pouring water over the hands of the diners, began to serve the first course, which was a lentil puree and vegetables served directly onto the leaf.

  ‘Sambar very good,’ said their host, as he scooped a portion up in his hand and transferred it to his mouth.

  The only time Albert had eaten with his hands was fish and chips from a newspaper, but they were a bit easier to manage than the hot red fish curry which came next. To say that it was hot was to underestimate the temperature. It was raging hot. Fighting hot - and those brave enough to attempt it, in desperation, downed their previously undrunk toddy and pleaded for soft drinks. Whilst they were still reeling from the effects of the toddy and curry combined, several more individuals appeared carrying drums and stringed instruments and began to play loudly.

  The sisters, now well into the swing of things, were merrily waving their toddy glasses in the air and attempting to sing along. Mr and Mrs Potts looked stunned and were sweating profusely. Albert had removed his garland and handed it to Alice, who slipped it around her own ample neck. De Barkley seemed to have slipped into a coma, for he had his eyes closed and an expression of acute pain on his face. His wife, smiled and nodded at Alice, who smiled back. It was indeed an evening to remember. The music came to as abrupt an end as it had started, and some very sweet sticky rice was served, which managed to get all over Albert’s shirt, much to Alice’s annoyance. Frankly, it was a terrible struggle for the party to get to their feet - all except for the sisters, that is, who had been dancing around, much to the delight and amusement of their hosts.

  Fond farewells were said and promises of everlasting friendship were made. The Hotel Manager slipped a brown envelope into the hand of the beaming host, and the Balcony Suite passengers returned to the safety and comfort of the Golden Handshake.

  Back on board, the chaplain reflected on one of the happiest days he had spent in a long time. He had been given an address where he would be able to get some clothes made before the ship sailed the following day but, being somewhat shy and not having much of an idea as to what to order, he was apprehensive. He was conversant with the history of Christian
s in Kerala, a history which stretched back to the second century, and he was also aware of the ancient synagogue which he wanted to visit. He was contemplating all this over breakfast when Angela approached him.

  ‘Hello, Justin,’ she said. ‘May I join you?’ He agreed immediately and, in his shyness at the unexpected visit, knocked his tomato juice over the clean white tablecloth. The mess was soon cleared, however, and they sat down together.

  ‘I wondered if you were busy today?’ she asked as she started on her cereal. ‘I was thinking of going ashore and if you were free, we might go together.’

  He couldn’t believe his luck. Angela was so friendly and helpful, and she would surely give him advice on the clothing he needed to buy. It was agreed that they would meet at the gangway at ten and go ashore then. Angela had insisted that he order three collarless shirts suitable to be worn with a clerical stock, a linen suit and two sports shirts - and a new dark suit as, she said, the one he was wearing had seen much better days. Shoes and other items, such as socks and underwear, could be purchased elsewhere in town.

  When he expressed apprehension at the cost of this wardrobe, she astounded him by saying that the passengers had had a collection and, in her estimation, there was more than enough to buy what he needed.

  ‘It is no good protesting,’ she beamed. ‘I have the money here and, as we have no record of who gave what, it can’t be returned. So, you must use it.’

  The day had been a resounding success. The tailor was found without difficulty. He measured the chaplain and promised that all the goods would be delivered to the ship before she sailed.

  On a less cheerful note he had visited Toby Troy again, before Troy left the ship. The man’s enforced detention had steeled his resolve to intensify his battle against all, that in his opinion, he considered oppressive. The chaplain had offered to accompany Troy to the bus station, but Troy had replied by saying that he didn’t want a cleric at his funeral and he certainly didn’t want one trailing him on his pathway through life. It had been his misfortune previously to have got caught up with religion and he had been duped by the clever rhetoric of religious propagandists when he was too young to make a proper judgement. As far as he was concerned, the clergy were parasites, feeding on a mesmerised public, and he could do without parasites, thank you very much!

  So Mr Toby Troy, once the darling of the Bible Pugilists, went alone to the station to prepare himself for battle of a different kind.

  That night, the chaplain laid his head on the pillow and sighed contentedly. It had been a full and almost completely happy day. Life at sea, despite its many hazards, was not so bad at all.

  On the final day in Cochin, several tours had been arranged. Fred Batty, who had never been to India before but had done intensive research on the internet, was due to take a small group around the sights in the city of ‘Kochi’.

  Enzo, who did not normally lead tours, had volunteered to take a party from the ship on the backwaters. He had heard a great deal about these waterways running through the State, and desired to see them. As the journey involved travel by road of almost two hours in each direction, those who had previously experienced road travel in Kerala decided that enough was enough. The exception to this was the New Zealand sisters, who had thoroughly enjoyed the minibus ride they had taken to the dinner and immediately put themselves down for the marathon to the backwaters. Harry Parkhurst was also keen to take this particular outing, as were Sir Archibald and his wife Lady Veronika. Various other passengers from the Grade One cabins and lower berths made up the remainder of the party.

  Enzo assembled the group at the foot of the gangway. He had with him a huge yellow and black umbrella which he held aloft in the style of countless tour guides throughout the world. Harry discreetly remained in the background: his job was to keep count of the group in order to make sure that no one got lost or left behind. This was not an easy task as individuals would lag behind or wander off the main track. He was constantly counting and checking.

  As near to the departure time as could be expected, a group of fifteen from the ship waited patiently for their bus. It was interesting for the locals for observe the manner in which the visitors dressed. Sir Archie had obtained from somewhere a toupee which, he insisted, was totally appropriate for India as the word was derived from the Hindi word ‘topi’ meaning hat. Harry suggested gently that it might stimulate memories of the old Raj, to which Sir Archie replied that if that was true, then so much the better. People should not forget their heritage otherwise they would become lost.

  Lady Veronika had decked herself out in a very broad-brimmed white hat of the type often seen in China. It was so broad that anyone walking by her side was in danger of being struck by the brim and thus had to keep several paces distant. This may have been the purpose of such a hat as Lady Veronika had no time whatsoever for small talk.

  Enzo had chosen what he called his ‘Desert Hat’. This was green in colour with a peak, and protection at the back and sides from the sun. It was the sort of hat that he had seen Peter O’Toole wearing when he portrayed Lawrence of Arabia. It was certainly distinctive and, together with the guide’s golden umbrella, he cut an unusual figure.

  It was up to Harry to sport the faithful imitation of the Tilley hat which he called an ‘Alpine’ and was the sort of hat one might see in Australia rather than on the ski slopes of Switzerland.

  It was for the New Zealand sisters to take first prize for the most distinctive headgear, although it must be said no one had suggested a contest. Back home in the lush valley of the Tukituki River, they kept bees. They reasoned, with their flawless logic, that in a country like India, where flying insects were as numerous as people, there was only one suitable hat. So, they emerged, each wearing a beekeeper’s straw hat with their faces completely shielded by opaque netting. Had de Barkley been on the tour he would undoubtedly have passed some comment which involved female followers of the Prophet, but as he was not, the group were spared his asides.

  In case anyone did not have a sun hat, Enzo had brought with him enough paper hats to go round. They were not to everyone’s taste, as they were inscribed I’m a Golden Oldie, a slogan which he had thought up all by himself and of which he was quite rightly proud. Only one member of the group - a solo passenger from an inside cabin somewhere near the engine room - took one, and insisted on wearing it back to front, much to Enzo’s annoyance.

  The mini-bus pulled up exactly three quarters of an hour late. The driver was the same one who had driven the small party to the dinner the previous evening. Now he drove a larger, but more ancient vehicle.

  ‘Anyone for Billericay?’ he shouted as he pulled up.

  All but the twins were puzzled by this remark but one of the ladies from behind the net explained, ‘He takes his holidays in Essex, you know. He loves the fresh air.’

  Once settled and having been informed how to operate the individual air conditioning, (open the window nearest to your seat), he crashed the antique trolley into gear and they were away. Enzo kept his eyes tightly closed for much of the journey to Alleppey. He was sitting in the front of the coach in a little jump seat next to the driver, and no matter how much he pleaded, the driver refused to slow down.

  ‘If I slow, sir, many people get angry. They try takeover me, sir’.

  Enzo understood him to mean ‘overtake’ but he did not trouble to say so.

  The inevitable happened about one hour into the journey. They rounded a bend at breakneck speed as a trader, pushing a cart full of coconuts, veered just a little too far into the road - with the result that the cart went flying and coconuts flew in all directions like cannon balls. Several onlookers were winded by flying coconuts, and one poor fellow was completely knocked out as a nut caught him squarely on the head. The trader avoided injury by performing a leap that would have won him a Gold Medal at the Olympics. The small crowd applauded his agility. Unsurprisingly, he was not appeased by the acclaim and made a rush for the driver, who had stepped from
the coach to inspect the damage.

  Enzo, who had opened his eyes when he heard the impact and immediately closed them again, now opened them once more and motioned to the passengers to remain in their seats. The coach was now surrounded by curious villagers, some of whom pressed close against the window, pointing and laughing at the exhibits inside. The twin sisters in particular were the subjects of considerable attention and caused a minor commotion when Petra, wearing her veiled beekeeping hat, opened a window to get a better view and caused a group of young boys to recoil in alarm at her appearance.

  ‘Please stay in your seats and close all windows,’ repeated Enzo. ‘This matter has to be sorted out by the people themselves. We cannot be involved.’

  A good half-hour passed and the coach grew increasingly hot. Harry passed around some semi-cool drinks whilst the driver continued to bargain with the trader. Finally, the matter was resolved and they were on their way again to waves and shouts from the onlookers.

  ‘All OK, sir,’ said the driver to Enzo as he resumed his former speed. ‘No worry, sir. You get to boat, sir.’

  Despite his anxiety, the heat proved too much for Enzo and he fell into a gentle slumber. He awoke to find that the coach was drawing to a halt and several armed men in military uniform were approaching the vehicle.

  ‘Where are we?’ he queried.

  The driver looked nervous. ‘I think very small trouble, sir. I take wrong road.’

  Before Enzo could reply, two armed men had entered the vehicle and ordered the driver and Enzo to get out, which they duly did. Enzo, wearing his green desert hat, bush shirt and khaki shorts, could easily have been mistaken for a half-crazed insurgent, and it was clear that the military types had their suspicions. Two more men entered the coach, and seeing what appeared to be a coach-load of extras for a Carry On film, ordered them all to descend. In fairness to the Indian military, it must be said that the passengers did not look like the normal tourists who visited the backwaters of Kerala.