by Sewell, Ron
Petros looked him squarely in the eyes. “I’ve retired. I intend to learn how to race a sail boat. It’s time to move on.”
Charles leant forward and gave Bear an old-fashioned look. “Interested?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Forget it. Not in a million years and I’m not hard up. I’m fast approaching my sell-by-date and hate having to duck to avoid bullets.” Nodding, he continued. “But I know a couple of great guys who might.”
“For the moment I believe you. But you two love the action and will never be nine to five.”
“We’re still alive,” said Petros. “If, and it’s a big if, we take on another job we’ll be very selective on who we work for.”
Charles’ voice resounded with authority, “And if the price were right?”
“As we said, neither of us needs the money,” said Bear.
Charles nodded. “Bear, your recommendation? Are you going to tell me your choice or do I have to guess?”
“Amadou and ZZ should be in the States by now. They’re intelligent men and need work.”
“Okay,” said Charles. “With your commendation Ocean Shipping might take them on.”
“Charles, stop messing around. If you want good men to train others to take the fight to the pirates, Amadou and ZZ are as good as us,” said Bear, his voice raised. “The report on Goliath detailed that those pirates knew how to operate super-tankers so the first thing on the agenda is to stop them from boarding. If the pirates make it on board, the role of the ship’s armed security team is central or do we pray no one is shot?” Worked up he continued. “Bollocks, even our own government gives lip service to protecting shipping. They don’t give a toss. At the moment its tankers and cargo ships. Cruise liners carrying thousands of passengers will be targeted next and at the moment the bad guys will win. The half-hearted war against pirates, terrorists, and their like is not good enough. Time to fight back and make them run.”
“Bear, well said and I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I asked if you were interested. I understand many of the large American shipping companies are meeting members of Congress to have laws past but as we know, that takes years. Give me Amadou’s contact number and I’ll have a word. Thanks for your time.”
Petros held up his envelope. “This is straight into the bank and you still owe us our fee and expenses.”
“It’s being electronically transferred into your accounts.”
Bear laughed. “Thanks, but I am retiring. I must admit I hate ships but that last cruise ended well and the good guys won.”
Petros and Bear stood and offered their hand to Charles across the desk.
Charles shook them. “If you ever become bored, give me a ring.”
“The answer is we’re out to grass,” said Petros with a grin.
“Time to have a chat with Amadou,” said Charles.
“Do that,” said Bear. They left the room and made their way along the thick-carpeted passage to the lift.
Epilogue.
The Commodore of the East Coast Sailing Club suggested several weekend courses of instruction. Eager to learn, Petros sailed at every opportunity during the following months and learnt to use the tide to his advantage and honed his boat-handling skills. With a few minor races under his belt, he entered the Commodore’s challenge cup.
On a windy but sunny Saturday afternoon in June, the Kyriades, along with the Morris family, and Petros’ crew Andreas and his wife Phoebe, finished lunch in the bar of the sailing club.
Petros glanced at his watch. “Time to get ready.”
Maria grabbed his hand. “Take care of our little girl and don’t forget she’s eleven, going on fifteen when it suits her.”
“I’ll make a deal, I’ll keep her safe providing you look after our son.”
She grinned. “He’s snug as a bug and kicks like David Beckham.” She rested her hands on her swollen tummy. “I’ll be glad when he arrives.”
“I’ll remind you of what you said in two months.”
“While you play sailors. I might just sample a desert,” said Bear, his eyes fixed on the sweet trolley.”
Petros, Andreas, Phoebe and Alysa left the warmth and comfort of the club and sauntered towards the marina where Alysa II waited. The water in the marina was mirror-calm. One of his rules was once on board life jackets must be worn. With a glint of fatherly love in his eyes, he said, “Are you ready to take her out, Alysa?”
She saluted. “Yes, Papa.”
Andreas stood amidships and held two ropes. “Ready to slip.”
Petros looked up at the large number of cirrus clouds, a sign of a change in the weather. With a final glance to ensure that no other craft blocked their exit, “Ready when you are.”
Alysa pressed the engine start button, removing her finger as the motor turned and started. “Oil pressure okay, Papa. Let go.” She engaged astern and at a slow speed reversed until clear of the pontoon. With the tiller arm hard to starboard she engaged ahead and in a sweeping turn followed thirty other vessels for the open sea.
“Was that okay, Papa?”
He rubbed her hair. “Perfect. Go and sit in the cabin while we set the sails.” He waited until she was safe and turned the craft into the wind.
In minutes Andreas and Phoebe hoisted the sails.
“Starboard tack,” said Petros in a loud clear voice.
With the wind gusting at fifteen knots, the race began well for Petros and his team. Alysa II skimmed over the water as she crossed the line two seconds after the start gun fired.
They were fourth rounding the first buoy and third approaching the next. With the wind astern, the bright red spinnaker blossomed. Andreas pushed the mainsail out to its limit and attached a preventer with a quick release slip. Petros’ spirits were high.
Andreas pointed. “We’re gaining.”
Petros, aware of his inexperience, glanced at the sky. The wind was increasing in strength and the waves higher. “When we turn on the next marker, we’ll be on a port tack. The wind’s stronger than when we started.”
Andreas nodded and waved to the crew of Voyager.
On approaching the next buoy the commodore’s crew fluffed retrieving the spinnaker, and it fell into the sea.
Petros noted the flow of water around the mark and retrieved his sails early. Andreas and Phoebe dropped the huge spinnaker straight into the forward hatch while hoisting the genoa.
Petros missed the buoy by a fraction and took the lead. “As a team, you’re marvellous. Trim the sails.”
Andreas and Phoebe eased their sails until they luffed and then trimmed when held its shape.
Alysa stood on the cabin steps, held on and watched.
“Must be our lucky day,” shouted Petros.
Andreas turned his head. “Don’t count your chickens. The Commodore will chase you to the line.”
Petros maintained the lead and turned to the final leg with the second boat one hundred metres astern.
On completing the turn he realised he might have too much sail for the conditions and was about to give the order when he heard a noise from astern. The commodore’s yacht slapped the waves and was gaining.
Spray lifting from the sea ran from their waterproofs. Undeterred, Andreas adjusted the mainsail.
Phoebe concentrated her attention on managing the genoa.
Alysa sat next to her father with the safety line secured to her lifejacket. With water running down her face she turned. “Are we going to be first, Papa?”
He hugged her. “If papa does nothing wrong we should be.” He played with the sails and the boat’s balance and maintained his slim lead.
From the shore the finish gun sounded.
Alysa screamed excitedly, “Papa, we won.”
“Go into the cabin, Alysa, and hold onto the bunk.”
He waited until his daughter was out of the way. “Ready about. Lee helm.”
The boat turned, its foresail flapped until it grabbed the wind. As soon as they were clear of the course a
nd numerous other craft Petros turned into the wind. Andreas and Phoebe took their cue and lowered the sails.
Petros started the engine and called to Alysa. “Take the helm and drive us home.”
Concentration filled her face as she stood in the cockpit and steered the craft towards the marina.
Alysa II entered her berth with the gentlest of bumps.
Andreas jumped onto the pontoon and secured the springs before the head and stern ropes. “Okay, Alysa,” he shouted.
She shut down the engine.
As a team they stowed the sails and washed the deck with fresh water. In thirty minutes they returned to the club house.
“There you are, Petros,” bellowed the commodore, a short but muscular man who constantly smiled. You surprised me by keeping your genoa and you beat me. First time for a long while.”
“I was lucky.”
“Luck be damned. You sailed a great race, and won fair and square. Would you like to join the club team? We need men with guts. You’ll need another crew member as your daughter’s too young.”
“What do you think, Alysa?”
She paused. “Papa, we are the team.”
The commodore laughed. “Like her father. Come on, I mustn’t be late presenting you with the cup.”
The bar was full when the commodore, followed by Petros and his crew, entered.
A hush enveloped the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, this year I have not as usual won my cup. Petros Kyriades and his team gave me a sound thrashing. Petros, please come onto the stage to receive the cup. Oh, I forgot, you can’t take it away. As soon as your name is engraved it returns to the club cabinet.”
Alysa held her father’s hand as they stepped onto the stage.
The commodore on seeing Alysa grinned. “I now have great pleasure in presenting the winner’s trophy to the youngest member of the crew.” He bent and gave Alysa the cup. “Have you anything to say, young lady?”
She grimaced. “If you don’t take it back I’ll drop it. It’s heavy.”
The room rang with laughter.
Under the Covers
A Collection of Short Stories
From Ron A Sewell
The Quarrel
Ten days of constant bombardment stopped. The third battle of Ypres began.
Major John Higgins, Royal Marines, glanced around the dugout, labelled by the troops, The Ritz. The dull light from the solitary lamp did nothing to dispel the gloom as he faced his officers. He spoke precisely. “It’s time.”
With faces as dismal as the morning sky, the group walked out into the pouring rain.
The men waited in an unearthly silence. John removed his pistol as the shrill of hundreds of whistles signalled the advance. Bloody marvellous, he thought, every Hun for miles will know we’re coming. A similar scene unfolded in the miles of sodden trenches as officers led their men into no-man's-land. As a rolling wave, the infantry advanced into the storm.
With the aid of a mirror on a stick, John looked left and right. The next line was ready. Through the drifting smoke he saw the wounded crawling in the mud, screaming, dying. Bewildered men stood and staggered until cut down by the next swathe of bullets.
The whistles blew again and with a haughty, “Come on chaps,” John led his men over the top.
***
Twenty miles east of the Devil’s Bowl in Sussex stands a Tudor farmhouse, John’s home. Mentally, he prepared himself for the hostile greeting. His father, a life-long pacifist, hated him for being in the military. The autumn night closed in and the distant storm clouds scudded across the sky.
Greg, John’s father, opened the door, saw him and went to close it.
John’s right foot prevented it from shutting. “Father, please. It’s time we settled our differences.”
Greg glared at his son. “I suppose you’d better come in but you can’t stay.”
John followed his father into the large comfortable lounge. Frustrated by the bitterness, he knew time had not healed the wounds.
With an almost imperceptible shrug, Greg asked, “Why are you here? May God have mercy on you.”
Angry, John said, “I know you don’t see it the way I do. Sometimes I think we talk a different language but this is the war to end all wars.”
The farm dogs barked noisily and scratched on the kitchen door sensing John was there.
“And what’s the ribbon on your chest?” asked his father.
Thinking it the wiser option, John played his medal down. “It’s a Distinguished Service Order. They gave it to me as a reward for doing my duty.”
“What do you know about duty? Your duty is here, with me, on the farm.”
“You’ve no idea what it’s like. No army has ever served in such conditions, the freezing mud and relentless rain. We fight for peace and I’m proud to be part of it.”
Thrown off guard, he said, “Your mother, God bless her, believed the same as I and for the life of me, why you want to go and try and get yourself killed I’ll never know. I have friends in high places who could arrange your discharge. This farm needs a younger man. It needs you.”
John searched his father’s face for something, a glimmer of acceptance, anything.
“Are we winning this war?” his father asked.
John answered without hesitation. “Winning, no one’s going to win. The world will run out of soldiers before that happens.” He groped for words. “It’s such a bloody waste. We gain no ground and good men die in the process.”
“John, you can try and prove me wrong on every aspect of this war,” his voice faltered, “but I’ve always thought the men who love war were glory hunters. Maybe I’ve been wrong, it’s good, brave men who give their lives, men like you. I can’t change what I believe, that would take more time than I have.” He shivered as cold surrounded him. “I’m pleased you came. Keep in touch when you can. I’d like that.”
The deluge started with flash of lightning, and a crash of thunder. The lounge lights dimmed, and went out.
“Damn this weather. Don’t move. I’ll find the candles.”
With a taper from the fire, he lit three candles and placed them around the room. As the last one nestled in its holder, there was a hammering on the door. Greg muttered under his breath and moved to open it. The rain lashed at the wearer of a post office uniform, his cape barely protecting him.
“Telegram, sir. You need to sign.”
Greg looked at this soaking wet boy then at the piece of paper. “You have the wrong address.”
“It says Mister Higgins, Tudor Farm. This is the farm and you’re Mr Higgins.”
Greg signed and watched the lad push his bike along the muddy track. He closed the door on the weather and turned. “John.”
He stopped, the flickering candles shone on a quiet, empty room.
My Girl
I love children, preferably other people’s, but many years ago, one young lady, who was to say the very least different, changed my life. My ambition was to be a millionaire by my fortieth birthday and, in my pursuit of this goal, Keevil House was added to my property portfolio. This old house was purchased by auction in London and I should have realised, being the only bidder, something was not right. Overjoyed at my good fortune, I ignored the warnings. From the literature supplied, it would seem it had been empty since the end of World War Two, during which period it had been used as a children’s home. However, according to the blurb, its previous owners made sure it remained wind and watertight. This property would be the grand addition to my exclusive hotel group.
One week after the auction, a letter landed on my desk from the firm of solicitors in Dunfermline, acting with the sale of Keevil House. They requested I visit them to sign all the relevant documentation and complete the transaction.
My objective was all embracing. I’d travel to Scotland, complete the deal, visit the site and prepare a rough sketch of the alterations required for my architect and builder. My journey by car was uneventful. A local hotel proved suitabl
e for my needs and I booked in for two nights’ bed and breakfast. The next morning the weather, as described by the hotel receptionist, was dreek which I gathered in English meant wet and horrible. With little choice, I ventured forth, found the solicitors and was warmly greeted. The paperwork was ready for my signature and I duly signed. I requested that all services were to be connected as soon as possible and they agreed to assist in this matter.
Leaving their offices with explicit directions, I went in search of my new acquisition. I hoped to finish my survey in one day and travel south the next morning. I was excited by the thought of what lay ahead. In the pouring rain, I found myself driving up and down narrow country lanes for two hours before finally finding the entrance to the manor.
The gate house seemed too good to be true. In front of me was a substantially built three bedroom bungalow in its own hedge-bordered plot. This would be ideal for my new manager. A quick look around determined it needed work, mainly decorative, and it would be more than acceptable.
Time was passing and I drove on. At the end of a long, meandering, overgrown, tree-lined drive stood the manor house. A silence from years of abandonment surrounded it. My first impression of this Victorian relic was one of amazement; this spacious old mansion had been given over to loneliness and echoes of the past.
My decision to buy had been the right one. While parking my car, immediately to my right were a number of small headstones surrounded by a mixture of wild flowers. Curious, I wandered over to those nearest. Someone must have loved animals for it appeared these were the final resting places of the family pets.
I walked around the exterior of the building. There were weathered streaks on the walls and cracks in the paintwork but beyond its forsaken appearance, there seemed to be structurally nothing wrong. The walled garden was overgrown but not irrecoverable.
Heading towards the main entrance, I inserted the key and was pleasantly surprised to find it turned easily in the lock. Pushing the huge door open, there in front of me was a beautiful pillared and mirrored hallway. This place had the splendour and spaciousness of a great mansion. Looking forward, a broad, once carpeted, staircase rose in a majestic sweep to the upper floor. As I stood there admiring what was mine the main door slammed shut with an almighty crash that echoed through the empty rooms and passages.