Steve and the Singing Pirates

by Dan Anthony

  A big man in a black coat, with a bald head and a gold earring, produced a pistol from inside his jacket.

  ‘I say we just go up and shoot the varmint,’ he added. ‘I’m not a violent man, but after three days of listening to that racket, it’s him or me. Either he shuts up, or I shoot him or…’

  The man thought for moment. Then a rather tired look of realisation crossed his face.

  ‘Or I shoot myself.’

  He held the gun to his own head.

  The man with the wooden leg held his arms up. He waved his crutch, silencing the crowd.

  ‘Alright, alright, I’ll see what I can do. But remember, Wolfie is a tenant. He rents his room fair and square. So long as he coughs up the dough once a month I’m not going to pick a fight.’

  The music stopped.

  Everybody looked around.

  A bird tweeted.

  Then, just as the neighbours sighed with relief, it started again. A terrible discordant racket crashed down to the street from a room high above them in the rooftops.

  ‘That’s it,’ said the man, pulling back the firing pin on his pistol.

  ‘Wait,’ shouted the man with one leg. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  He span around on his wooden leg and stepped back into the hall, slamming the front door behind him. He swung himself towards Steve’s door. But he didn’t open it.

  ‘Oi, mush.’

  Steve gulped. The man appeared to be talking at him.

  ‘Yeah, you,’ said the man peering through the crack before shoving the door open with his crutch.

  Steve stared at the man. His wig was almost the same size as his body.

  ‘Get up to the top room. Tell Wolfie if he don’t shut up he’s going to start a riot. Emphasise the fact that if he don’t desist playing that loathsome tune of his, one citizen of our district will feel compelled to blow his own brains out as a means of extracting himself from the infernal noise. And if that don’t work, you could mention the fact that I’ll be up there with Slicer if he wants to take things any further.’

  And, with surprising agility for an old-looking fellow in a ginger wig with one leg, the man slid his silver sword from its scabbard and swished the air with it.

  Steve gulped again. He could hear the sharpness of the blade as it cut the air.

  ‘T … t … top flat,’ he stammered.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the man, replacing his sword, ‘then we’ll talk about what you’ve come to see me about.’

  Steve looked blankly at the man in the huge wig. He had no idea what he’d come to see him about.

  ‘Lodgings,’ said the man. ‘Rooms. You’ll be wanting to know what rooms I’ve got on offer and how much a month’s board is. You’ll be wanting to see the accommodation.’

  Steve nodded and rushed up the stairs.

  The building was tall and thin, the staircase seemed to go upwards forever. On each landing there were two doors. Most were closed, but some were open. Steve could see that almost every room was occupied. At the very top of the staircase, right under the roof, there was a low door. Steve tapped on it and stepped into a tiny room.

  A young man sat at the keyboard of an instrument that looked like a very old piano. Steve hesitated.

  ‘Err, sorry to bother you, Mr, ummm, Wolfie,’ said Steve. ‘But they’re asking you to stop. They’re begging you to stop.’

  ‘Never.’ The man hit the keys and began playing again.

  The sound was terrible.

  ‘STOP!’ yelled Steve, bringing the keyboard lid down with a crash, just missing Wolfie’s fingers.

  Wolfie pulled his hands away. Steve guessed that Wolfie was young, about eighteen years old. He was skinny and pale, wearing the same kind of clothes as Steve. A jacket, weird knee-length trousers, big buckled shoes and a completely ridiculous brown wig that looked like a rat hat. Steve looked at Wolfie. There was something strangely familiar about him. Maybe it was the wig, or the jacket, or the fact that he kept playing the same song over and over again, but there was something about Wolfie that reminded him of his sister, Miffany. He remembered how excited she was as they drove to the Pendown’s Got Talent competition.

  ‘It’s terrible,’ said Wolfie, interrupting Steve’s daydream. ‘I’ve been trying for days to compose a tune, and I just can’t do it. I get so far into it and then it stops.’

  Steve looked at the keyboard.

  ‘It’s a harpsichord,’ said Wolfie. ‘Haven’t you seen one before?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ lied Steve. ‘My brother was sick in one of these.’

  Wolfie scrutinised Steve. He noticed the baton in his hand.

  ‘I see you carry a conductor’s baton,’ said Wolfie. ‘You’re a little young to be a conductor, unless, of course, you’re a child prodigy.’

  Steve smiled. He nodded, although he didn’t know what ‘child prodigy’ was.

  ‘Can you help me?’ asked Wolfie.

  He pulled a grey handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. Then he started to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ blubbed Wolfie. ‘You must think I’m a terrible fop. I just get emotional. I keep telling myself it’s normal, musicians are known to be emotional sorts. But this problem is simply too much for me. You’re a musician. You understand what it’s like.’

  Steve swished his baton around.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said ‘I get a lot of problems when I’m doing my conducting stuff. I don’t cry though. Well, I don’t cry much.’

  Wolfie sniffed. He looked up, straight into Steve’s eyes.

  ‘I’ll tell you – but first, please, say you’ll help me?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ said Steve. ‘It’s what I’m here for. I think.’

  6

  The Captain

  Steve and Wolfie hurried down the long staircase. Wolfie’s story was incredible and Steve knew that being cooped up in the room at the top of the house wasn’t going to help him. They’d reached the front door and were just about to step outside into the street when Steve felt something tugging at his leg. He was hauled backwards across the shiny wooden floor.

  Steve looked up. A familiar face, with a brown eye, a ginger wig and a scar across one cheek peered down at him.

  ‘Just what exactly is your game, Mr…’

  ‘Steve,’ said Steve.

  ‘It’s all right, Captain,’ said Wolfie. ‘He’s with me, he’s a friend.’

  ‘You two boys had better come with me,’ said the Captain, unhooking his crutch from Steve’s leg. ‘There’s nothing that can’t be fixed over a glass of grog.’

  The Captain led the boys downstairs to his ‘rooms’.

  In fact the Captain, who owned the house, lived in one room. It was really a kitchen, with pots and pans hanging from the walls, a fire glowing in the hearth and, all around, seafaring equipment. Harpoons, chests, even an old canon were strewn around the room. Thick Persian carpets covered the floor and in the middle of the room was a dark polished table with charts and dividers strewn across it.

  ‘The Captain was a privateer,’ said Wolfie, ‘a long time ago.’

  Steve’s jaw dropped. He’d never met a pirate before.

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Steve,’ said the Captain. ‘You like my pad? Thirty years in Totuga, Barbados, the East Indies, Bermuda, privateering for the English crown. Look what it gets you.’

  Steve spotted a huge shark’s jaw hanging over the fireplace. The Captain had used the teeth to hang strings of onions off.

  ‘A pile of rubble,’ laughed the Captain, pouring himself a drink. ‘In a town called Newport.’

  ‘I invested my haul of treasure in real estate,’ he said. ‘Now I have a house full of tenants and my mission is to stay put and look after the rent. Are you going to join my crew, Steve? A shilling a month, washing taken in on Thursdays, breakfasts for an extra four pence and once a year we go on a house trip out to the park to see the peacocks. It’s hardly rock and roll, but it beats dying on the boards of some broken shipwreck with
a bullet in your chest.’

  Steve explained that he wasn’t interested in a room.

  ‘Then what are you interested in, Steve?’

  ‘Music,’ said Steve.

  The Captain laughed: he loved old sea shanties — especially the rude ones.

  ‘The Captain’s a wonderful fellow,’ said Wolfie. ‘He’s murderous, he’s stolen a lot of treasure, but he’s kind at heart. He lets me stay here for nothing so long as I help out with the breakfast.’

  ‘Did I tell you how I lost my leg?’ said the Captain, sipping his grog.

  ‘He goes on a bit,’ whispered Wolfie to Steve.

  The Captain nodded towards the shark’s mouth. It was big enough to stand in.

  ‘Ran into some Frenchies off Devil’s Island. There were three ships in the line. They blew us out of the water. Found myself floating with sharks – that one decided to have a go at my toes.’

  The Captain pulled out a dagger from inside his jacket and flung it at the shark’s mouth. It embedded itself in an onion, hanging right in the middle of the mouth.

  ‘Who do you think came off worse?’ asked the Captain, with a glint in his eye. ‘He got a leg, but I got the fish and chips.’

  ‘Well,’ added Steve, ‘if that’s all you wanted to say, then Wolfie and I had better be off. Thanks for everything.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ said the Captain. ‘You don’t think an old pirate ever forgets the taste for adventure, do you?’

  The Captain stuck out a finger, he wiggled it in the air, then he sucked it.

  ‘My senses tells me you pair are about to set sail on a new adventure.’

  Wolfie shook his head.

  ‘No,’ said Steve. ‘We’re not adventuring. Wolfie’s a composer and I’m a conductor. Could we be any more boring?’

  Steve pulled out his baton and waved it around.

  ‘I don’t use swords,’ said Steve. ‘I use weedy little sticks. We don’t need swords and ships. You’d be really bored hanging around with us two.’

  The Captain looked at Steve.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said the Captain. ‘Have you any idea how dull it is in the property rental market?’

  The Captain tapped a chest with iron bands on it. He flipped it open with his crutch.

  ‘Empty. You spends the treasure too quickly in this life,’ said the Captain. ‘Mark my words, Steve and Wolfie — you spends the treasure too quick.’

  ‘We’ve really got to go,’ said Wolfie.

  Steve and Wolfie made for the staircase leading up to the hall.

  Steve stopped. He heard the hissing sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. He turned and was met by the tip of the Captain’s blade, pushing very gently into the skin on his throat.

  ‘This isn’t an order,’ said the Captain, ‘but if you don’t tell me what’s afoot and let me help you, I might be forced to create a little adventure of my own here.’

  7

  Wolfie, Liam and The Countess of Shropshire

  The Captain led Steve and Wolfie through cobbled streets to what Steve would have called a café, but the Captain insisted on calling a coffee house.

  ‘Three double grande lattes with no extra sprinkles,’ he snarled.

  The Captain adjusted his wig as he sat down at the table. He was waiting. Steve spoke, slowly and carefully.

  ‘This situation has to be handled with skill and intelligence,’ he said.

  The Captain nodded, his brown brow furrowed, and his eyes went slitty and wily looking.

  ‘I’m with you, boy. We’ll wait for nightfall, we’ll sneak up behind them and then we’ll cut their throats.’

  Steve ignored the Captain.

  ‘Wolfie is a musician,’ he said.

  Wolfie nodded.

  ‘Not a very good one,’ said the Captain.

  ‘He’s been commissioned by a young aristocrat called Liam to write a beautiful piece of music that will win the heart of a beautiful young woman: The Countess of Shropshire.’

  ‘Shiver me timbers,’ said the Captain. ‘I’ve seen her in the papers. She’s a looker and no mistake. They do say she’s got more wigs and shoes than there are wigs and shoes in the whole of France and believe you me, those Frenchies like their wigs and shoes. I’ve never seen a wiggier or shoeier bunch.’

  Steve interrupted the Captain.

  ‘The Countess has organised a competition between two rivals for her hand,’ said Steve.

  ‘Liam and Earl Mostyn must present her with a piece of music – the one she likes the best wins her hand in marriage,’ added Wolfie.

  ‘My goodness,’ said the Captain, draining his coffee. ‘I can see what the problem is – your tune is frighteningly bad, Wolfie. People would rather end their lives than listen to it. Whereas Earl Mostyn’s will be excellent. I’ve heard of him too. He owns a huge house just outside town, he’s got money, land and prospects. It’s a no-brainer. The Countess of Shropshire should marry Earl Mostyn. Liam is wasting his time. The fact that people say Earl Mostyn’s an obnoxious and precocious young buck who looks down on everyone he meets is of no consequence. Take the pirate’s way – follow the money. ’

  ‘We’re on Liam’s side,’ Steve pointed out.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the Captain. ‘What can Liam give the Countess of Shropshire that Earl Mostyn can’t buy?’

  ‘A song,’ said Steve. ‘It’s a song contest. Liam and Earl Mostyn are going to present their songs to the Countess at 7pm this evening, down by the riverfront. She’ll choose whoever brings the best song.’

  ‘That’s where I come in,’ said Wolfie. ‘I write the songs.’

  ‘You see how important it is for Wolfie to practise? If he can’t get his song right, Liam will lose the competition and the Countess of Shropshire will marry Earl Mostyn,’ said Steve. ‘Now, Captain, do you know anywhere safe we can send Wolfie – he needs to practise.’

  With a sudden movement the Captain pulled a dagger out of his belt and nailed it deep into the tabletop.

  ‘I’ve got the very place for a happy harpsichordist to hone his harmonies,’ he snarled. ‘Make no mistake, nobody will dare to disturb us where we’re going.’

  They stepped warily onto the deck of the old ship. Above them fraying ropes and tattered sails flapped in the breeze. Below decks, fat rats groaned as the sound of boots on rotting boards broke their afternoon naps.

  ‘This is my old ship,’ said the Captain proudly. ‘The Black Dragon is in a sorry state. She’s rotting on a mudbank half a mile from docks. But what can I do? There’s no money in pirating today. You’re far better off investing in real estate.’

  The Captain pushed the door and led the way into his old cabin. Steve and Wolfie followed. The room was furnished in just the same way as the Captain’s kitchen at home. Old rugs lay on the floor, dusty charts and rusting dividers were strewn over a large table and, on the wall, they saw another shark’s mouth – bigger than the last. The Captain nodded towards it.

  ‘Fell overboard on the Barbary Coast,’ he said. ‘Wrestled that one with one arm tied behind my back.’

  The Captain moved to the side of the room and flipped open the lid of a keyboard instrument.

  ‘There you go Wolfie, try this. It was made for the King of Spain by the best craftspeople on the Spanish Main. Write your tune on that. Nobody but the rats will hear you playing out here.’

  Wolfie ran his fingers up and down the keyboard. It sounded much better than the one he had at home.

  ‘Get writing,’ said Steve to Wolfie. ‘The Captain and I will be back in a couple of hours. We’ve got to speak to Liam.’

  8

  Explosions

  Steve thought that Liam looked very grand in his white jacket with gold trim and his white shoes with gold buckles. Liam was standing near the big bay window in his living room, leaning on a silver-tipped cane, staring at a letter which he held in his shaky hand. He had big brown eyes like a frightened deer. Steve looked around the room. There was a huge fire
place, great pictures on the wall and, strangely, a big carved pelican in the corner.

  ‘This is a disaster,’ said Liam, mopping his brow with a huge spotted handkerchief. ‘I so do not dig this. Man.’

  ‘Listen, Liam, I know we’ve just met, but do you mind if I ask you a personal question?’ asked Steve.

  ‘Fire away,’ said Liam.

  ‘Have you ever met, had anything to do with, seen from a distance or read about a person called Toby. Tobes to his friends?’

  Liam scratched his head.

  ‘Who?’ asked Liam.

  Steve sighed with relief. He didn’t mind hanging around with Toby in real life but he didn’t see why he should be allowed into his dreams.

  ‘I’ll explain,’ said Steve. ‘I’ve just been with your composer and the music is going to be fantastic. The Countess of Shropshire will hear it, fall in love with it – then you.’

  ‘That’s if I live long enough to hear the tune myself,’ said Liam.

  He handed the note to Steve.

  Steve began to read. Liam cast an eye over the Captain.

  ‘Who is this hairy-looking character you’ve brought with you?’ he asked.

  ‘An old sea dog, Sir. He accompanies me on all my adventures,’ said Steve, not taking his eye off the page. ‘They call him the Captain.’

  ‘You are a musician too?’ asked Liam, turning his attention to Steve.

  Steve was still reading. But he remembered the conductor’s baton sticking out of his pocket.

  ‘Yes, you could say that. I know a few notes,’ said Steve.

  ‘Well,’ said the Captain. ‘What does the note say?’

  Liam stepped towards the window and clasped his hands behind his back.

  ‘If only things weren’t so complicated – first she wants a song, then she wants a song contest and now this,’ said Liam.