The Trojan Walrus

by Julian Blatchley

  Finally Dr Manolis covered Hèloise with a gown, sat her the wrong way round in a chair so that she could lean forward onto the backrest, and connected her to a saline drip.

  “Does the lady speak English?” he asked.

  I said she was French. He raised an eyebrow, and asked me in Greek, “Is that why you did this to her? Wasn’t Waterloo enough?”

  He then switched effortlessly into excellent French, and told her she could go home when the drip was empty. He scribbled a prescription, told her to drink plenty of water, to stay out of the sun, and away from idiots. With that, he went emphatically back to bed.

  I took my wounded conquest back to her room at Kanali, and spent the rest of the day popping in to check that she was alright. That evening we ventured as far as the restaurant opposite her apartment and then I walked her chastely back to her door. Before she bad me goodnight, Hèloise gripped my shirt-front in her fists and, drawing my face down to hers, went earnestly to work on me with that soft, sweet mouth. The long, profound and eloquent kiss was one of the most amazing I ever knew; and all it did was torture me with the knowledge of the far greater delights I had been denied by faithless, fickle fate.

  The next morning I borrowed a little motorbike and took my Gallic goddess and her bag to the Flying Dolphin... about four minutes of tantalising torment as she put her arms around my waist3 and laid her cheek and breasts against my back. Then, with one more kiss, she went home to Normandy.

  My sole consolation from the whole affair was a postcard from Villedieu-Les-Poeles about a fortnight later on which Hèloise had recorded her apologies and eternal thanks to ‘un vrai gentilhomme Anglais’.

  Gentleman? That was one misapprehension I fully intended to correct whenever we met again... but of course, we never did. Nuns and Nons. Oh, how those Gods must have laughed!

  CHAPTER TEN

  UNACUSTOMMED AS I AM...

  The sterling qualities of Ermioni mud... entertainment cordiale... I observe an accident from a distance for a change... a damsel in dis-dress... I pass a rigorous interview... customs of the sea... the obliging Porto Xeli... view halloo!!!... woman overboard.

  True to my Second Law of Nautical Recreation, I met Bron through a collision, but there was nothing iniquitous in this. It is my habitual policy always to maintain that accidents aren’t my fault, but on this occasion my denial was built on firmer foundations than usual; I was in a taverna when it occurred.

  The harbour at Ermioni is noted for its ‘holding’... that is to say, the tenaciousness of its mud. Ask any real sailor what he thinks about a port, and he won’t tell you about the restaurants, or the berthing fees, or even about the wildlife on the village beach: He will tell you about the ‘shelter’ and the ‘holding’. ‘Shelter’ is the direction from which, and the extent to which, a boat in the harbour is protected from wind and waves and ‘holding’ is the adhesive properties of the seabed which keeps it there. And in Ermioni the holding is about as good as it gets... the seabed is an obstinate, possessive sludge which cherishes anchors as a dog does a bone... it snaffles them with the speed of a striking snake, buries them deep, and forgets where it put them.

  Ermioni is the on the Peloponnese coast opposite Hydra. The port nestles in the armpit of a narrow spit of land which projects eastward out of the mainland, rather as a thumb projects from a hand, forming a long, narrow bay against the adjacent coast. The harbour, closed off by a concrete mole at the seaward end, looks to have almost perfect all-round protection, and from the open sea this is so; and yet Ermioni cannot be said to have all-round shelter, because when the wind goes into the north-west it tears down the mountains of Didyma and drives white-capped waves pell-mell across the closed end of the bay to hit the mole from the inside.1

  There is an open quay on the south side of the peninsula which can sometimes be used in northerlies, but no-one really wants to be on an open quay in any strong wind and so, in all except the strongest blows, boats tend to use the harbour and rely on the bulldog-grip of the Ermioni mud to keep them off the mole. And keep them off the mole it does, for if you once get your anchor into that seabed, you will break your chain before you dislodge the pick. You might say that Ermioni is, at bottom, a gripping place to visit.

  It was a hot day, bright and clear, but the problematic north-wester was blowing. It was not yet strong enough to be a worry, but it was already a bit of a pest... some of the ‘bullets’ coming down off the hills were sufficiently powerful to set white caps skimming over the bay and the boats in the harbour jostled and swung as the gusts hit.

  This was a matter of very little concern to me as I didn’t have a boat; I had come down by ferry to fix a genoa-winch on one of Spiros’ smaller yachts and, having failed spectacularly to do so... it was an old aluminium winch, and one of the castings had dissolved beyond any hope of repair... I was buying the clients a consolatory lunch at the ouzeri on the waterfront whilst Spiros hustled around Alimos trying to find a replacement which he could put on a hydrofoil.

  The clients were a very pleasant bunch, a young French couple with four kids; a serious girl of about fourteen, and three boys who were presumably at liberty only because they were still below the age of criminal responsibility. The family’s dismay at the delay quickly evaporated when plied with mezes and cold refreshments, and, like Hèloise before them, they apparently found listening to my French to be one of the high points of their holiday†.

  I enjoy entertaining, at least when I can plausibly claim to be unaware that it is for the wrong reason, and so was thoroughly enjoying my filibustering when a large sailing boat of about forty feet entered the harbour looking for a place.

  A chap on the front of the new arrival prepared the anchor, slacking the chain and then poking with his foot to persuade the reluctant lump of iron to slide out over the roller. Unfortunately, it seems he forgot to put the brake on again, because when the anchor did finally move it grasped the concept of gravity with such alacrity that, by the time the anchor man had hurriedly applied the pawl, it had obviously reached the bottom of the harbour. The boat was still doing about five knots. At that speed, and on such a short scope of chain, an anchor would normally simply have bounced along the seabed, but not in Ermioni. The greedy, glutinous gunk seized that anchor like a politician seizing an excuse, and the yacht stood on its nose.

  There was a horribly expensive sounding bang and something took off from the foredeck, curving through the air to end in an ice-bright splash; the yacht pitched steeply forward, then back, then swung rapidly round about ninety degrees, so that the wind came full on her starboard side. The helmsman abandoned the wheel and joined two or three people on the far side poking desperately at something in the water.

  Listing slightly and left to her own devices, the boat drifted sideways and landed with an audible ‘crunch’ across the bow of Spiros’ boat. As the wind piped up again she started to grind her port side on our bow-roller, and the world was treated to a rare display of Blatchley attempting to run, grinding up through the gears in the style... and I am eternally grateful to the clients who were kind enough to share their image with me... of a drunken yeti trying to catch the last bus home.

  Arriving on board Spiros’ boat, I grabbed a couple of fenders and started trying to limit the damage. The parents were preoccupied with their three young storm-troopers, and whatever was in the water on the other side of the other boat was still engrossing her entire crew. The resources at my disposal, therefore, consisted of the girl, who spoke not a word of English.

  Spiros’ boat was fine, as only the bow-roller was in contact with the larger boat, but the new arrival already had some spectacular scratches on her side. I managed by main force to exert enough pressure on her shrouds to permit my apprentice to slide a fender in horizontally, and then hopped over the pulpit onto the other deck. My intention was to see whether there was enough anchor chain deployed to heave the boat clear; however, I too quickly became primarily concerned with the thing in the water, because it
turned out to be a rather attractive young lady.

  The rest of the crew were apparently trying to lift the lass by main force, but they weren’t achieving much beyond annoying the victim considerably. The bathing ladder at the stern was masked by a caïque, so I quickly made an improvised foot-step by tying a bowline in the end of the genoa sheet and dropping it over the side. Adjusting the height of the loop to water-level, I secured it to a winch at the foot of the mast, and using this as a step the reluctant mermaid managed to get a grip of the toe rail. Bending low, I took her hands one by one and heaved upwards.

  She was a willowy creature and rose easily enough, the pressure of her body on mine causing my T-shirt to ride up, until I had her hands level with my ears. In this indecorous position we were locked for a moment, as she felt for a foothold on the toe-rail, and it was at exactly this point that the upward strain on her arms popped her breasts neatly out of her strapless sundress.

  Suddenly sharply aware of a dramatic change in the texture of that part of the lady which was now firmly in contact with my belly, I nearly choked as I stifled a snort of amusement and lifted my eyes heavenward in a vain attempt to pretend I hadn’t noticed. I doubt if it conveyed much conviction. And, on further consideration, if it did, it may have been received with mixed emotions.

  We were now in something of an impasse. I couldn’t... either physically or morally... lift her any higher; and she was having trouble getting a foothold. I couldn’t drag her inboard, as the lifeline was between us. So I hung on, feeling the strength starting to ebb in my arms but increasingly aware of rather more pleasurable sensations in my belly as she jiggled and wriggled, trying to get a leg over the railing.

  I don’t know how long we indulged in this bizarre embrace, with myself considering whether it might not be the best thing all round if I were to lob her back in the harbour; but just before my strength failed me the helmsman insinuated himself into our ménage. Grabbing the lady’s leg and lifting it over the rail, he sort of rotated both of us until the she could sit on the cabin-top. Everyone else, the boat’s crew, the French family and a couple of fishermen, were sniggering. I feigned interest in something at the top of the mast, until the victim said wryly, “You can look now!”

  I did, cautiously. Tried to make eye contact only, and never came close. Her top was back in place, but one could see why it had failed... frankly, it was working for its living.

  “Thank you very much!”

  She was fully aware of my flickering gaze, and indulged me with a wicked grin and a tiny wiggle of her recaptured appendages. The voice was dainty, cheeky and Welsh.

  “Worth saving, I hope?”

  I deliberately misunderstood that.

  “Who knows, you might find a cure for cancer one day!”

  “I might indeed... if someone was smuggling it. I’m a customs officer, see.”

  They all laughed. British customs officers to a man, on a works outing.

  Using a line from the next mole we dragged Her Majesty’s Finest off Spiros’ boat, and got their anchor set. This had to be done using the cockpit winches, as their windlass had disintegrated in the unequal fight with the Ermioni mud... the shiny bit which I had seen arcing into the harbour was the pawl. I had a look at the toothless remains with Bron, my erstwhile dancing partner, and Geoff, the skipper.

  There was nothing to be done. The cast metal of the winch-body had fractured where the pawl attached, also detaching one end of the brake-band. It was a hand-powered winch, and without the pawl it couldn’t heave in. Geoff asked me if I could explain it to the charter company, as he didn’t know all the names. The company was in England.

  In those days in Greece, making international phone calls was an arcane art. You went either to the O.T.E., the telephone company, or more commonly, to a periptero... a street-side kiosk. There was an exaggerated displaying of metres being reset to zero, and then you started dialling. Here was where a person of nervous disposition with urgent business could easily run barking mad.

  The phones were pulse-dial types, and the occasions on which the call went through on the first dialling could be counted on the fingers of Admiral Nelson’s right hand. There were various theories on how best to defeat the system... some advocated speed but the general wisdom was that you should dial each number at the very instant that the last click of the preceding number sounded. That worked as often as anything else, if you could count fast enough. Time of day was important too... in the early evening, when the Greeks were awake and the tourists were just back from the beach, you might as well try to talk to the Pharaohs across the Styx as your mum in Chipping Sodbury, and a three-page fax could end up costing fractionally more than a first-folio Shakespeare. But on a good day, in the afternoon when people were mostly eating, resting or sun bathing, you might get through on the sixth or seventh attempt.

  When I did make it, my response was a breezy, laconic, mannered voice with just a hint of West Country about it which claimed to belong to one Rory Carteret and asked me “To whom am I speaking, please?”

  I think it was the first time I had ever been ‘whom’ed’ by a telephone.

  I explained my mission, and described the problem. Mr Carteret displayed a good practical knowledge of the windlass in question, and in a staccato exchange of questions and answers we efficiently established that the winch had nothing further to offer the general progress of mankind unless it became a door stop.

  “Thank you so much for helping, and forgive me asking, but are you a professional skipper?”

  I replied, with the utmost complacence, that I was, and that appeared to be the end of the interview.

  “I wonder, if I can get a new windlass to you, would you be available to fit it for them, and get them on their way as soon as possible? We would of course pay you for your time, and any travel.”

  I said that I would.

  “We have an associate in Alimos Marina who should be able to get a windlass today... can you take down a couple of telephone numbers?”

  I jotted down the first one, and found myself looking at the very familiar series of digits which connected one... quite often... with Lefteris’ souvlaki shop on Amfitheas Street. This was followed inevitably by the Alimos hotel bar. I was therefore completely prepared when the associate turned out to be none other than the ubiquitous and multi-functional Spiros Thallasodoros.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured Mr Carteret, “I know Spiros. In fact, I’m expecting him to call me within the hour.”

  “Well, that’s a result!” enthused the telephone. “If you know Spiros, I can just send your money via him.”

  “If it’s all the same to you,” I hastily interjected, “I’d rather you just sent a cheque to my home address in UK.”

  The bellow of laughter which erupted from the handset turned heads across the road.

  “Ah! I see that you DO know Spiros!” it chortled. “Okey doke, pip pip, job’s a jaffa, drop me a line if there are any problems.” He gave me a fax number, signed off with a hearty ‘Toodle-oo!’ and hung up.

  Spiros managed to send me a ‘new’ winch for the French family’s boat by an afternoon hydrofoil, and by early evening I had installed and tested it. They were free to continue, and set off immediately for the nearby island of Dokos to spend the night in a bay. The anchor winch, though, proved harder to find, and by the time Spiros had located a suitable replacement there were no more ferries to Ermioni that day. It was agreed that he would send it instead by taxi to the mainland harbour of Porto Xeli, about fifteen miles further down the coast, and I should take a hotel for the night, sail down with the boat in the morning, and fit the winch in the afternoon. And thus it was that I sailed the next morning with a boat load of my mortal enemies.

  * * *

  The British Merchant Navy has been at war with Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise service since about quarter-past nine on the morning of the day the very first excise-man put on his uniform, and the subsequent hundreds of years of incessant mutual antag
onism have transformed a rational, proportionate contest into fervent tribal combat in which no blow is too low, no stratagem too vile and no victory too Pyrrhic.

  As in any worthwhile sectarian feud, the origins, long obscured by time and distorted by chauvinist rhetoric, have become utterly insignificant. The war is perpetuated for its own sake... and just for the fun of it, here is the British sailor’s point of view.

  Some seamen probably were... and probably still are... smugglers in the full moral sense of the word: conscienceless, evil-minded criminals bringing in saleable quantities of dutiable or prohibited goods for illicit gain or nefarious purposes. We didn’t know them, we had never met them, we didn’t approve of them, and anyway they were probably foreigners. And that, we strongly felt, was where Customs ought to have been spending their time... rummaging foreigners.

  We, of course, were not smugglers... bringing home a few thousand fags or a couple of hundred Havanas to smoke on leave... well, that isn’t smuggling, is it? Or dropping off a couple of cases of spirits for the landlord of the King’s Head? Or taking home a few stereos for the family? A sailor was away from home for months, years sometimes, so it was only fair that he could bring more swag back to the country; after all, in those days people could go to the continent for a day-trip and return with a larger European Union duty-free haul than we could bring back after a year in the Pacific. It stood to reason we had to be allowed some latitude, we were a special case and clearly the excise laws weren’t intended for us.

  Then there were things like Citizens Band radios, which were prohibited in Britain despite the fact that everyone under the age of thirty had one in his car... it was for safety, wasn’t it, and how else was one supposed to get them if they were not available in the shops?