In that same moment his gaze was again drawn to the water beyond, he asked himself if it been a bad, or indeed a sad morning? Or indeed, if running into ‘yer woman’ really had been a sign; fate or something else?
With hands shoved into the coat’s pockets he strolled towards the marina gate. Pressing the security button he noted that a lick of paint wouldn’t go amiss. Bursting into life the external loud speaker addressed him.
‘Good morning. What is your boat’s name please?’
‘LadyJac’.
With an audible clunk the gate groaned open. He checked his wrist watch – it had gone mid-morning. He headed down towards and carefully navigated the teak-planked pontoons. He made off in the direction of his, soon to be no more, boat.
His ‘bit of business’ that day was to conclude the sale of the LadyJac. She had been his maritime ‘mistress’ his cabin-cruiser for several wonderful years. He stepped up and into her cockpit. Jolts of pain reminded him that his bruised body demanded sympathy. He unlocked the wheelhouse door and awkwardly stripped off his coat.
Dropping down into the main cabin he immediately lit the burner and put the kettle on. The compact galley was located on the port side of what was a cosy main cabin. The area was fitted out with rich mahogany panelling trimmed with a contrasting white wood; ash. As he awaited the shrill of a boiled kettle he commenced the removal of the photographic gallery of family outings and other personal paraphernalia from the bulkhead. Such clutter he asserted would be of no interest to a buyer. A number of nautical posters and guides which were glued around the starboard navigation area were left. At the same time he peeled away the wrapping of the biscuit pack, the sole survivors of his lunch expedition.
A further inspection of his coat revealed no better news; it was a write off. What made it worse was that it had been a recent birthday present from his boys. His Levis, encrusted with motor vehicle grime had fared a little better. They were, at least repairable. His cuts and bruises were, too, but they might take a little longer. With a reflective sigh, he consoled himself. Ah, sure it’ll make a quare auld tale to share with these folk. Maybe they’ll take pity on me, and up their offer. Countering that thought, he said to an otherwise empty craft, ‘Aye, some chance.’
He went about the process of starting up her engine – which fired first time. He checked that the various electronics and mechanical aids were functional. After bleaching the toilet area he moved back up into the wheelhouse and switched on the VHF radio. He tuned it to channel 16, if for nothing else but to listen to the marine chit-chat beyond the breakwaters.
As he worked his way through his check-list he recalled that at the time of their first meeting, these potential buyers had not asked for a marine survey to be carried out. In fact, he further recalled that they became somewhat indignant when he had pushed the subject. Their original reason, delivered in a jokey fashion, had been along the lines of, ‘that this wee boat was going to become a bit of a project, so no point’. Curtis had reasoned that she was destined to become yet another fisherman’s vessel, perhaps a commercial day-tripper craft, or similar. In truth, it had been the absence of a deposit which troubled him most. He consoled himself back then believing that yet another deal had died.
Equally, and because he reckoned that he would never hear from them again, he didn’t bother arranging for the LadyJac to be lifted out of the water for an obligatory underwater inspection and scrub. This, to remove the seaweed growth, and any marine nasties which he reckoned would have had already transformed her underwater profile into a maritime eco system. So yes, it had indeed come as something of a surprise when they’d reached out to him again.
With the mechanical and electrical checks completed and with a steaming mug in hand, he sat back onto the upholstery and put his feet up onto the centrally located table. He flicked through the boat’s manual and clerical history: service records, proof of purchase, insurance etc. It was the same file that he had meticulously created prior to their original enquiry. His eyes soon hung heavy. But as he drifted a text message re-lit his phone. It was them. The prospective new owners were now only some thirty minutes away!
A stomach spasm, a quiver of anticipation racked him. He needed air. He stepped back outside and down into the cockpit. He cast his eye around it to ensure that all was in order, that the life belts and other safety equipment were correctly stowed. First impressions, Curtis had always preached to his staff, was the first step to success in sales. Today, it was his turn to put this into practice.
With everything ship-shape he moved out and up onto the deck. Next, he repaired to the bow where he leaned over while grasping onto the stainless steel pulpit. Resisting the temptation to do a Titanic, Curtis hunched down and instead recounted a few of the times and locations where he had dropped, or weighed anchor from this very bow.
As he awaited their arrival, he further recalled how in recent times he had spent many a Thursday afternoon, or evening, sitting within the sanctuary of her cabin preparing for that next day’s ‘first Friday’ factory meeting.
A trademark smile broke across his face. His thoughts in that instant yanked him back to the present and to that same day’s management gathering at CIL headquarters. He visualised his team sitting around the long polished mahogany boardroom table; a battle of minds – the often opposing courses that ‘sales’ and ‘production’ took. Who would be first to shove their folders and files across the table in frustration? Curtis straightened with a jolt. He addressed the marina’s resident swan family swimming in line, just below and around LadyJac.
‘I should be there... chairing that meeting. And, putting Foxie, my ‘favourite’ director of sales development in the chair; oh shit, what if it all back-fires?’ Just as quickly though, he acknowledged that the people around that table were more than capable of looking after his business. After all, he had recruited them. All, that was, except Foxie and...
He let the thought go and concentrated again on boat business. His earlier smile was quickly replaced with a frown as he recalled the previous conversations he had had with these gents, the prospective buyers. The continuing absence of a deposit still left him unsettled. That wave of negativity, suspicion, had started to swamp him yet again. Wise up man, it’ll all be grand. For goodness sake, they haven’t driven all this way for nothing.
For spring it wasn’t particularly warm; felt like February. The developing breeze cut into him. The warmth of the main cabin beckoned as he accepted that their impending visit had to be a positive buying signal. The purchasing pendulum had therefore swung back to him; deposit or no deposit.
Finishing off the cold remains of his mug he still hankered after the lost sandwich; another stomach rumble, the confirmation. This prompted him to empty the remaining biscuits onto the craft’s plastic crockery collection while disposing of the wrapper into a plastic bag which hung conveniently beside the sink. He refilled the kettle, took another biscuit.
Grinning, he drifted back into dreamland. But it was short-lived. A knock on the exterior of the hull, was accompanied by the call, ‘AHOY! Curtis, permission to come aboard son.’
The caller, Fergal, introduced himself as he stepped on board. As if Curtis had forgotten him. He was the eldest of the trio. Further introductions were made within the cockpit. ‘Ah, Curtis it’s good to see you again son. I’m sure you thought that we’d changed our minds, so?’ Curtis smiled and nodded as he continued, ‘This is Eric, our driver, and of course you remember my son, Ruane. It’s really his day today. By-jay-us that engine sounds sweet, so – and VHF’s loud and clear too. Sure that’s grand. Here, we’ve brought gifts.’
After handshakes they moved below into the main cabin and quickly got down to business... the opening of the offered gifts, a bun box; doughnut rings. Dram-laced coffees were served too. Curtis killed the engine and the VHF. The drone was immediately replaced with a backdrop of lapping wavelets between the outside of the hull and the pontoon to which LadyJac was berthed.
A
nervy Curtis went on to confirm that she was full of red diesel and the boat’s batteries were fully charged, as was the fresh water tank. He slid the boat’s log book and her general admin folder across to Fergal and his son. Fergal interrupted with one of his quips, ‘Sure, there was no need to go to those lengths lad – you really are a ‘to-be-sure’ kinda feller arnt’d ye?’
The buns and donuts, coffees and conversation saw an hour pass in a blink. Tales were recounted and Curtis regaled them with his supermarket exploits from earlier. Eventually though, in an attempt to move things on, he lent forward, coughed, and politely slapped the log book. He smiled, and turned to Ruane, ‘Come on lad, I’ll give you the tour.’
Although Curtis’s demeanour had moved to the positive, it remained difficult for him to figure out Fergal’s son. Because, as he saw it, for a lad who was about to inherit a new play-thing he didn’t give out much of an aura of enthusiasm. Equally inside Curtis’s head the distant drums of negativity were beating again. Is this deal still a deal or indeed, a deal about to be renegotiated? Something, Curtis felt, was just not right. Nevertheless, and with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, the ‘tour’ commenced.
On their return to the main cabin Fergal and Eric were caught emptying a hip flask. Ruane, with a stabbing stare directed at his father, said, ‘Take it easy with that stuff, we’ve a brave auld voyage ahead of us. Don’t want you passin’ out on me Da.’
‘Agh, you worry too much boy. Sure, we’ve only had a couple of wee ones, too.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Sure you have. I mean it Da, slow down.’
On hearing this commitment to an immediate journey, Curtis relaxed. Quietly, and as a new conversation developed, fresh coffee replaced the Powers whiskey-laced ones. Curtis again found himself drifting, reminiscing. His recall was of the many lonely but peaceful hours spent over winter weekends tending to his then, new mistress. It had been therapy at a time when the business was expanding. LadyJac remained as a valuable man cave. Of late however it had become a pontoon fixture.
He was privately embarrassed at how he had let her get into this state, both externally and even internally. And anyway, following a recent purchase of another craft – a three person racing yacht – he realised what his friend, old Andy from the nearby chandlery had professed was indeed pretty true. ‘Aye Curtis, ye cannae sail two boats at the same time son.’
LadyJac’s principal function of late, it seemed, had become that of a second office; a tethered de-stressing room with superb sea views. Conversely, he had been bemused at the buyers disregard for her general state. The interior for example, seemed acceptable to these folk – nothing that a bit of ‘spit and polish’ wouldn’t cure, said old Fergal. There was not a mention of the peeling varnish on the outside superstructure, weed growth around her waterline or the bleaching of the hull’s dark green gel-coat.
Coming back to the conversation he faced three hard-beaten faces. Principal was Fergal’s purple nose. They in turn, had been studying him. Fergal smiled, and said, ‘Aye, so you’re back with us Curtis, son... recalling the good times no doubt?’
He nodded as a thin smile of confirmation broke across an otherwise motionless face. The old man continued, ‘Did ye cruise her far? Western Isles? Fine scenery around them parts. Spent many hours fishing and trawling over there, sometimes the weather could be brutal. Great anchorages, mind. And them hidden bays?’
Ruane, a fellow of few words, was staring at his father again.
They chatted on, seemingly aimlessly. A jab from Curtis’s ‘war wounds’ had the effect of refocusing him onto the business in hand; the cheque! Conscious of Ruane’s air of disinterest he wanted to shout, ’Come on boys, make with the money, or get the fuck off my wee boat. ‘ He didn’t. Instead he manged, ‘Well Fergal. Are we good? Did you bring a cheque?’
There was no cheque. Instead, from under a coat folded neatly between Fergal and his son, they produced a Dunnes Stores plastic carrier bag. Ruane pushed it across the cabin table, saying, ‘Curtis, we like to deal in cash. But by-jay-us man, it would have been easier to have been dealing in feckin’ Punts.’ Everyone thought this was hilarious, everyone except Curtis. Although outwardly going with the flow, he had been taken aback. Ten grand, cash! In a plastic bag! In that bag? Holy shit! Wasn’t expecting that. What if... ?
Swallowing his surprise, Curtis responded, ‘Oh, right. Um, well, wow!... Thanks guys. You’ve caught me flat…in that bag? Seriously?’
Noticing Curtis’s pained expression, Ruane, now also smiling broadly, had, it seemed, elected himself as chairman. ‘Aye Curtis, I hear ya.’ Then with a glance towards his cohorts, he said, ‘Tell you what. We’ll move back up into the wheelhouse while you count it out. It’s all there, inside, in a box of neatly rolled-up fifties. Honest.’ Now on his feet, he nodded, and continued, ‘Right boys, come on. Eric, grab that bottle. Time’s now right for drams. Agree Da? Oh, and Curtis, you can have that last bun. It’s on me.’
Curtis, still stunned, realised that he was no longer the owner of a twenty-eight-foot-long glass-reinforced-plastic cabin-cruiser in need of some TLC. He sat in silence. He was trying to file the events of the last hour or so, into some sort of discernible order.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the plastic bag. Toni Russo’s shares and options had made Curtis wealthy, but that was paper money. Elusive. Invisible. This was cold, hard cash and an awful lot of it. Reaching out, cautiously he touched it. With a thumb and a forefinger he pulled at it, a little. Then he grabbed it towards him. Slow at first, almost as if was booby-trapped. He peeled away the two lengths of duct-tape which had effectively held the top of the bag closed.
Finally, with a shake of his head and an audible exhale, he pulled the bag open and gawped. Still exerting caution he lowered his hand into its depths. The lid was lifted off a grey shoe box. Then his thumb and forefinger were again deployed to deftly lift out one of the wads. With his right hand he gripped it; with his left, he rolled off its elastic band. Sure enough, a flush of £50 notes emptied onto the table. A multitude of smiling Sir Christopher Wrens looked up at Curtis. Seemingly encouraging him to verify the stack was real. A further three rolls were extracted and laid side by side. One by one the notes were counted. Then visually, the remaining rolls were compared, size-wise. With that, and believing that all was in order, the bag was re-sealed. Ten grand! Yeah, happy enough with that.
Smiling to himself, he wiped his brow and mouth with his sleeve. He inhaled hard, and addressed the companionway steps. On rejoining the three up in the wheelhouse, a toast was immediately offered up by Curtis.
‘Health to sail, gentlemen, she’s all yours. Treat her with care...and, thank you.’ Handshakes and re-fills followed. Quietly Curtis slipped a £50 back to Ruane, saying, ‘A luck-penny son.’
Ruane nodded.
It had been a good humoured exchange all round, albeit punctuated by some sticky silences. Yet more drams had been consumed, and this time by Ruane too. Curtis, with his empty stomach, had earlier reverted to water. Inwardly he just wanted them to be gone; gone now. The deal is done. The price is okay…now be on yer way; please.
Curtis was now officially starving. The sugar and fat from the buns had done him no favours. The acid in his throat was becoming seriously uncomfortable. He needed some privacy if for nothing else but to be sick. He figured that their tales should be taken with a pinch of salt but he smiled with them. Disturbingly though, the more time he spent sitting within their company, the more he felt uneasy. There was something about these guys that didn’t sit with him. He couldn’t quantify it. The best his head told him was, ‘Just something.’
In big capital letters, warnings were being posted, but he couldn’t arrange them into answers – there was too much noise currently between his ears. Among his other thoughts, he just wanted the incoming tide to speed up, to turn, to sweep them and LadyJac seaward towards their destination, wherever that was. But he also realised that there was no point in them ‘punching’ a tide that they
didn’t need to. It had been a lesson he had learnt several years ago whereby in his impatience he weighed anchor too early. While his instruments were showing six knots going forward, a countering four knot tide under his keel meant that his speed over the ground had been negligible.
Running parallel to the tidal issues his primary thoughts now centred on how the hell he was going to safely transport his £10,000 (less £50) plastic bag from the pontoon, to his car, to his safe, to his bank... while explaining to the manager the exact nature of the transaction.
As the small talk continued, Curtis, his patience drained, turned away. He leant over the wheel to extract the booklet of local tide tables. ‘Oh wait! Listen!’
Heads turned.
He continued, ‘Oh, sorry guys, I forgot. These tables are already in British Summer Time. Oops. So, if you’re ready we can get this show on the road, so to speak?’
Immediately LadyJac pulsed with activity. With even broader smiles all round, they prepared to cast off. Ruane scanning the shoreline had momentarily halted operations, questioning. ‘Where’s feckin’ Eric? Bloody man always disappears when you need him.’
Curtis however, was looking out from the wheelhouse and further towards the marina’s breakwaters. Regardless of his inner thoughts, he could not but, draw the new owners’ attention to the weather and a significant change in the sea state beyond.
Through gritted teeth, he suggested that maybe they should delay, or at least get a weather update. Further, he said to Fergal that if they did delay, he’d be happy enough to have LadyJac lifted out for a scrub. His efforts were roundly rebuffed by Ruane, who had returned to the cockpit. He downgraded Curtis’s weather warning. ‘Agh—just a bit on the choppy side. Leftovers from wind against tide,’ he said. ‘Sure as my Da says, this wee boat was made for heavy weather. That’s why we, he picked her out in the first place.’ Again, his father spoke over him.
A Letter to a Lucky Man Page 20