A Letter to a Lucky Man

by Thomas Jobling

  ‘Aye, Curtis lad, she’ll sure earn her corn with us.’ With a sideways glance, Curtis caught yet another shifty stare from son to father.

  He was privately trying to decode the father’s comment as Eric returned with supplies. As well as sandwiches, a pack of sausage rolls and biscuits, Curtis spied yet another 6-pack of ‘tins’. A bottle of whiskey also poked out of the cardboard box. None of your business Curtis – look away. Curtis was not a fan of booze on boats.

  Fergal, following the ex-owner’s instructions, had himself fired up the engine. As he done so he leaned into Curtis breathing a cocktail of alcohol, coffee and nicotine, saying, ‘Don’t you be worrying yourself son, I’m well aware of her sea keeping qualities. I’ve been fishin’ all me life. That’s no sea at all out there.’ Pointing, he continued, ‘Aye, it’ll be a bit bouncy until we’re round thon spit of land. We’ll be grand, son. Oh here, you’ll need these.’ He passed Curtis another plastic bag, this time it was the one filled with the family memorabilia.

  As Curtis and driver Eric disembarked the LadyJac, Ruane had already completed the letting go of the weathered warps and retrieved the well-worn fenders. As neatly as you like, Fergal reversed her off and out of the space between pontoons. Then, at the precise moment, he spun the wheel, while knocking her into forward gear.

  A roar of spray erupted from under her stern as the propeller bit into the marina’s murky waters. LadyJac accelerated at a rate of knots and was quickly making for the open sea. Curtis could not have been more impressed. Especially when recalling how he had often made a hash, trying to perform the same or similar manoeuvres. Fergal could indeed handle a boat.

  These guys, he now felt assured, while they may not be dressed in the latest ‘yotty gear’, were not only seasoned seamen but would undoubtedly offer a good home for his ex-mistress. During the clearing of the berth, both Fergal and Ruane gave a customary wave. Curtis and Eric responded and watched the craft slip away. Eric noticed the lump which had had formed in Curtis’s throat. He reached across and patted his back.

  After a moment, and without warning, he turned to Curtis. His legs were astride the pontoon; his back now faced the boat’s disappearing stern. He didn’t immediately speak he just cupped his chin in a rough-cast hand. Under joined up bushy eyebrows his dark eyes focused. Curtis, intrigued, waited, while at the same time, over Eric’s shoulder he followed the boat’s wake towards the breakwaters. He noticed that she was making quite a bit of smoke.

  Finally, Eric asked, ‘Aye lad, that, eh, that wee girl you spoke about earlier…you know…the one with the SUV, was she by any chance a daughter of the Reverend Furey? Him being from West Meath, originally?’

  It was Curtis’s turn to look blank. Completely taken aback, he looked away from Eric; down at the ruffled water while the cogs of his memory clicked into gear. After what must have seemed like a lifetime, he finally attempted to answer, ‘Well she’s definitely his daughter, but I don’t think I can recall if he was originally from West Meath. But yes, the Reverend’s daughter. She was that.’

  Eric pursed his lips, and asked further, ‘Did the family, by any chance,’ he paused again, ‘depart a Manse house up here, like, in the middle of the night, sort of?’ I’m talking about years ago, like.’

  Curtis, still captivated by this man’s apparent knowledge of Philippa Furey’s family, answered in the positive. In response, he invited the big man to come for a wander around the Marina. It was as if a bottle had been uncorked, but only the head of the Genie was visible...

  Curtis’s thoughts surged back to the supermarket debacle of that morning. Then they were swept back further – to his youth, to his apprenticeship days, to his friendship with the Miss perfect Philippa. He recalled that the Furey’s did indeed disappear into the night. Or at least that was what the rumour machine had reported. It had been the talk of the town, as his mother had regaled him. Heckles raised, he also recalled his, then girlfriend’s non-attendance at their after-school meeting point, the old Rose Bud Café. His personal ‘Dear John’ moment! He of course recalled how time moved on so fast in those crazy young days. Now buzzing with anticipation, Curtis was left hanging as Eric had again gone quiet.

  They continued their walk along the main pontoon, away from the vacant berth. Glancing seaward, Curtis saw LadyJac clear the breakwaters as a wave exploded over her high flared bow. Turning away sharply he said to Eric, ‘She’s gone. My mistress has left me.’

  Catching Curtis’s humour, he replied, ‘Aye, and them head-cases, have left me too, and none too soon. Feckin loopers, them pair. But good payers mind. They’re loaded, so they are.’

  ‘Jeez Eric, you wouldn’t think it, looking at the cut of them, so you wouldn’t.’ Then with a wicked smile he continued, ‘Maritime fashionistas they’re certainly not, eh?’

  They both enjoyed a hearty mocking laugh, as Eric added, ‘Aye, what about old Fergal and them black slip-on shoes, and the tie?’

  ‘You mean the slip-ons with the salt-water waterline around them?’

  ‘Aye, and Ruane’s new Dubarrys. He bought them on the way here you know. Wanted to look nautical. Rough as a bear’s arse him, but aye, and like his Da; loaded. I wouldn’t like to delve too deep into their finances though.’ He paused.

  They stopped walking for a moment. Then with a cautionary glance, he advised in a slow quiet tone, ‘Move that money fast friend. Fast, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘What!?’

  ‘I’ve said all I’m saying friend, ok?’ With that, big Eric had abruptly shut-up-shop.

  But for Curtis was as if a chain of events had been kick started. An indigestion spike was followed by an uncontrolled burp. It was prelude to another bout of acid raging within Curtis’s digestive system. This time however and also without warning a mouthful of fizzy projectile vomit reared itself. Eric in an instant had hold of him. Embarrassed, Curtis tried to explain...

  Eric smiled and proffering a small pack of square tablets, said, ‘Here lad, have one of these, have two. Yeah, I suffer too. Maybe you should speak to your doctor? Or at least lay off the doughnuts’ Almost in an instant the chalky tablet was settling Curtis’s innards. He was still starving though.

  They continued their pontoon dander, mostly in silence. Curtis turned left, and both of them stepped gingerly out onto another pontoon finger. Eric followed, step for step. Curtis’s eyes carried along the sweet lines of the craft tethered there. His boat. In contrast his head was trying to reconcile the current drop in the value of boats against his new craft. A fraction of the size of LadyJac she was damn near twice her price! Eric for a moment appeared lost in this new world of yachts. He also looked uneasy; unsteady.

  Curtis set the bag of personal stuff down onto the pontoon. He grabbed the rigging with his right hand, hauled the fourteen stone of himself on board. The curled fingers of his left hand though, remained locked around the £10k plastic bag. Eric followed suit. The craft rolled and yawed under their combined weight. Eric’s descent into the diminutive open cockpit was ungainly. Clearly, he was a man ‘at sea’ with the motions of boats. His turn to feel queasy. He remained no less comfortable as Curtis narrated an enthusiastic survey of his new craft.

  Eric cut across him by reopening his news broadcast on the Furey family. It was Curtis’s turn to be quiet. He listened with intensity and then he smiled. Patting Eric on the shoulder he said, ‘It really is a small world, so it is. My, my, who would have thought.’

  ‘Aye, you never know who’s who. It seems to me that you, as the young Curtis, had a lucky escape from that Philippa girl. She blew you out; that’s right, yes?’

  ‘Indeed she did Eric. Thankfully it was my one and only ‘Dear John’ letter.’

  Curtis was dying to ask Eric specifically, why after all these years he was still interested in the family. In the end he decided that it was none of his business. He had enough on his plate this day, this first Friday; a Friday he would long remember.

  Curtis could sense the big man’s
aquatic uneasiness. Disembarking he accompanied him back up to the car park. With that, Eric had discharged himself. They shook hands. Curtis however was attracted to, or rather in awe of, the other man’s car. Although it was big enough to be a small truck. He had to comment. ‘Nice motor mate and it looks good in black too. It’s maybe a bit on the angry side for me. I nearly bought a Jeep Cherokee. Not as sporty though, or expensive as this beast. Not too much change out of fifty grand I’d guess?’

  ‘You’re not wrong. And a few grand more. Not mine unfortunately, theirs. I get to drive this Comanche Eliminator, but the O’Rouke boys do love their Cherokees. I’m just the driver but I get to rake it when they’re not about.’

  A nod accompanied by a private smile suggested that both Curtis and Eric were grateful for the shared information, all of it. Then, slipping a twenty pound note into his top pocket Curtis suggested that perhaps he should stop a few miles down the road for a bite. He recommended a roadside halt that was a good wee spot for an all-day Ulster fry.

  Of course behind the gesture Curtis was aware of the amount of alcohol the big man had consumed. Eric nodded with a smile while patting his pocket. The Jeep roared then gurgled as it drove away smoothly and cleanly. Curtis smiled too. Sounds not unlike my old TR3.

  Back in the Mercedes he found himself relatively at peace with the world. Well, at peace until the money-bag and its contents raised fresh concern. Okay, he surmised that in his business dealings over the years, cash deals were not uncommon; for example, in his fledgling engineering set-up he often took cash from the agricultural and fisheries sectors; sectors, where ‘wads’ were frequently extracted from bottomless dungaree pockets.

  This deal Curtis had convinced himself, was on a different scale altogether. For heaven’s sake, it’s a plastic bag packed with rolled up wads? His inner consciousness countered, what did you expect? A personalised Bank of Ireland cheque the size of a banner? Cheques bounce. Man. It’s just money man, but maybe not as you know it, these days.

  Curtis then reconsidered big Eric’s advice. He immediately wondered if indeed he had been handed a bag full of laundry. Best to get to the bank, get it lodged, today. Yes, best.

  With mobile in hand he scrolled through his contacts’ list. He rang Robert Bristow, his bank manager. It was on his personal number. As he waited, the whole ‘what if’ thing, plus the survey issue, and the antics of Ruane and his father had regurgitated itself. ‘OH FOR GOODNESS SAKE, BOBBY. ANSWER YOUR BLOODY PHONE!’

  Robert didn’t pick up. Curtis got out of the car again. He locked it. He walked around it, pressing the lock fob again. He stood by the perimeter fence. Inhaling on the salted air for the last time that Friday, he looked seaward again He was thinking. That’s some breeze out there now. So much for the shipping forecast? He walked back to the marina office; this, to advise them of Ladyjac’s new owners. As well, he requested a suitable refund on her berthing charges. Out of an undying curiosity he picked up a photocopy of the most current weather report.

  Across the marina the wind whistled through the forest of masts. Many of the corralled craft were yawing and straining at their pontoon. He was happy enough though. His new boat was securely tethered. He stood on for a few moments more. Then suddenly, like a beacon’s flash, he knew there and then that it was time to depart. He knew exactly where he was heading.

  His aches and pains had subsided a little. He thought again about the new owners and the weather. He glanced at the sheet he picked out the salient points: northerly F3-4 increasing F5-6 later; showers, visibility pour at times. Shaking his head in a dismissive fashion and against the over-riding cacophony of clanging halliards on alloy masts, he said, ‘NOT MY BOAT.’ But his declaration he knew, had been blown away on the cusp of the big breeze.

  Back within the sanctuary of the Merc he was already punching at his mobile’s favourites’ key. Third time lucky, the home phone answered. As he opened his mouth to speak, a surprise burp reminded him that, other than a couple of biscuits and a bun or two plus alcohol laced coffee, he had not eaten since breakfast.

  Simultaneously he was also reminded by his wife’s tone of voice that he hadn’t called home, since breakfast. Driving homeward he remained somewhat miffed because his earlier well-practiced wise-crack of, ‘Darling, my mistress has left me’ did not go down at all well with a not too pleased wife.

  Chapter 29 : Body in a Bunk

  Since their departure from Quarry Haven Marina the O’Rourkes had been motoring hard towards their prearranged destination. Landfall would be at least five hours away. It was a concealed and since many years hence, disused crumbling quay. Located under a coastal headland the inlet, in turn gave access to the quay. It was a landing place which was neither visible from land or sea. Even though the conditions weren’t the easiest, they were nevertheless keeping up an average pace of some five knots. Ruane had already texted his brother Oisín as they broke clear of the marina, if for nothing else but to advise of their ETA.

  From the outset LadyJac proved to be a handful. Although she was a proven seaworthy craft it seemed that she was fighting against her new owners. She had a tendency, both men soon discovered, to roll gunwale-to-gunwale when broadside to the waves. Waves, that Ruane pointed out to his father, which were becoming increasingly more confused and threatening. Fergal just grinned while assuring his son that the motions of his ‘new toy’ were merely a characteristic of the craft’s design, or words to that affect. He went on to mumble a reassurance to his son, ‘Agh Ru, son, sure I’ve spent hours out in worse conditions than these. I’ve fished in similar shaped craft, open boats they were too. Sure this lady’s shape was taken off a carvel planked fishing boat for feck’s sake. No need for you to worry son... and you know something else? I think I’ll just go below for an auld kip. So, you enjoy yourself. Call me whenever.’

  Continuous bursts of driving spray crashed onto the wheelhouse windows, it was unnerving. Reacting to the cresting waves the young helmsman had a tendency to over-steer but in doing so, caused LadyJac to broach heavily at times. Ruane hadn’t been too convinced with his father’s analogy. In fact, it had galvanised his opinion that hanging back at the marina, as the Cardinali fella’ had urged, might well have been a better option. But that was then, and for sure he was not going to admit his growing concerns again to his sea-hardened father. He gripped the wheel tighter. He closed his ears, but opened his eyes wider and concentrated harder.

  What was making conditions more difficult was that they had opted to steer a course close to, and under the shadow of tall cliffs, an area known locally as The Gobbins. They needed to remain as near invisible as possible; no one needed to know of their existence, especially the Coastguard. They were in stealth mode; places to be, timetables to keep.

  There had been no let-up in the conditions: a fresh breeze together with a sea-state of menacing grey, capped with breaking white crests. This vista was in turn exaggerated by the same waves being bounced back off the shear basalt. Finally, and regardless of what his father had said, he altered course, heading further offshore. This allowed their craft to adopt a different, albeit more natural motion. One breaking wave after another now hammered into her starboard bow, but at least the extreme rolling had eased.

  As well as feeling the effects of the craft’s gyrations he was becoming more than a little concerned for the safety of his father now resident down below. Although oblivious to sea sickness Fergal, he suspected, had been thrown around a couple times.

  The latest of these had seen his Da being launched into the navigation station. But he also observed his father kicking out with a bad tempered outburst before rolling onto the bunk. After a time and without warning Fergal had appeared back up in the companionway. Blood smeared his temple. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand as he turned to glance though the wheelhouse windows before facing back to his son. Ruane’s expression said it all, but Fergal’s slow slurred speech pattern said more, ‘It’s getting a bit more lively out there Ru. Maybe knoc
k the throttle back a bit, eh son?’ And as calmly as you like, he withdrew back down into the cabin. His son’s curious eyes followed him. With a salute and a wide grin, Fergal reassumed his position, but now on the port-side berth.

  Try as he might to put on a brave face, anxiety continued to rack Ruane. Silly old fecker, my Da....And the drink. He just can’t take it anymore; at least not the way him and Eric were going at it earlier. Feckin’ hell, why did I not listen to that Cardinali fella? No, I’m not enjoying this, one wee bit, so I’m not.

  Ruane was clearly not a happy helm. He’d held his concerns back for too long. He couldn’t settle. Finally, he engaged the Auto Helm, an automatic steering device for, if nothing else but to give his aching arms a rest. He left the wheel and he too dropped down into the cabin. It continued to be his father’s very noticeable speech pattern which fuelled his rising concern. Again he questioned if that was just the after-effect of the earlier drinking session, or had that thump on the head done untold damage? At the same time he had started to rig-up a lee-cloth contraption to restrain his father – keeping him snug within his bunk. It was a job which was nothing short of complicated, not helped by the gyrations of LadyJac.

  Ruane’s private dilemma was gathering momentum too; that of keeping the contents of his own stomach, within his stomach. Then in a demanding, yet sympathetic tone, he told his father, ‘Now listen Da, don’t you be nodding off again. I’ll need you to take a turn on the wheel, and soon. Do you understand? Do you hear what I’m saying?’

  ‘Aye yes, alright. Nae bother Ru. I’m grand, just feelin’ a bit daft. Sure. I should have seen that feckin’ table coming for me. Just give us shout, whenever.’