The Voyage of the Golden Handshake (15 page)

On the bridge, all was sweetness and light. The Captain and the Staff Captain quipped with each other as the
Golden Handshake
cut a fine figure through the water on course for Messina in Southern Italy, or as many preferred to emphasise, Sicily.

‘The cattle didn’t know how lucky they were when they sailed in this ship,’ said Sparda. ‘Sheer luxury.’

The Staff Captain was a little more cautious with his enthusiasm as he was receiving frequent reports about the poor functioning of the steering gear. However, he had to say that since the problems experienced in Gibraltar had been dealt with, the ship had performed reasonably well.

Sparda was looking forward to meeting his wife for a few brief hours. Lilian Sparda had been born in the United Kingdom and was known there as Lilian Foster until she met and married Sparda in Deptford. He had been doing a temporary job dredging the Thames and had lodged with the Foster family, many of whom had connections with shipping in one form or another. It had taken Lilian some time to settle in Messina, but certain of the changes were easy enough. She left the closeness
of a London family, where relatives lived around every corner, for the closeness of an Italian matriarchy where relatives lived in every corner of the house! Peché, her husband, was very accustomed to English ways, and with his support she was able to develop a degree of independence. Some of the relatives, especially those who lived in Catania, rather frightened her, but thankfully they did not visit too frequently and she had little occasion to visit this inland Sicilian town.

The chaplain continued to languish in his limited quarters in the sickbay. The doctor had declared him completely cured of the throat condition, but had warned him in no uncertain terms that he must not, under any circumstances, sing hymns too loudly, and any sermon he delivered must be limited to three minutes. This was because the doctor knew that as a senior staff member, he would be required to attend Divine Service and he could not tolerate clerical sermonising.

The chaplain took this warning seriously, but as there had not yet been a Sunday which was a sea day, he had not been called on for duty. Neither had he been able to see the Captain, as Sparda had requested. Each time he tried to get an appointment, he was fobbed off with one excuse or another. Finally, as the ship headed towards Southern Italy, Sparda came out of the bridge into his own small cabin.

‘Come in,’ he boomed as he heard a timid knock on the door.

The chaplain had put on his only clerical suit for the occasion and this, together with a very broad clerical collar, made him look for all the world like Mr Slope, the Trollopian character. The chaplain entered and the Captain gave him the onceover,

‘Off to a funeral, are we?’ said Sparda merrily. ‘Who’s died then?’

‘No one that I am aware of, Captain,’ the man replied softly.

‘Speak up, young man,’ said Sparda. ‘I can’t hear a word you say.’

The chaplain cautiously cleared his throat and tried once again. This time apprehension got the better of him and not a sound emerged from his quivering lips.

‘Look, lad,’ said Sparda impatiently, ‘I got a fine education, but lipreading was not on the curriculum. Speak up or get out.’

By now the chaplain had forgotten what he meant to say and so once again remained mute.

‘By sainted George of England you’re a queer fish. Well, I’ll do the talking then. This Sunday is all yours. There will be Divine Service at ten o’clock, and you,’ at this juncture he prodded the chaplain in the chest with his forefinger so that the other man nearly fell over, ‘
you
,’ emphasized Sparda, ‘will be responsible for the service. Understand?’

The chaplain nodded.

‘Furthermore,’ continued Sparda, ‘I like good rousing
hymns and better still, a full-blown sermon. I don’t consider that I have been to church unless there is a sermon of twenty-five minutes at least. Understood?’

Remembering the doctor’s instructions, the poor chaplain began to tremble again.

‘But …’ he began, this time in a half-audible whisper.

‘No buts,’ boomed the Captain. ‘You have to work your passage on this ship. Now, back to your quarters and get stuck into that sermon.’

The chaplain did not think it opportune to raise the question of his quarters and so he resigned himself to returning to his little room in the sickbay.

‘Good day, Padre,’ said Sparda in farewell. ‘Don’t tax your tonsils too much. You’ll need them on Sunday.’

And with that the chaplain left the cabin and returned to the bowels of the ship.

In another part of the ship altogether, Mr Toby Troy, former hostage turned lecturer, was working on his lecture series. The unfortunate fellow had been detained by Hezbollah, mainly because he had irritated them and, alas, he had not lost the ability to irritate all who came into contact with him. Although he had long ago abandoned his fiercely held religious beliefs, he had simply transferred his energy into promoting the activities of ‘The Society for Exposing Anything’. The Society had been
founded by Assad Wikiwhats who, as a market trader in Swindon, laboured under a heavy sense of injustice. Why should he, a simple seller of fruit and vegetables, be denied access to global secrets? Brave Assad threw caution to the wind and set up the Society, and from day one never looked back. He met Toby Troy at an antique gun fair in Bristol, and they had worked together ever since. Their first major coup consisted of exposing an MP for paying too much tax.

‘He cannot be diligent,’ trumpeted Troy, ‘if he pays too much tax. He must go.’ And go he did.

The next triumph was for exposing a well-known retailer for selling bent bananas when European Economic Community regulations clearly stated they must be straight.

‘There are too many lawbreakers,’ thundered the Society, ‘and the country is going to the dogs because of them.’

The retailer was fined a considerable sum and banned from selling fruit for twelve months. Troy also took it upon himself to ‘doorstep’ individuals whom he considered needed exposing. He visited a home in Sevenoaks which had appeared on a television commercial. The lady of the house, a Mrs Liza Goodrich, had held before the camera a shirt and had both said and sung ‘Washo washes whiter’. When visited by Mr Wikiwhats and asked, ‘Whiter than what?’ she was stuck for an answer and admitted, on camera, that she had held up a new shirt that had never been previously washed. This caused massive unrest
across the British Isles and resulted in the Company of Detergent Operatives completely revising their code of practice. Clearly Toby Troy, partner of Assad Wikiwhats, was a dangerous man to have on board.

Enzo Bigatoni, Cruise Director extraordinaire, and master of the game ‘Piddling Pursuits,’ was a happy man. So far on the cruise his quiz session in the afternoons had attracted very satisfactory numbers, largely because no other event ever clashed with this slot. He had spent hours collecting obscure and unusual facts which he carefully noted in his little red book. Black books were for his language classes and red books for quiz questions.

The game was simple. Passengers were divided into teams and collected points, which were named ‘carats’, for correct answers. At first passengers thought they were being awarded vegetables, which caused much innocent laughter, until it dawned that this was a clever play on the ‘golden’ theme and stood for a measurement of gold. From time to time he would announce a special session of Pursuits during which he asked a series of difficult questions - twenty-four in all - all related to the same theme. In the most unlikely event of anyone getting every single question correct, (i.e. reaching pure gold) he was able to tempt them with a very special prize - a shore excursion
for two with lunch and all the trimmings, the total value of which would not exceed five hundred pounds. As he never believed that any one person would ever win such a difficult quiz, he had not thought it necessary to get authorisation from the Hotel Manager for such a huge prize.

Sir Archie, a simple good-natured man, was a regular attender at Pursuits, although his solitary wife did not go along. Behind her brooding exterior lay a fierce intelligence and she would have undoubtedly been able to collect a massive number of carats, had she so wished. Mr Toby Troy had gone to each session of the game and had succeeded in irritating his team members by boasting about his unique knowledge of the world and, on most occasions, failing to get the correct answers and thus bring glory to the team. Albert and Alice had gone to one session, after which Albert declared it ‘totally daft’ and they avoided it thereafter.

On the sea day, when the happy ship was steaming full speed ahead for Messina, Enzo summoned passengers to rush from their suites and cabins for an important announcement. They gathered expectantly around the Information Points and the familiar voice of their Cruise Director came over the loudspeakers.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your Cruise Director, Enzo, announcing a very special event today. Piddling Pursuits this morning at eleven o’clock will be the Speciality
Session with an enormous prize worth five hundred pounds going to the winner. There will be only one or two Speciality Sessions each cruise, so do come along. See you around the ship and have a wonderful day.’

At the appointed time, rather more passengers than usual made their way to the venue and were given a paper and pencil by Angela Fairweather, the social hostess. Sir Archie was amazed that Lady Veronika decided to accompany him that morning. Normally she disdained the game, but there was no telling with his unpredictable wife and so, wearing her distinctive Mongolian knitted jacket, she made her first appearance.

A beaming Enzo greeted the assembled competitors. He instructed them that as this was a session with so much at stake, the rules would be strictly enforced and his word was final.

The group waited anxiously to see what the speciality subject would be, and when he announced it was ‘yaks’ a huge groan went up around the room. One or two passengers got up at that point and left, but the majority stayed behind although they realised that they were probably doomed from the start. Sir Archie could not believe it. He knew of his wife’s Intelligence background, of course, and marvelled that in some way or another she had been able to discover the subject for this demanding quiz. His respect for her ability increased dramatically.

Enzo called for absolute silence and produced his little red book.

‘Question one,’ he announced solemnly.

‘How high can a yak climb without experiencing any problems?’

There were various wild guesses. Toby Troy, who claimed to have visited the habitat of yaks many times in his life, did a few quick calculations in his head and scribbled a number on his paper. Lady Veronika, impassive as ever, noted something down.

‘Question two,’ he declared. ‘What is the name given to the cross between a yak and a bison?’

‘A bloody freak!’ shouted some wit from one of the groups.

Enzo looked sternly at him. ‘Remember the huge prize on offer,’ he said, ‘and please try to take this seriously.’

By the time Enzo had arrived at the final question, deep gloom had settled on the group. Apart from the subject being so specialised, the questions were obscure in the extreme and it would be nothing short of a miracle if all the correct answers were given by one person.

‘Question twenty-four,’ said Enzo with a confident air. ‘What is the connection between Chinese Opera and yaks?’

‘Their tiny feet are frozen,’ shouted the same comedian who had interrupted before. Enzo ignored him. ‘Kindly fold your papers and hand them to Angela, please,’ he said. She will mark each one, and in a few moments we will see if there is a winner.’

Confident that no one would ever get twenty-four correct
answers, Enzo strutted around the room smiling at passengers whose names he had yet to remember, but whom he recognised. He was talking pleasantly to an elderly lady who was telling him of her life as a missionary in India, when Angela beckoned him over. She looked concerned.

‘Someone has won,’ she muttered in a half-whisper. ‘They have all twenty-four questions correct.’

Enzo sat down heavily on a bar stool.

‘What?’ he gulped. ‘Impossible. Give me the papers.’

Angela duly handed them across and Enzo, peering through his bifocals, studied them carefully. He went pale.

‘This is correct, he muttered. A yak can indeed climb to 20,000 feet. How could a passenger know that? She even knew that the hairs from a yak’s tail are used to make beards in Chinese opera. What a situation! Five hundred pounds and I didn’t clear this with the Hotel Manager.’

Angela remained silent.

Enzo pulled himself to his feet and, summoning all his strength, put on his best Cruise Director’s smile and said, ‘Wonderful news. Lady Veronika Willoughby has got twenty-four carats and thus has won the magnificent prize. Well done, Lady Veronika.’

As a final intervention, the budding comedian brayed like a donkey, which again engendered much merriment. Lady Veronika glowered from behind her tortoiseshell spectacles as
Sir Archie applauded loudly, to be sportingly joined by others in the room, while Enzo reluctantly departed for what would be, at some point, a tricky meeting with the Hotel Manager.

Messina, sometimes called ‘the gateway to Sicily’, hove into sight. Captain Sparda felt a wave of nostalgia sweep over him as he viewed Villa San Giovanni on the port bow and Messina on the other. These were the treacherous waters he had sailed for many years, and a host of memories returned as on his new command he sailed them yet again. It was here that the legend of Scylla and Charybdis originated, Scylla on the Italian side being an outcrop of rock and Charybdis off the Sicilian coast a treacherous whirlpool. The waters were notoriously difficult to navigate and the saying ‘Between a Rock and a Hard Place’ originated from this very spot.

The Captain scanned the harbour with his brass telescope and could just about make out a group of people who were waving in his direction. He was too far off to distinguish them, but he imagined that it would be his family, who had promised to be there to meet him when he called in at his home for the first time on the
Golden Handshake.

They approached the dock and Sparda could now clearly make out his wife and family who, to his surprise, had been supplemented by Lilian’s family from London. He had not known that there would be such a large party to greet him. By now he
could hear their shouts of welcome in Italian from one group and English from the other. Suddenly the helmsman began to struggle with the wheel and, without warning, the ship turned around 180 degrees and began heading away from the dock. He could hear cries of dismay from the shore.

‘Hey, come back!’ they cried. ‘
Tornare indietro.
’

The helmsman was doing his level best to return to the set course, but it seemed as though the ship had a mind of her own and was determined to head for the rocks on the Italian side. Then it happened again. The helmsman was once more taken by surprise when exactly the same thing took place and the ship began to head back towards the port. On deck, Fred Batty who, in his latest lecture, had spoken of how the Black Death was supposed to have come into Europe from here, now said to nearby passengers that the Captain was simply giving everyone an excellent view of this fascinating part of the world and that was why he was circling. The devoted family party had produced some flags, and as the ship headed back towards them they cheered even louder than before and furiously waved the banners. The melodic tones of Cousin Pedro, the tenor, floated across the water and sure enough, Uncle Giovanni could be heard playing his ancient piano accordion.

Captain Sparda could not believe it when yet again the ship spun round and once more made for the mainland. By now, family patience was running out and Sparda could hear what
he thought was his uncle from Catania shouting, ‘
Stupido
’ and ‘
Dove stai andando?
’ (where are you going?). This was becoming ridiculous and, determined to sort the matter out, Captain Sparda ordered the helmsman away from the wheel and took it over himself. He managed to get the ship back facing towards Sicily, ordered the helmsman to return to his post, commanded the Staff Captain to take over, and rushed outside to greet his family. To shouts of: ‘
Bravo
’ and ‘
Non andare via di nuovo
’ (don’t go away again) the good ship
Handshake
finally docked.

The Admiral had suggested that all the Sicilian members of the ship’s company take shore leave for a few hours, and they took little persuading. Mr Fennington Barley, not a Sicilian but someone who had had plenty of free time up to this point, was a gentleman host whose prime responsibility was to dance with any lady who required a dancing partner. He had heard that the International Clog Dancing team were paying a visit to Sicily, and as dancing on board the ship was his speciality, he decided to track them down. Up to this point Mr Barley, or ‘Pearl’ as he was sometimes rudely named by some of the more macho members of the crew, had not been at all busy as there was no band on the ship and the piano was so out of tune that it was virtually unplayable. He was promised that musicians would embark in Messina for several days and that a piano-tuner would come on board and do the necessary.

Mr Barley was a retired farmer and all his life had had a
longing to take up dancing; between milking and bringing in the sheaves, however, he had never had the time to even begin to learn the first elementary steps. When retirement came and the farm was sold, he enrolled at the local dancing academy and quickly became a star pupil as he had a natural ability. Never having travelled, he heard through the academy that, if he was to make a small payment, he could be taken on by a cruise line and be able to dance his way around the world. His job required extreme tact. He was instructed not to enter into any romantic liaison with any of his dancing partners; not to be seen to be dancing too frequently with any one lady; always to compliment the lady on her grace and skill on the dance floor and never ever run the ship down to a passenger. Given that times had changed since ships introduced Gentlemen Hosts, he asked his mentor at the academy what ought he to do if a single male approached him on board ship and requested a dance. Unfortunately he did not get an answer as his teacher had to leave quickly to catch a bus, but the question was always in the back of his mind, and if the occasion arose he wondered what he would do.

It seemed as though Mr Barley would be kept busy after Messina because the Cruise Director had informed him that the Captain’s Uncle Giovanni would be joining the ship to play the piano accordion, together with a Signor Marko Contoni, who would play the clarinet. Once tuned, the piano would be played by a crew member who normally worked in the kitchen
but could be released between shifts to ‘tinkle the ivories’ as the Cruise Director nauseatingly put it.

Mr Barley spent one of his last free afternoons clog dancing his way through the streets of Messina with the international team, who had joined forces with the Mad Maypole Men, on a tour arranged through the good offices of the British Council. It was a great success and later in the year the clog master was awarded a knighthood for his outstanding work in promoting international relations through the arts.

Lilian Sparda greeted her husband warmly and, together, they were swept away for a few hours to the family residence where an enormous meal had been prepared. Following the meal, Uncle Giovanni played along with Signor Marko, who had been especially invited to join the party. Cousin Pedro tuned his vocals and led the party in singing a selection of Sicilian favourites, which delighted everyone. Sparda was so impressed that there and then he invited Pedro to join the two others and come on board for some days to entertain the passengers. Pedro, who normally sang in the streets, was overjoyed and agreed immediately.

The evening grew late and Sparda was just about to say a fond farewell to his wife when one of his half-cousins from Catania sidled up to him and, in Italian, asked if before the ship sailed he might board to conduct a small inspection, ‘for insurance purposes’. Although the good Captain would have been
overjoyed to take his family on a tour of the
Golden Handshake,
time was limited and he knew that one or two of the more distant cousins might want to take some advantage of boarding a ship bound for foreign parts. So, his decision was to keep them all ashore.

‘You remember, Peché, of the help you had in Monaco?’ whispered the Catanian. ‘I think you owe us a little inspection, don’t you? You don’t have to come with me, Peché. Just inform Security that your dear cousin will be coming on board for a few moments so that he can assure all the family that you are really comfortable.’