The Voyage of the Golden Handshake (24 page)

He left the suite laughing to himself. As he descended to the lower regions he could have sworn he heard a sound that he had not heard since his days in the Congo. Was that a parrot? He listened again, but all was silent.

Perhaps Bigatoni had got some extra props to go with his eye-patch, he thought and continued to his quarters. He was soon to learn otherwise.

Sunday morning dawned and the chaplain woke in his double bed in the Balcony Suite. The sun was streaming in through the porthole, filling the little room with warm beams of light. Compared to the cot in the Medical Centre this was heaven, although he felt rather guilty at having been so honoured by the ship when all he did was accompany the Port Chaplain on his delicate mission. Perhaps, he reasoned, he had played a part in providing moral support to his old college friend. It was best now to forget the past and get on with doing what he had been requested to do, and that was be the chaplain on board.

Last night at the Golden Dinner, he had been very embarrassed and, had it not been for the supportive presence of Angela, he would not have been able to go through with it. Everyone congratulated him on his speech, but it was terrible. He had had no idea what to say or how to say it. Sermonising had never been his strong point. He suddenly realised that tomorrow would be Sunday, and a sea day, and he was due to take the morning service. What was he to do? The doctor had warned him not to exceed three minutes for his sermon and the Captain
wanted half an hour at least. He would consult Angela who had a good mind for planning and would surely be able to help him resolve this dilemma.

It was well known on the ship that the aggressive Mr Toby Troy, once honoured by the State for his great skill in dealing with complex foreign affairs, would be leaving the ship in India and would deliver no more lectures. The chaplain understood that the unfortunate man was now locked in the brig, waiting to be put ashore. As chaplain, he felt it was his duty to visit the captive and to offer him some comfort in his distress.

Later that morning, he approached Captain Sparda whom he caught in the reception area. ‘Ah Padre,’ said Sparda, in his jolly confident manner. ‘Well done last night. Lovely evening and you were the star turn.’

The chaplain blushed, an unfortunate trait which had caused him much suffering at school.

‘I was thinking of visiting Mr Troy today,’ he said, ‘and wondered if this would be acceptable to you.’

‘It would be acceptable to me if you took the little fellow and threw him over the stern.’ Sparda replied. ‘Never have I seen such mischief contained within so small a frame. Visit him by all means. I’ll ask Harry Chub to give you the keys.’ The Captain strode away and the chaplain went in search of Harry.

When the ship was converted into a cruise liner, there had been much discussion as to whether there ought to be a special
place in which to confine miscreants, or not. Some argued that they could be secured easily in a cabin. Others said that as there might be some individuals who, because of drink, had lost control, a secure cell or brig would be more appropriate. It was decided that there would be such a place, and a very small area was utilised, which had formerly been used to store potatoes. Harry escorted the chaplain to the brig, unlocked the door and left him. Troy was sitting on a low stool reading by the light of a lamp attached to the wall.

‘May I come in, please?’ the chaplain said politely.

‘If you must,’ said Troy. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he groaned. ‘God’s last hope for a fallen world.’

The chaplain entered and sat on a ledge attached to the wall.

‘I am so sorry to find you here,’ he began, but Troy responded before he could continue.

‘Well, who did you expect to find? Sleeping Beauty? Aladdin?’

The chaplain was taken aback. ‘Well no, of course not. That was just a figure of speech. I meant that I was sorry that you have been confined to this dungeon.’

‘Well, let me tell you,’ said Troy, in a voice filled with righteous anger, ‘I am not a
bit
sorry! Not one bit. As soon as I leave this ship, this whole floating outpost of MI6 will be exposed to the world. It is no coincidence that there is an Admiral on board. They say he is retired. Tripe! My guess is he is a serving officer
of the security services and that his lackey, Sparda, had deliberately endangered the lives of innocent people by sailing into dangerous waters to spy!’ He almost shouted the last word.

‘This is clearly a spy ship, Mr Holy Chaplain, sir, and you are complicit in a huge espionage operation involving the Mafia, Mossad, MI6 and a dozen or more private operatives.’

‘Really,’ said the chaplain, ‘how can you make such an assertion?’

‘With ease,’ said Troy confidently. ‘Did not the Captain loiter off the coast of Libya until he was chased away? I have seen with my very own eyes armed men prowling through this ship after cover of darkness. I am not easily fooled, you know. I know Hezbollah and their ways. I understand Mossad. As for the spooks from MI6, they are under deep cover as passengers or crew members. Mark my words in red ink, and reflect on them long after I have exposed this whole outfit through Wikiwatts.’

The chaplain reflected on those whom he knew amongst the passengers and wondered who might be secret agents. Albert and Mrs Hardcastle? Thomas Potts? Never. It was possible, he supposed, that the New Zealand twins had worked at GCHQ and had continued their work across the generations. Possible, but he didn’t think it likely as they had never once yet found their way back to their Suite without being directed by a crew member. If their memory was that bad, they could hardly be spies. Unless, of course, the forgetfulness was part of their cover.

‘But,’ said Troy, ‘I don’t want to waste my time on these issues, important as they are. There will be plenty of time to discuss this ship when the whole conspiracy is exposed - as it will be. By me!’

The chaplain did not know how to respond to this flood of accusations so he remained silent. As he was thinking what to say next, Troy continued on a different tack.

‘Tomorrow is Sunday, right?’

The chaplain said that indeed it was.

‘There will be a religious service on the ship, right?’

Once again the chaplain confirmed the statement.

‘Can you tell me, in words of one syllable why you,’ here he jabbed at the chaplain with his forefinger, ‘why you,’ another jab, ‘should be given the special privilege of holding a religious service on this ship?’

The chaplain had been jabbed in such a way before, and he didn’t like it. He was about to answer, but before he could open his mouth, Troy continued.

‘Why should there be a religious service at all?’

The chaplain took a breath so that he would not stutter and replied, ‘I think I read in the newspapers, Mr Troy, that once you were a promoter of the Holy Bible, and because of your work in trying to sell them to Hezbollah, you were thrown into a dungeon.’

‘Correct in every detail, chaplain - if that is what you like to
call yourself.’

Anxious not to get caught in the emotions generated by a discussion of religion, the chaplain tried to put the conversation into the academic realm.

‘Chaplain is a very old designation, Mr Troy. It goes back to Middle English and probably comes from Medieval Latin
capp ellanus
, someone who looked after the cloak of St Martin. You remember that the saint shared his cloak with a poor man.’

‘It can be traced back to Middle Wallop for all I care,’ snorted the little man. ‘But if what you say is true and that’s where it goes back to, why aren’t you in the laundry pressing shirts and ironing the bedsheets? Let me tell you, Mr Cappuccino, or whatever you like to call yourself, with my good friend Professor Dickie Querk from none other than the University of Totnes, we will be exposing the whole religious monopoly on cruise ships and on this one in particular. I have always suspected a link between MI6 and the Church of England. And I shall expose you, sir, as being a key operative. Time in this dungeon has given me an opportunity to prepare my case.’

‘I don’t wish to argue with you, Mr Troy. Is there anything you want?’

‘Certainly,’ said Troy, jumping to his feet and startling the chaplain. ‘Truth. Justice. An end to Religious Oppression. Secret dealings exposed. Oh yes. I want a great deal and I shall get it. Now I must attend to my case and leave you to continue
to dupe the passengers on this ship. Good day.’

He motioned towards the door and the chaplain left after what was his first pastoral visit on board.

Enzo was excited. He and Harry had brought the new entertainer on board and had hidden him in a remote cabin on the lower deck. Mr van der Loon had insisted that his parrot, Nelson, and his dog, Charlie, were to share his cabin and in return he was told that none of them must emerge during the daytime, so as not to be seen by passengers. His show was to be a surprise. He could leave at night with the two other performers but, during the day, meals would be served in the cabin. Rehearsal presented something of a problem. In view of the secrecy required, the act could not go out to the performance area before the show itself. It was decided that a rehearsal would take place in the cabin, before Enzo and Harry, who would take notes and instruct the technicians accordingly.

After lunch the two officers descended to the cabin and knocked on the door. Chiming bells were reserved for Balcony Suite passengers.

‘Clear off,’ said a voice from within. Harry knocked again.

‘Are you deaf as well as stupid?’ uttered the same voice as the door opened. Mr van der Loon appeared, dressed in a long silk
dressing-gown and smoking a cigarette held in an ivory holder.

‘I do apologise for Nelson,’ he said. ‘This is his rest time, and he hates to be disturbed.’

Nelson, the mind-reading parrot, was perched on top of the dressing-table mirror, and as they entered he gave them the evil eye.

‘I’m afraid there is no smoking on this ship,’ said Harry.

‘Thank God,’ said Nelson from on high, giving Harry a wink and then closing his eyes again.

Van der Loon extinguished the cigarette and offered his visitors a seat. This accomplished entertainer was acknowledged, by those who had seen his performance, as one of the finest ventriloquists in the business. It was difficult, if not impossible, for onlookers to tell when it was that Nelson was repeating a word or phrase he had learned, or when van der Loon was exercising his ventriloquism. Both Enzo and Harry were immediately taken in.

Half under the bed, Enzo noticed what he imagined was Charlie, the musical dog. He too was fast asleep, and snoring quite loudly.

‘This really is an inconvenient time for all of us, as we normally rest during the afternoon.’ Van der Loon sat on the edge of the narrow bed. ‘I’m not sure Charlie and Nelson will be all that co-operative.’

‘It’s the only time we have,’ said Harry apologetically. ‘We’ll
have to make the best of it.’

‘I’m afraid that it won’t be a dress rehearsal,’ van der Loon told them. ‘My silk suit is with the tailor, being repaired where Charlie took a piece out of it when he was in a bad temper.’

Enzo sat back in his seat and moved his feet further away from the dozing Charlie.

‘Is he frequently bad-tempered?’ he asked, somewhat nervously. He had never felt quite at ease with dogs since one had chased him when he was a boy.

‘Frequently, these days,’ van der Loon replied nonchalantly. ‘I think he is tired of screen and stage, but to me he is irreplaceable.’

With that remark Charlie rolled over and opened one eye. A trick he had learned from the parrot. He stared at the two visitors, got slowly to his feet, and went to drink some water from a crystal bowl placed at the far end of the cabin.

‘Charlie,’ said van der Loon. ‘Come on. Greet your visitors.’

Charlie ignored them and flopped to the floor.

‘I think we should begin,’ said Harry. ‘Time is going by and we have a lot to get through before the show tonight.’

Van der Loon got to his feet and cleared his suitcase off the floor, making a small space.

‘Nelson!’ he cried. ‘Come on - rehearsal. You’re on first. Come on, Nelson. We have to rehearse.’

Nelson strutted across the top of the mirror, paused and
bent down to view his own reflection, and then continued to the far edge. When he reached the end he flapped his wings, flew a few paces and perched on the back of a chair alongside Mr van der Loon.

‘Right,’ said his owner. ‘I begin the act by appearing on stage in my silk suit and singing “Talk to the Animals” like Rex Harrison in
Dr Dolittle
. I then invite the audience to fire a question at Nelson, who will respond. Are you ready, Nelson? Mr Parkhurst will ask the first question. By the way, don’t forget, Nelson is the only clairvoyant parrot ever discovered. Right, Nelson.’

The bird remained mute as Harry tried to think of something to ask. ‘What are two and two?’ he asked eventually.

There was no immediate reply as Nelson looked at him as incredulously as a parrot can look. Finally his voice rang out.

‘If you ask any more bloody silly questions like that, I’ll ask Charlie to deal with you. For goodness sake, this isn’t a Kindergarten.’

Harry nearly fell off his chair in surprise and Enzo laughed.

‘Why are you laughing, you fat man?’ the parrot went on. ‘I’ve heard crocodiles sing better than you.’

Enzo stopped smiling immediately. ‘You’ve never heard me sing,’ he objected.

‘You forget, Fatso, that I am a clairvoyant. The best in the business,’ snapped Nelson, quick to respond.

Harry turned to van der Loon who appeared to be busy
manicuring his fingernails as the exchange took place.

‘I do hope he will be more polite tonight,’ Harry said. ‘Some of our guests are very sensitive, you know.’

‘I’ve seen them,’ said Nelson, chipping in. ‘The only time they are sensitive is when they have to pay for drinks.’

‘Be quiet, Nelson,’ said van der Loon, pretending to get irritated. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I warned you that the afternoon was not good for a rehearsal. I think we had better ask Charlie to show you what he can do. Charlie, wake up.’

The dog growled and reluctantly got to his feet.

Van der Loon rummaged in a suitcase and produced a conical hat which he placed on Charlie’s head, fastening it with an elastic band. He then went to the cupboard and brought out a stand to which were attached a row of small trumpets. He set this down before Charlie, who looked far from pleased.

‘Damn silly hat,’ said Nelson from the safety of his perch.

‘Will you be quiet, Nelson,’ said van der Loon. ‘You really are getting out of hand these days. Now,’ he went on, ‘I play that lovely old melody on my saxophone, “How Much is That Doggy in the Window”. Then I stop and Charlie plays the same tune by blowing into each of the trumpets in turn.’

He began filling the small cabin with the noise of his instrument. When he had finished, he turned and nodded towards Charlie who, instead of playing on the trumpets, trotted back to his position under the bed and crashed to the floor.

‘Oh come on, Charlie. Come on, be reasonable.’

‘Quite right too,’ said Nelson from his position of safety back on the mirror. ‘Sleep on, Charlie.’

‘Oh really!’ sighed van der Loon. ‘These performers are so temperamental. I do apologise, but at least you have some idea of what will happen. Also, they are both upset at having been confined to their cabin all day.’

Enzo and Harry got up to leave.

‘It wasn’t quite what I expected,’ said Enzo, somewhat disappointed. ‘But I hope they will be better behaved tonight.’

‘I sincerely hope so too,’ said van der Loon. ‘I have to confess they didn’t want to come away at this time as Nelson likes to have a good laugh at David Attenborough on the television and Charlie didn’t want to miss the Last Night of the Proms or some such thing. Well, they have to learn. They can’t have it all their own way.’

Enzo and his immediate superior left the cabin and returned to the main body of the ship. They said little to each other but were lost in their own thoughts. At least, decided Enzo, life on board was never dull. Never.

When the visitors had left, Mr van der Loon lit another cigarette and sat down. Charlie had now emerged from under the bed and was gazing at a picture of the famous dog who, many years ago, was used to advertise HMV gramophone records. This dog was
portrayed listening to an old-fashioned horn gramophone with an expression of intense seriousness. It was this very picture that inspired Charlie, and van der Loon was obliged to take it with them everywhere. Nelson, quiet for a change, was perched by the porthole gazing out at the sea.

Van der Loon thought for a moment and then addressed his fellow performers.

‘I am very cross with you both,’ he said. ‘You may be star performers but in this world you are only as good as your last show. You have just insulted two very important men and frankly, I am ashamed of you.’

As he spent so much time in the company of Nelson and Charlie, he frequently spoke to them, and when Nelson did not respond with a stock phase he had learned, van der Loon, the ventriloquist, responded for him!

Charlie got to his feet and returned to his position under the bed. Nelson remained silent.

‘Well,’ said Van Loon to Nelson. ‘Have you nothing to say?’

There was a long silence broken only by the occasional crashing of a wave against the hull.

‘Look, if you want to sulk, that’s OK by me. But I warn you both - it had better be good tonight or I shall send you, Charlie, to Battersea and as for you, Nelson - well, I don’t know where you could go. The London Zoo perhaps?’

With that Mr van der Loon put out his cigarette, removed
his dressing-gown and put on a sweater.

‘I don’t care about the restrictions on leaving the cabin,’ he said. ‘I need some air. I’ll be back in about half an hour.’

With that he got up, leaving the two performers to their own devices.

‘Silly old fool,’ said Nelson, repeating a phrase he had often heard van der Loon use when referring to his agent. ‘I need fresh air. Smoke gives me psittacosis.’

Van der Loon had spent hours teaching Nelson this phase, which he frequently used when performing in some of the working men’s clubs in the UK.

Charlie emerged from under the bed and shook himself, only to dart quickly back as he heard a tap on the door. Both performers remained quiet. The door gently opened.

‘Hello, room service,’ said a voice. The room remained silent.

The steward pushed open the door, secured it with a rubber doorstop and disappeared into the bathroom to check the toiletries. Quick as a flash, Nelson flew down from on high, hopped onto Charlie’s back and off they set down the corridor.

As it was late on Saturday afternoon and most passengers were in their Suites or cabins preparing for dinner, the ship was fairly deserted. It was more complicated to find their way around than the two creatures had expected. Charlie darted up numerous staircases and along various corridors, where they had to take evasive action several times when a steward or crewman
suddenly appeared. By luck rather than judgement, they avoided detection, but try as they might could not find a way out which did not involve opening a heavy door which, of course, was beyond their ability.

In the upper reaches of the ship they observed a couple in evening dress, walking away from them. They now found themselves in a carpeted corridor with just a few doors on either side. They were resting for a moment in an alcove, trying to work out what to do next, when the door opposite opened. A man wearing a flat cap emerged.

‘I shan’t be long, luv,’ he called behind him as he set off down the corridor. ‘The shop should be open at this hour.’

Suddenly both Charlie and Nelson found themselves in acute danger. The alcove in which they were hiding was the entrance to the crew’s staircase, and someone was attempting to open the door from the other side. At that precise moment, the door of the Suite opposite opened and a rather stout lady emerged, propped the door open and rushed down the corridor, shouting, ‘Albert, you’ve left your card. You can’t get the aspirins without the card.’

Like a shot, Charlie leaped forward, almost throwing Nelson onto the carpeted deck, and they entered the Suite at the speed of light. Nelson flew to the top of a large wardrobe and Charlie took his accustomed place under the double bed that dominated the room.

Within a few moments Nelson saw the stout lady return and close the door. She glanced furtively around the cabin, and then quickly opened the wardrobe. She rummaged inside and emerged with an enormous box of chocolates. Quick as a flash she popped one into her mouth, then another, and observed by the hidden onlookers, yet another. She quickly returned the box to its hiding place. Several minutes later the cabin was brought to life as the doorbell sounded out a familiar Scottish melody. Albert entered.

‘Here you are, luv,’ he said, as he handed the aspirins to his wife.

‘We ought to get ready soon as I want to get to dinner early and see the show afterwards. It’s said to be very special tonight.’

From his position on top of the wardrobe Nelson could see and hear perfectly, although he could not be seen from within the room. Apart from the psychic gifts attributed to him by van der Loon, Nelson was also a very talented mimic.

‘I don’t know what to wear tonight,’ sighed Alice, repeating the words she said every night on the ship. Nelson watched as she produced several dresses and laid them out on the bed beneath him.

‘Well, for God’s sake don’t wear that bloody awful floral dress,’ said Nelson, mimicking Albert perfectly. By sheer coincidence, Nelson repeated a phase he had been taught when, some time ago, van der Loon appeared on stage with a lady assistant.

There was a stunned silence.

‘What did you say, Albert Hardcastle? What did you just say?’

From under the bed Charlie heard Albert spluttering and trying to answer.

‘I didn’t say anything, dear,’ he said when he finally managed to find his voice.

‘I distinctly heard you, Albert. I heard you as clear as day.’

‘Come off it,’ said Nelson, warming to the conversation. ‘You’re getting fat!’

‘How
dare
you, Albert Hardcastle!’ shouted Alice, now really furious. She moved towards him and gave him a resounding crack across the head with the flat of her hand. ‘How dare you be so insulting.’

Albert staggered back and fell onto the bed. Charlie, seeing a pair of ankles suddenly appear, was startled and took a nip at one. Albert leaped up as quickly as he had fallen.