The Voyage of the Golden Handshake (28 page)

The chaplain was greatly pleased with his clothes. They were delivered to the ship exactly as promised and he tried on the clerical suit immediately. It fitted perfectly, as did the new suit for casual wear. As a little extra, the tailor had kindly included half a dozen silk handkerchiefs and, to the chaplain’s surprise, two lady’s silk scarves. With them was a handwritten note which read:

Rev Sir,

Your esteemed custom is valued and I have pleasure in enclosing the items that you entrusted me with. If Rev Sir you might recommend me to your Brothers, and especially to His Lord the Archbishop of Canterbury, as we are always ready to serve. I have enclosed a small gift for you Sir and for your charming wife who was with you when you did the honour of visiting my emporium.

May you always be blessed Sir.

Ajatashatru Thomas

The chaplain read the note through twice and blushed. Angela, his wife! He would certainly pass the scarves on to her, but would not show her the note as that would be too embarrassing for both of them. Angela, his wife? It was a totally new thought for him and it played through his mind constantly.

Back on the ship and safely ensconced in his Balcony Suite, Sir Archie examined the damaged pith helmet. He was damned annoyed that it had been hit by the low ceiling fan but, as it had not been holed, only dented, it might be possible to have it restored to its former glory. He had travelled the tropical regions of the world with that helmet and to lose it now would have been too much to bear. As one got older, he reflected, one became attached to artefacts that reminded one of earlier days and this helmet was one such object.

Lady Veronika, who had maintained her customary silence during most of the visit to the backwaters, sat at the small dressing-table writing in a leather-covered notebook in an indecipherable script. Her days spent in the Siberian Secret Service (SSS) had enabled her to form lifelong habits, and keeping a secret detailed record of people and places was one of them. She intrigued Sir Archie, as he could not be sure if she was still attached to the SSS or not. Whenever he had tried to raise the subject she had quickly diverted the conversation (such conversation
as she was capable of) onto another subject. He had concluded that, although she was most probably not in the full-time employ of the agency, she still maintained a close relationship - but for what purpose he could not fathom. Who supplied her with huge quantities of yak’s milk when she was back in England? It wasn’t the sort of item one might find easily in Waitrose, but it came to her regularly and, as far as he knew, no bills had ever been received. Who was it who ensured that when the ship docked at various ports around the world, yak’s milk was always awaiting to be delivered to the ship? Her husband accepted the fact that there would always be an element of mystery about their relationship - and that was what made it interesting.

Lady Veronika finished her scribbling, closed the book and secured it with a small lock. Why this latter measure was required Sir Archie could never understand as the script was about as readable as Proto-Elamite, a language yet to be deciphered. Perhaps it
was
Proto-Elamite, he mused, and laughed to himself.

Lady Veronika secured the locked book in a briefcase and in turn placed the briefcase in a drawer which she locked. Then she addressed him.

‘
Dorogoy
,’ she said. (In private she always addressed him as ‘Darling’ in Russian.) ‘
Dorogoy
, Captain ask we eat lunch with him. Today. Good?’

‘Very good, my dear,’ replied Sir Archie.’ ‘Where shall we eat?’

‘Captain say small table on deck. Good?’

‘Excellent. Quite excellent,’ replied her husband. ‘What time?’

‘Now,’ she answered. ‘This minute. We go now.’

Sir Archie, somewhat taken by surprise, found his old rowing cap in a drawer and the couple set off for the deck table.

Captain Sparda was seated when they arrived; he stood up and greeted them warmly, but with some deference due to their titled position.

‘Ah, Sir Archibald and Lady Veronika. How good to see you both. Please take a seat.’

Lady Veronika sat down and scowled. The scowl meant nothing in particular. It was purely habitual but it had the effect of putting people off and thinking that they had made some terrible faux pas. It was quite a useful device for Lady Veronika as it made the person with whom she was talking feel uncomfortable and thus gave her an advantage. She had used the scowl to great effect when, posing as a Siberian Orthodox Bishop, she had been able to uncover a major tax-evasion scheme operating in the wastes of her country. Her deep contralto voice and authentic false beard, aided by the scowl, so intimidated the junior clerics that they confessed all. Sir Archie was not aware of this, nor of many other exotic adventures his wife had experienced, but he was familiar with the scowl, especially when it was directed at
him and did mean something!

The scowl caught Sparda full on and engendered the usual response.

‘Is everything well with you both?’ He enquired anxiously. ‘I trust you are enjoying the luxury of your Balcony Suite. Later in the cruise I shall be pleased to invite you to dine at my table in the evening,’ he said, hoping for a thaw in what he felt was an icy atmosphere.

Lady Veronika remained mute but Sir Archie, always one to promote a warmer climate, chipped in, ‘Jolly decent of you, Captain. Lovely old ship this. Quite lovely.’

Sparda, feeling a little warmer, turned to the lunch drinks and the menu.

‘What will you both have?’ he asked genially. ‘I enjoy a cider at lunchtime but please choose what you like.’

Sir Archie selected a small Light Ale. Lady Veronika continued to scowl before speaking.

‘A glass of yak’s milk with a large vodka on side,’ she said to a startled waiter, who had not served her previously.

‘Lady Veronika has her own supply,’ said the Captain. ‘See Mr Tucker - he knows.’

The waiter scurried away and they resumed perusing the menu. By the side of the deck was an iron griddle on which a chef was grilling chops, steaks and sweetcorn. Savoury smoke drifted across the table.

‘I shall have griddle,’ said Lady Veronika, direct as ever. ‘Big steak underdone. Two sausage. One chop. Corn. That is good, eh, Captain?’

Sparda agreed that it was quite excellent and put in the order with a piece of grilled fish for himself and a mutton chop with a baked potato and salad for Sir Archie.

‘Now,’ said Sparda, as two large plates were put before Lady Veronika. ‘This lunch is just the beginning for you.’

For once Lady Veronika managed a half-smile. She was a hearty eater and one of those irritating individuals who eat more than enough and never seem to put on weight.

‘We enjoy good lunch,’ she said as she tackled the steak. ‘In Siberia we eat good.’

‘Plenty of frozen foods, I imagine,’ said Sparda, in an attempt to introduce some humour into the occasion.

Sir Archie laughed loudly but Lady Veronika resumed her customary expression.

‘Well,’ said the Captain, getting to the point, ‘I am told by Mr Bigatoni, our Cruise Director, that you have won a very special prize. Many congratulations, I must say.’

Sir Archie beamed. ‘It was my very clever wife,’ he said. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘Well, you will both benefit to the tune of five hundred pounds,’ said Sparda.

The observant would have noticed a slight expression of
pain cross the Captain’s features as he mentioned the money, but it went unnoticed by his guests. It quickly passed and he continued.

‘The ship will provide you with an exclusive excursion at any port at which we call. Everything will be provided to the tune of five hundred pounds.’

‘I say,’ said Sir Archie enthusiastically, ‘that sounds jolly good. My dear?’

Lady Veronika, busy gnawing at a chop bone, said nothing.

‘Splendid offer, Captain,’ he said. ‘I fancy a good rugby match in New Zealand.’

Sparda was just about to applaud this when he became aware that the scowl had deepened. He held back as Lady Veronika replaced the bone on her plate.

‘Nyet!’ she exclaimed. ‘We have TV. We see plenty sport. I want visit in Sri Lanka to see Tigers.’

Sir Archie looked considerably surprised. ‘Tigers,’ he repeated. ‘Tigers? Are there tigers in Sri Lanka? News to me, my dear. What about you, Captain? Have you seen tigers in Sri Lanka?’

Sparda, who for the past thirty years had hardly left the Straits of Messina where he certainly did not encounter tigers, said he had not. Lady Veronika gave a look that would have frozen solid the cider in the Captain’s glass had she directed her gaze in that direction.

‘Tamil Tigers,’ she exclaimed. ‘Very interesting.’

Neither Sparda, nor Sir Archie could possibly imagine why on earth Lady Veronika should want to visit such a group - and they were never to find out the real reason. The truth was that some years back, when Lady Veronika was active in the SSS, a group of Tamil Tigers had been sent to Siberia for tactical training. The fact that Sri Lanka was normally sweltering and in Siberia the temperature in the winter was always below freezing did not help matters, nor was it a help that the Tigers were sent over in the winter. Many suffered from frostbite, and learning how to fight guerrilla warfare in snow and ice was not a great asset to them. They only accepted because all expenses were found. Lady Veronika was in charge of a part of this highly secret operation and the visit to Sri Lanka, especially now that there was a peace agreement of sorts in the country, seemed a good time to renew old friendships.

‘Well dear, if that is what you want,’ said Sir Archie equably. ‘I am sure you can arrange something, Captain.’

‘I’ll get my man Harry onto it,’ Sparda replied. ‘He knows his way around.’

Lady Veronika ordered a double portion of ice cream with whipped cream, and the others asked for an espresso. Then lunch was over.

‘Delightful,’ said Sir Archie. ‘Quite delightful, Captain.’

Lady Veronika managed a nod of agreement and they parted
- the Captain to visit Harry, and the Willoughby’s to retire to their Balcony Suite to enjoy a restful afternoon.

The chaplain stood and thanked everyone for coming.

‘Good evening, everyone,’ he said to the group who had seated themselves in different parts of the room. There must have been about twenty people present, both male and female, and about five male crew members.

‘Tonight,’ he went on, ‘we want to select two choirs: the Golden Glory Choir to sing at the Sunday-morning services, and a smaller group, the Benbow Singers, to sing at the Admiral’s birthday. Angela and I will listen to you each in turn and then we shall select which choir you join. Everyone will be in one choir or the other. Now, who will begin?’

Immediately the twins from New Zealand came forward. One could never accuse these remarkable ladies of holding back in life.

‘We belong to the Ypuck Singers,’ said Philippa.

‘And have been members for fifty years,’ chimed in Petra. ‘Each year we sing at the Napier Art Deco Week, don’t we, Philippa?’

‘We do indeed,’ said her sister.

Felix de Barkley who turned up for every event on board ship, could not remain quiet.

‘I suppose that explains why the town was once devastated,’ he quipped.

Few people knew that he was referring to a great earthquake that had flattened the town years back and so he did not get much of a laugh.

Ignoring the interruption, Angela asked the ladies what they would like to sing. They could choose anything as Rod played by ear and there was little that he could not manage.

‘There is a lovely little song that we have sung many a time at the Arts Festival,’ said Philippa, ‘but it may be too difficult for dear Mr Saddleworth to play without music.’

‘Try me,’ said Rod, raring to go. ‘What is it?’

‘Well,’ said Petra demurely, ‘it’s called There’s a Hole in my Bucket. Philippa will sing one part and I shall sing the other.’

De Barkley put his hand to his head. ‘Oh God,’ he cried. ‘What a tuneless load of old cobblers that is.’

‘Please, Mr de Barkley,’ admonished Angela. ‘They may choose what they feel comfortable with. Do begin, ladies.’

Rod struck up and the twins sang the first couple of verses. Alas, the New Zealand vocalists had passed their peak well before the Napier earthquake struck, and their rendering was not in any way aided by the tuneless dirge they had elected to sing. Even the chaplain looked pained and he certainly was not
one to talk.

Angela held up her hand. ‘That will do now, ladies. Thank you both very much.’

‘But Angela dear, there are another fifteen verses yet, plus the ones we added to give the song a local flavour,’ said Petra, anxious to continue.

‘This is just an audition,’ replied Angela patiently. ‘We have to keep each item short otherwise we will never hear all twenty-five people.’

She made a mark against their names and asked for the next person. This time a member of the ship’s company came forward.

‘Ah, Mr Angus MacDonald!’ she exclaimed. ‘I am so glad you could get away from the engine room to join us this afternoon.’

There could have been no greater contrast between the somewhat petite sisters from the river valley and Angus MacDonald, eighteen stone of muscle from Scotland. Few people could understand what he said as his accent was somewhat broad, despite the fact that it had been said that some Scottish people spoke the clearest English going. By listening carefully, Angela made out that he was going to sing a song made famous by the doorbells of the Balcony Suites, ‘Ye Tak the High Road’.

His voice shook the room as he indicated in song the road he would take to his beloved home country. The twins, accustomed to what might be described as ‘Drawing Room’ singing, placed
their hands over their ears and de Barkley sought shelter behind a curtain.

‘Thank you, Mr Angus MacDonald,’ said Angela, always politeness itself. ‘You have a strong voice and ought to be part of a bass section in the choir.’

The audition took a very long time indeed, but by the end of the session a choir of six had been chosen to form the Benbow Singers and the remainder were selected for the Golden Glory Choir. Rehearsals could now begin in earnest.

Sri Lanka was not too far away by now and the ship was holding together remarkably well despite earlier problems. Back in his cabin, Mr van der Loon was congratulating himself on getting another booking on board a ship. Word had got out through emails that his show was amazing, and quick as a flash an invitation had come in to transfer to another vessel immediately the
Golden Handshake
arrived in Sri Lanka. And so Mr van der Loon began packing ready to leave for pastures new.

Back in the engine room after his brief audition for the choir, Angus MacDonald urgently sought a meeting with the Admiral, the Captain and Harry. He was responsible for the Internet on the ship and the move to more amenable opening hours satisfied both himself and the passengers. The quality was, to put things mildly, appalling. Users were being charged from the very second
they opened the computer until the last flicker had disappeared from the screen. All too frequently the service broke down completely and, as for speed, or to be more accurate, lack of it, that was something to be marvelled at.

‘I could tak the bloody high road and the low road from Land’s End to Jimmy Porridge’s,’ he said, ‘and still get there before an email sent from this ship.’

Angus had a unique humour not always understood by Sassenachs or indeed many of his fellow countrymen. By ‘Jimmy Porridge’s’ he was of course referring to John O’ Groats, but who was to know that? Despite the internet troubles, that was not the main issue he wanted to discuss with the ‘Three Wise Men’ as he sometimes called them. On one of the few occasions he had been able to get onto the web, he had come across the Wikiwatts site. Remembering the noxious Toby Troy, he investigated

further and came across the following trailer:

‘Next week our special undercover reporter, Tobias Troy, will reveal the shocking details of a massive cover-up. He will tell how Intelligence agencies, together with the Church of England, duped innocent
holidaymakers on board a British cruise ship. He will describe the reckless behaviour of the Captain off a foreign coast when his Intelligence- gathering mission was apprehended. He will name names and nail villains. This report is a must for all who love truth and wish for greater transparency by our Government.

Whilst the internet held up, Angus printed the item and it was this he held in his hand as he entered the Captain’s tiny office. Angus was a man of few words and, as has been stated before, that was fortunate as no one could understand him. This time he was agitated, and the moment he sat down, he began a long spiel about the discoveries he had made on the web. At least, it was long for him - even though it was only about three sentences in length. The Wise Men stared at him baffled.

‘Could you kindly repeat that, Mr Aberdeen,’ said the Admiral with a puzzled look on his face. ‘I didn’t quite catch every word.’

Angus repeated the substance of what he had said but this time added a further sentence. The Wise Men looked at each other and then returned their gaze to the informant.

‘Do you have that important information in writing?’ asked the Admiral, not having a clue as to whether it was important or not. Fortunately Angus had not forgotten the copy he had made and he handed it over. The trio studied the copy together then the Admiral spoke.

‘This could be serious for the whole of Golden Oceans,’ he said. ‘It could radically affect our sailings in Poole Harbour - and as for the Frinton service, well, I can see this sort of mis-information greatly disturbing the inhabitants of that part of rural Essex. Essex County Council could easily refuse us a permit to sail from there - and what then? It’s all too bad, Mr Aberdeen. All too bad.’

It was now Sparda’s turn to speak and, as his loathing of Troy was so intense, rather than comment on the document before him, he let fly some of the most powerful invective ever to have circulated in his office. Not only was the language colourful, the volume was also tremendous, so much so that passengers in the shop several doors away thought a tragedy was about to take place and ran to their cabins to don lifebelts.

It was left to Harry, the fixer extraordinaire, to come forward with a proposal.

‘Captain, he said, ‘do you not have interesting relatives in Sicily?’

Sparda agreed that there were several cousins in Catania who were in the construction industry; they visited him from time to time, but he was inclined to keep his distance.

‘Right,’ said Harry. ‘You might want to mention to them - in passing, of course - that a certain Tobias Troy is about to besmirch the family name of Sparda along with his accomplice at Wikkiwatts.’

‘I don’t think I heard that,’ said the Admiral. ‘We can’t have any violence, you know, Harry. Definitely no violence.’

‘Of course not,’ agreed Harry, ‘but they might put the frighteners on Toby boy.’

Sparda’s eyes lit up. ‘Harry,’ he said, ‘you’re a genius and a gentleman.’

‘Leave it to me,’ said Harry, tapping his nose.

The meeting broke up and it was a worried Admiral who returned to his cabin to ponder the terrible news. He himself was not at all happy about involving Sparda’s relatives. Apart from inciting criminal activity, Golden Oceans would be forever in their debt and he was sure that this debt would never be paid off.

He could speak to his contact at the D Notices Committee, but such a body was virtually useless against the likes of Wikiwatts. Besides, the allegations were total hogwash.

Life takes some strange turns at times. The unpredictable can fall from a clear blue sky without a moment’s notice and change circumstances in a trice. As the Admiral worried and the other Wise Men considered their options, Mr Assad Wikiwatts himself found that he was the subject of intense scrutiny. By coincidence, he had actually been in Italy, personally investigating a suspected fraud case, in which ordinary commonplace onions were said to have been liberally mixed with expensive imported
Dutch tulip bulbs, together with a few daffodils. They were sold to the Vatican, at a very high price, to plant in the Pope’s private garden. The Pope did not mind an occasional onion, but when hundreds sprouted instead of a colourful array of choice blooms, the Holy Father was more than a little agitated. Mr Assad himself went to investigate this great scam but, unfortunately, encountered an irate Dutchman of almost seven feet tall who chased him around Rome. Poor Assad was obliged to seek refuge in the Vatican itself, or that is what is believed, for he disappeared totally from view. Away from the office, his news outlet collapsed and Troy’s story disappeared as quickly as it had emerged.

‘I sometimes think,’ said Harry when this incredible story had been related to him, ‘that our little ship might have some protection from On High.’

He was in the company of the chaplain, who nodded wisely.

‘It’s certainly possible, Mr Parkhurst,’ he replied. ‘God moves in mysterious ways.’

‘He certainly does,’ replied Harry.

And with that they both got up and went along to choir practice.