In the ward room, Speedwell Vetch (ship's carpenter) and Rolf Fulmar (Bosun) were engaged in the mind-mangling past-time of Phsycic Whist.
"My trick?" enquired the Bosun. Speedwell reached out to gather up the cards,
"Nope, mine I believe,"
"Sorry old pal, didn't realise they were trumps," said Rolf
The grin on the carpenter's face spoke volumes, "The hell you didn't, you called them."
The Bosun shrugged dismissively, "Well, it was worth a try, nothing ventured as they say. Your deal."
With practiced ease Speedwell shuffled the cards and swiftly dealt three hands, one for himself, one for Rolf and one for the dummy. He sorted the dummy hand out face up and the two players picked their cards up and held them up backs facing them.
Speedwell Vetch looked carefully at his opponents hand, nothing too threatening there he thought and turned his attention to the back of his own cards. Sweat beaded his brow as he tried to get a mental picture of his hand. He was getting a strong feeling of red; hearts maybe? A royal card; perhaps the King. The Ace was in the dummy hand therefore out of play so that should be ok. He frowned in concentration, his pinched fingers hovered over the card in question, deftly plucked it from his hand and sent it spinning down onto the green baize table. It was the three of Spades.
Life on board for the crew of the Pickled Herring was mainly routine, punctuated by moments of sheer, bowel-loosening terror. It was a glorious life when the skies were clear and the winds turning the sails into fat-faced children, with rainbows forming in the bowwave you could almost hear the ship laughing with joy at the freedom of the open ocean; then the sea was your friend and the stars your guides. Who could ask for more than the moon reflecting from the silver sea, the peaceful whisper of the wind in the rigging and a mug of hot cocoa? On the other hand, running before the wind in a force nine gale aboard a small craft is slightly less fun than cross-country running at school; it nevers seems like it is going to stop and when it eventually does it is the cold shower followed by double maths for additional humiliation. The gentle sea turns into something solid and menacing. It is still water but it bears no resemblance to the clear, wet stuff that comes out of taps; this stuff has teeth. Imagine runny granite but make it cold, add a Bartok symphony and turn the volume right up; that's right, up to eleven. Now, stand on one leg hopping around in circles, empty a bucket of cold water over your head and hold your breath. It's actually nothing like that but the effects are the same as by now you are feeling disorientated, dizzy, wet and sick as a parrot. At times like this even the most Doberman of sea dogs runs into his kennel and whimpers. But all is forgotten the next day when the wind drops to a gentle breeze, the white horses prance joyfully and the ship once more skims across the briny ocean; everyone feels alive and breathes free. There is almose certainly a concertina being played somewhere and even the seagulls sing in tune.
Captain lantern-jawed Jack Cutler stood on the bridge of his ship and surveyed his realm. Few thoughts ever went through his mind, not for him deep philosophical discussions late into the night, nor contemplation of the infinite; he was a simple man. Some people thought that explained his legendary bravery; he was just too stupid, they thought, to realize something could be dangerous. This was both unfair and inaccurate; stupidity and simplicity are not one and the same. The truth of the matter was that he had very little imagination and no space in his mind for anything beyond the immediate issues facing him; in that way he was ideally suited to his life at sea as he never got bored and never felt scared. Agreed, he would never win any prizes for his creative thought processes but he had the stamina of a tectonic plate and was about as unstoppable. His crew knew this and respected and trusted him implicitly.
"Meredith?"
"Aye Cap'n?"
"Are you sure this is the right place?"
"Give or take a couple of miles, yes Sir."
The Captain paused for a moment, "I suppose we had better drop anchor and wait then, no point in sailing around in circles."
"Do yo want me to check our position again Sir?" Meredith had the charts and instruments of navigation ready to hand.
"Not at all, I'm sure you've got it right as usual." He paused to gather himself and in a voice like a very loud thing he yelled, "All hands on deck!"
There was a frantic scrabbling from below deck as, one by one, the crew popped out of the hatch and gathered in front of their captain awaiting his orders.
"Gentlemen," he glanced at Merri, "and lady," he added "prepare to drop sea anchor." Smoothly, as only an experienced crew could, each moved to their assigned post; no one ran or rushed, just one moment they were all together and the next they weren't. The mainsail was lowered and furled, the jib trimmed. The bosun stood by the sea anchor, maul in hand, waiting for the order to lower away. As soon as Captain Jack saw everything was in order he grasped the wheel and steered into the wind."Anchor away!" he called. Rolf swung the big hammer with practiced ease and with a single blow removed the wooden chock holding the anchor in place. There was a loud clattering and a splash as the anchor chain flowed into the sea. There was a moments pause as the sea anchor filled and the Pickled Herring drifted to a stop. Captain Jack tied off the wheel and turned to his crew.
"Well done everybody, stand down, and Cedric?"
"Yes Sir?"
"Put the kettle on, there's a good chap."
Wednesday, 28 February 2007
Monday, 26 February 2007
Temple Meads Station
Temple Meads station, Tuesday August 30th, platform 13; the 9.30 to Paddington, always a good train, not too crowded and pretty cheap. 4 seats and a table free. Cool dude in the corner, Oakley’s concealing his eyes; a beautiful woman drags a reluctant suitcase along the corridor. Fog over the fields obscuring the view of the Somerset countryside. The obligatory businessman on his mobile. The sun reflects off the Avon and Somerset canal as a narrow boat slides gently through the water. A4 on the other side; mass transit heaven over three generations. The butter-stone of Bath and a change of personnel. Cool dude removes Oakley’s, white linen cut-offs, tanned legs and off to where? Japanese tourists on the platform. The crunch, crunch of doors closing, whistles, shudder and we pull out. The spires of two churches and the Tower of the Abbey to the left. A new set of journeys begin thanks to an overly ambitious Hampshire man 150 years ago.
The sun is beginning to burn the fog away; the browns and greens of a late English summer rush past. The sudden darkness of the Box tunnel; a quiet miracle overlooked by those who should ask “how did they do that?”
Details slip away as concentration drifts off.
Chippenham; ox-blood roofs and modern concrete to Bath’s butter-stone work. The same fretwork eaves on the station covers. The stench of an over-priced railway bacon roll claws its way through the carriage. The gentle motion of the train kicks in and drowsy sleep takes over; drifting in and out of consciousness, the automatic door opening, a cough, a flash of sunlight, a fellow traveller walking past to or from the buffet car, each is enough to disturb the slumber.
Disused railworks in Swindon, hectares of Victorian buildings now museums, bars and apartments. Swindon station, dark, not many new passengers here. Again, crunch, crunch, whistle, shudder and the journey continues.
An empty gasometer, ladders sticking up proud, the spikes of a grey coronet. Once again, the half sleep of the traveller takes over. The line isn’t so smooth now, the train hops and skips along perhaps more joyful knowing it’s got 30 minutes free running to Didcot, or maybe it’s just shoddy track. Drifting sleep.
The industrial nightmare of Didcot. Massive cooling towers (6) steaming away, “producing power for millions” (people or pounds?). Why are all stations on the edge of towns called Parkway? When did that start happening? More fretwork eaves; is this another Brunel station? The train is filling up now and there are very few free seats as the train approaches London. Crunch, crunch, whistle, shudder. Another grey coronet. So many people, so many journeys, so many stories: a man engaged in a text conversation with who?
Orange covered Railtrack employees beside the track wait for the train to scream past before continuing their work. The landscape has changed from the bare levels of Somerset to the rolling, wooded hills of the Home Counties. The fields seem smaller and the train roars through small stations. Towns are more frequent. The Thames. Outside Reading there is a field covered with the debris of the rock festival, a field full of rubbish and abandoned tents – later they will be distributed to a needy disaster area – “hell of a job to clear that up,” “Bloody Hell!”, the voice of a child, “there’s so much rubbish”. The stages are still up, incongruous and ugly in the daylight. The train, slowly (reluctantly?) pulls into Reading station. Perhaps it knows its journey is nearly over. The beautiful woman fights once again with her recalcitrant luggage and heads off to continue here story. Crunch, crunch, whistle, shudder. Next stop London. Someone somewhere is eating a banana.
His phone rings, he ignores it.
Twyford, Maidenhead, Burnham, Slough, Langley, Iver, West Drayton, and that’s it; town all the way. A brace of grey coronets, one so low it could be the millennium dome. Passing through Ealing and into the Brentford Triangle. A bizarre brown block of flats with a control tower tacked on the side, through Royal Oak and into Paddington. Bustle, hustle, hushed conversations become full-bloodied. Anticipation, the next step. Paddington station, huge vaulted cathedral to travel.
The sun is beginning to burn the fog away; the browns and greens of a late English summer rush past. The sudden darkness of the Box tunnel; a quiet miracle overlooked by those who should ask “how did they do that?”
Details slip away as concentration drifts off.
Chippenham; ox-blood roofs and modern concrete to Bath’s butter-stone work. The same fretwork eaves on the station covers. The stench of an over-priced railway bacon roll claws its way through the carriage. The gentle motion of the train kicks in and drowsy sleep takes over; drifting in and out of consciousness, the automatic door opening, a cough, a flash of sunlight, a fellow traveller walking past to or from the buffet car, each is enough to disturb the slumber.
Disused railworks in Swindon, hectares of Victorian buildings now museums, bars and apartments. Swindon station, dark, not many new passengers here. Again, crunch, crunch, whistle, shudder and the journey continues.
An empty gasometer, ladders sticking up proud, the spikes of a grey coronet. Once again, the half sleep of the traveller takes over. The line isn’t so smooth now, the train hops and skips along perhaps more joyful knowing it’s got 30 minutes free running to Didcot, or maybe it’s just shoddy track. Drifting sleep.
The industrial nightmare of Didcot. Massive cooling towers (6) steaming away, “producing power for millions” (people or pounds?). Why are all stations on the edge of towns called Parkway? When did that start happening? More fretwork eaves; is this another Brunel station? The train is filling up now and there are very few free seats as the train approaches London. Crunch, crunch, whistle, shudder. Another grey coronet. So many people, so many journeys, so many stories: a man engaged in a text conversation with who?
Orange covered Railtrack employees beside the track wait for the train to scream past before continuing their work. The landscape has changed from the bare levels of Somerset to the rolling, wooded hills of the Home Counties. The fields seem smaller and the train roars through small stations. Towns are more frequent. The Thames. Outside Reading there is a field covered with the debris of the rock festival, a field full of rubbish and abandoned tents – later they will be distributed to a needy disaster area – “hell of a job to clear that up,” “Bloody Hell!”, the voice of a child, “there’s so much rubbish”. The stages are still up, incongruous and ugly in the daylight. The train, slowly (reluctantly?) pulls into Reading station. Perhaps it knows its journey is nearly over. The beautiful woman fights once again with her recalcitrant luggage and heads off to continue here story. Crunch, crunch, whistle, shudder. Next stop London. Someone somewhere is eating a banana.
His phone rings, he ignores it.
Twyford, Maidenhead, Burnham, Slough, Langley, Iver, West Drayton, and that’s it; town all the way. A brace of grey coronets, one so low it could be the millennium dome. Passing through Ealing and into the Brentford Triangle. A bizarre brown block of flats with a control tower tacked on the side, through Royal Oak and into Paddington. Bustle, hustle, hushed conversations become full-bloodied. Anticipation, the next step. Paddington station, huge vaulted cathedral to travel.
Wet Bromide Albion
The meeting was coming to an end. Agreement had been reached. After hours of heated negotiations the Big Ten had managed to overcome their congenital distrust of each other to listen before they spoke; the paper darts had stopped flying along with the insults and the conference room no longer resembled a fourth form common room.
The Minister for Education read the document in front of him and let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. He had sweated blood to get his colleagues to agree to this interim-final-draft-proposal report. To show his true feelings now would not only have invited disaster but would have let it into the party without a bottle. He allowed his glance to slide off the page and sidle over to the face of his nominal superior.
The First Minister looked as if he was about to explode. In all his years in politics he had never known a day like it; at least not since he organised the coup that deposed his predecessor. He raised his eyes and locked gaze with the Minister for Education. Both men were aware of the dangers of breaking that look; any sign of weakness would be pounced on and exploited terminally. The room fell silent as the battle of wills took place each member of the group running through the possible permutations with the precision of chess grandmasters, searching for the golden thread which would leave them one step ahead of their colleagues. Empires rose and fell, civilisations dragged themselves from "ugh!" to "I wonder what happens if we press this red button?". All of time was contained in the moment of that powerful stare. Then, slowly, subtly, like a silent one in a lift, a tiny bead of sweat formed on the First Minister's temple. Sensing his advantage and drawing on all his years of practice with his pet iguana, Archie, the Minister for Education allowed one eyebrow to raise, Spock-like. The now fully formed droplet slid down the First Minister's cheek. The battle was lost. An unspoken whisper ran round the table; "the King is dead. Long live the King."
His victory complete, the Minister for Education allowed a self-satisfied smile ot form and prepared himself for the forthcoming election.
The Minister for Education read the document in front of him and let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. He had sweated blood to get his colleagues to agree to this interim-final-draft-proposal report. To show his true feelings now would not only have invited disaster but would have let it into the party without a bottle. He allowed his glance to slide off the page and sidle over to the face of his nominal superior.
The First Minister looked as if he was about to explode. In all his years in politics he had never known a day like it; at least not since he organised the coup that deposed his predecessor. He raised his eyes and locked gaze with the Minister for Education. Both men were aware of the dangers of breaking that look; any sign of weakness would be pounced on and exploited terminally. The room fell silent as the battle of wills took place each member of the group running through the possible permutations with the precision of chess grandmasters, searching for the golden thread which would leave them one step ahead of their colleagues. Empires rose and fell, civilisations dragged themselves from "ugh!" to "I wonder what happens if we press this red button?". All of time was contained in the moment of that powerful stare. Then, slowly, subtly, like a silent one in a lift, a tiny bead of sweat formed on the First Minister's temple. Sensing his advantage and drawing on all his years of practice with his pet iguana, Archie, the Minister for Education allowed one eyebrow to raise, Spock-like. The now fully formed droplet slid down the First Minister's cheek. The battle was lost. An unspoken whisper ran round the table; "the King is dead. Long live the King."
His victory complete, the Minister for Education allowed a self-satisfied smile ot form and prepared himself for the forthcoming election.
Ships in the Night
Far out in the depths of space a small, seemingly insignificant lump of rock is flying along. Of course it is only small and insignificant if you're not in its flight path and it is only small in the way that a mountain is big. It could be tracked using radar; or the passengers of a passing space shuttle might comment on its peculiar colour and the way the sunlight glints from its many facets. Unfortunately for the inhabitants of the planet it is about to collide with, they have not invented radar and the most sophisticated transportation system known to them is the pedal powered sailboard. Therefore, when it eventually lands the only thing to pass comment will be an aged mountain goat on its way home from an all-night yodelling party. What it said was not recorded.
Far out in the depths of the ocean sailed The Pickled Herring a small but sturdy two-master. She had carried her crew over many seas and through many a heavy storm without complaint. The Captain was lantern-jawed Jack Cutler whose maritime exploits were related in every bar throughout the northern lands; was it not he who rediscovered the lost lands of Akabar and returned home to tell the tale? His bravery was not in doubt, although his sanity was somewhat in question. As for the rest of the crew, they followed their captain, if not blindly, with one eye open. Their faith in him seemed to be entirely justifiedas, through a mixture of luck, good timing and enough sense to hire a decent navigator, he had steered them right time after time and they were now all recognised as heroes in every port. The mere sight of The Herring on the horizon was enough in some towns for the bells to ring out and crowds to gather on the pier to welcome them in. Until recently that is. It all changed about six months ago when ports started closing and borders became more difficult to cross. It was as if people, after years of trusting their neighbours, had suddenly started to remember old feuds and disputes; long-forgotten debts were called in and bars closed on time. Now the crew of The Herring were greeted by sour-faced harbourmasters demanding mooring fees with menaces.
On board the , ships navigator Meredith Huge adjusted her instruments. Derrick had offered to do this for her but she had refused, not only did she take her job very seriously she had no time for exceedingly poor double entendres. First Mate Derrick Perkins went below to find someone more satisfying to annoy. He always got restless after the first couple of weeks at sea and hankered after the stable horizon of terra firma; that and the plentiful refreshments available in the snug of The Rusty Anchor. Somehow a shot of the Cedric's cooking lager in the rope locker just wasn't the same; still any port in a storm he thought.
Derrick found the lager without any trouble; most of it was inside Cedric who was propped up against the galley door trying to work out which end of a chicken to stuff. Not that he really cared. Ship's cook was a bit of a come down from pastry chef at the royal palace; but then at least the clientele wasn't so discerning.
"Ah, Cedric, there you are, thought I'd find you with your hand stuffed up a bird!"
Cedric smiled indulgently before clouting the first mate round the head with two kilos of semi-thawed poultry.
Derrick came to a few moments later to find an open bottle of lager and a pile of sandwiches laid out on the galley table.
"For you," said Cedric "by way of an apology."
"Thanks, suppose I deserved it", Derrick took one of the doorsteps "Any for you?"
"Course not, I know what's in them."
Resisting the urge to peek, the first mate took a large bite; there was a hint of seagull with overtones of seaweed but overall it was ok.
"Any idea how long we'll be out here?" asked the cook.
"Well, according to Merri we're in the right area, so it's just a matter of waiting I suppose." He spoke between mouthfulls; he was a well brought up first mate, "I doubt it'll be much longer."
"What's he going to look like, how will we recognise him?" asked the cook. The first mate gave him a look so old fashioned his grandfather could have used it. "Shouldn't be that hard. We won't find too many people floating around in the middle of the ocean!"
Cedric paused for a moment and took another swig of beer, "It'll be good to have a new face around the place," he looked longingly at the pile of cookery books on the shelf, "and a new mouth to feed. A cultured soul such as he would probably appreciate some class fodder, unlike certain barbarians not a million miles away."
"The Captain said we were to make him feel at home not posison him and...what do you mean barbarians?"
"He's bound to be more cultured than you lot, goes without saying. No one could be less appreciative of 'Hote Kwiseen" than you. You wouldn't know a Béchemel sauce if it came up and bit you on the bum."
Ignoring this not altogether unjustified insult, Derrick shrugged and opened another bottle of lager.
They sat in companiable silence for a while, until the bottle was finished and the sandwiches gone, listening to the sounds of the ship they both knew so well.
Far out in the depths of the ocean sailed The Pickled Herring a small but sturdy two-master. She had carried her crew over many seas and through many a heavy storm without complaint. The Captain was lantern-jawed Jack Cutler whose maritime exploits were related in every bar throughout the northern lands; was it not he who rediscovered the lost lands of Akabar and returned home to tell the tale? His bravery was not in doubt, although his sanity was somewhat in question. As for the rest of the crew, they followed their captain, if not blindly, with one eye open. Their faith in him seemed to be entirely justifiedas, through a mixture of luck, good timing and enough sense to hire a decent navigator, he had steered them right time after time and they were now all recognised as heroes in every port. The mere sight of The Herring on the horizon was enough in some towns for the bells to ring out and crowds to gather on the pier to welcome them in. Until recently that is. It all changed about six months ago when ports started closing and borders became more difficult to cross. It was as if people, after years of trusting their neighbours, had suddenly started to remember old feuds and disputes; long-forgotten debts were called in and bars closed on time. Now the crew of The Herring were greeted by sour-faced harbourmasters demanding mooring fees with menaces.
On board the , ships navigator Meredith Huge adjusted her instruments. Derrick had offered to do this for her but she had refused, not only did she take her job very seriously she had no time for exceedingly poor double entendres. First Mate Derrick Perkins went below to find someone more satisfying to annoy. He always got restless after the first couple of weeks at sea and hankered after the stable horizon of terra firma; that and the plentiful refreshments available in the snug of The Rusty Anchor. Somehow a shot of the Cedric's cooking lager in the rope locker just wasn't the same; still any port in a storm he thought.
Derrick found the lager without any trouble; most of it was inside Cedric who was propped up against the galley door trying to work out which end of a chicken to stuff. Not that he really cared. Ship's cook was a bit of a come down from pastry chef at the royal palace; but then at least the clientele wasn't so discerning.
"Ah, Cedric, there you are, thought I'd find you with your hand stuffed up a bird!"
Cedric smiled indulgently before clouting the first mate round the head with two kilos of semi-thawed poultry.
Derrick came to a few moments later to find an open bottle of lager and a pile of sandwiches laid out on the galley table.
"For you," said Cedric "by way of an apology."
"Thanks, suppose I deserved it", Derrick took one of the doorsteps "Any for you?"
"Course not, I know what's in them."
Resisting the urge to peek, the first mate took a large bite; there was a hint of seagull with overtones of seaweed but overall it was ok.
"Any idea how long we'll be out here?" asked the cook.
"Well, according to Merri we're in the right area, so it's just a matter of waiting I suppose." He spoke between mouthfulls; he was a well brought up first mate, "I doubt it'll be much longer."
"What's he going to look like, how will we recognise him?" asked the cook. The first mate gave him a look so old fashioned his grandfather could have used it. "Shouldn't be that hard. We won't find too many people floating around in the middle of the ocean!"
Cedric paused for a moment and took another swig of beer, "It'll be good to have a new face around the place," he looked longingly at the pile of cookery books on the shelf, "and a new mouth to feed. A cultured soul such as he would probably appreciate some class fodder, unlike certain barbarians not a million miles away."
"The Captain said we were to make him feel at home not posison him and...what do you mean barbarians?"
"He's bound to be more cultured than you lot, goes without saying. No one could be less appreciative of 'Hote Kwiseen" than you. You wouldn't know a Béchemel sauce if it came up and bit you on the bum."
Ignoring this not altogether unjustified insult, Derrick shrugged and opened another bottle of lager.
They sat in companiable silence for a while, until the bottle was finished and the sandwiches gone, listening to the sounds of the ship they both knew so well.
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