Previously…

‘What’s all this about then?’ I asked, eying up Popeye while his new Olive Oil looked on appreciatively.

He was a handsome man, if you liked that kind of thing–which Katie, with her simpering look obviously did. She was hanging on his every word and was the antithesis of the hard headed business woman we knew and loved. I nearly missed his words.

‘Well, Ms Smart––’

‘–Samantha, please.’

‘Right, erm well, erm, Samantha. I had no instructions as to what to do, that’s why I wrote to you.’

‘You wrote to me? Why?’

‘Well, it’s in the letter.’

‘But I haven’t seen it–’

Then I remembered the post that even now was sitting on the kitchen table waiting to be opened…

‘Anyway, now you’re here, you can tell me what this is all about.’

‘Well, It’s about the Sunseeker––’

‘Sunseeker?’ I queried.

‘The boat–in the harbour.’

‘What about the boat in the harbour?’

‘What do you want to do with it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, after Nigel and his daughter died, it became yours.’

‘WHAT!’

‘It’s your boat and I need instructions from you.’

‘Bloody Hell!’ I exclaimed.

Here we go again––

And now the story continues…

You could have spliced my main brace with a marlin spike.

You could have spanked my spinnaker.

You could have heaved me by the leg in a runnin’ bowlin’.

You could have keelhauled me and made me walk the plank, but not necessarily in that order.

You could have done more nautical thingies–but I’m too much of a landlubber to think of any more.

I’m not a clever girl. I never said I was. I didn’t even have an O level in some sort of ology.¹ *

What I was, was (is that too many wasses?) a girl who was lucky to have my Abby and Heather. A girl who was happy with her friends and family, not forgetting Mummy Dottie and living in an idyllic spot that made me want to pull open the curtains every morning and shout ‘Yes!’ at the top of my voice.

I did do that once and I nearly gave Mr Pearson a heart attack as he was mowing the tiny lawn. It didn’t help by the fact that I was wearing a naughty nightie that left little to anyone’s imagination. My face was as red as my nightie and he evidently needed two pints of scrumpy and an illegal Cornish pasty to get over the trauma.

Anyway, back to the plot.

I looked at Captain Birdseye, incredulously.

‘Pardon?’

‘Erm–she’s your boat and I need instructions from you?’

‘About what?’

‘What to do with her?’

‘With who?’

‘Lady Olivia–your boat.’

‘My boat?’

‘Yes, your boat.’

‘The one in the harbour, enormous, white, plastic, sleek and sexy looking?’

‘That’s her.’

He was looking at me strangely. I didn’t mind that. It was strange. I wasn’t being helped by the others who looked like they were at Wimbledon, looking at one of us and then the other as if they were watching the ball passing back and forth over the net. I would be having words with Abby later–if I could get over the shock–and I’d have to change its name.

‘You’re saying it’s mine?’

‘I did say she’s yours, yes.’

‘All of it, him, her?’

‘Yes–all a hundred and twenty-one feet of her.’

‘It, erm–she’s not a time-share type boat then. You know, I have her for a week then she goes orf–I mean–off to someone else?’

‘Nope, all yours, lock stock and barrel.’

‘Smoking barrel?’

‘No, just barrel. Her exhaust is almost invisible.’

‘She wasn’t bought with ill-gotten gains, was she?’ I said, thinking about gun- or drugs-running, and stuff like that.

‘I don’t think so; she was bought from a lawyer in Miami who wanted to liquefy his assets.’

‘So she was a booze ship?’

He looked at me as if I had a screw loose–well I felt that I did–nuts screws washers, and bolts as well as other assorted hardware.

‘Erm–no.’

There was a pregnant pause, whatever that means. Katie coughed gently as I sank into a chair and tried to take it all in.

‘Sam, I know it’s a shock, love, but you do own the Sunseeker whether you like it or not.’

‘Like it, like it! she’d be mad not to like it.’ said Abby enthusiastically, ‘what is there not to like about a Sunseeker?’

‘The running costs for a start. I bet Captain L J Silver here gets paid loadsa dubloons for driving the boat and then there’s the deck hands––’

‘–Ooooh, deck hands!’ squealed Katie–rather too enthusiastically for my liking.

‘I bet there’s a chef and I don’t mean the McDonalds variety either and of course there has to be a cheeky ship’s boy too, who hid as a stowaway in chapter 4 and stayed on, as he is such a lovable character. It’s a lot of expenses for a floating plastic tub. Then of course there’s probably a ship’s engineer–Scottish of course–who always pipes up and says "Captain, the engines cannae tak’ ony mair!"’

Captain Ahab mumbled something.

‘Pardon?’ I said.

He coughed.

‘She has a fibreglass or GRP construction.’

‘Who has?’

‘Your yacht, Ma’am.’

I rather liked being called Ma’am, a bit regal and Mummy-Dottie-like.

‘Never mind that,’ I said, getting back to the point, ‘I can’t afford it. I’ll have to sell her.’

Katie coughed.

‘Have you all caught colds?’ I asked. ‘What’s with the coughing, already?’

I was sounding more and more like a Maureen Lipmann’s BT advert-type clone by the minute and me not even a good Jewish girl–oy vey!¹

‘Samantha, you are sufficiently well off to own the boat and anyway, your accountant will tell you that everything, including this gorgeous–I mean the captain and crew–could be tax deductible if you play this right.’

‘Yes,’ said Abby enthusiastically, ‘and you could take those underprivileged kids for a spin in her when you have your charity set up. Then of course, we can do trips to France or the Med or and go to posh places like Monte Carlo and Cannes, moor her in front of a quay or riverside pub and show off a bit. The possibilities are endless.’

I wasn’t sure about mooring a one hundred and twenty foot-long gin palace in front of a pub would be a very good idea, even if Cap’n Pugwash could get her up the river.

I gazed at them all; the smooth captain, the occasionally wise Katie and the delectably edible Abby. I was teetering, a bit like someone aboard the Titanic, just about to go overboard for the final dive with the band playing on–

It would be nice to have a boat though and swan off to places new, meet other people and generally mess about, but there was just one thing––

I looked shamefaced. It was something I was ashamed of.

Abby came and sat by me.

‘What’s up, honey?’

‘It’s just––’

‘–Just what, love?’

‘Just, that, I—I—I–erm–can’t swim––’

‘–’sthat all,’ she asked dismissively.

‘It’s enough. How can I have a boat and not swim,’

‘Fiddlesticks. ’Course you can,’ Katie exclaimed. ‘Most of the fishermen in Penmarris and several members of the lifeboat crew–including Grace, the coxswain–can’t swim either. Ask David Gotobed, he’ll tell you. Anyway, you were talking about going sailing a few months ago.’

‘I know, but I was only dreaming.’

‘Mmm, what do you think mon capitain?’ said Katie.

He shrugged, ‘You don’t need to be able to swim; we can always use life-buoys.’

‘Ooh,’ she purred, hanging on his every word, ‘you can be my life boy, anytime!’

‘Katie, for God’s sake get a grip!’

We blethered on for another hour and I was eventually persuaded to keep the boat, as long as I wore a life jacket and kept off the booze…as if I ever let a drop of anything stronger than ginger beer pass my lips!

To be honest, I didn’t need that much persuasion. As Abbey said when we were in bed, exhausted after wave upon wave of nice naughtiness followed by an excessive ecstasy of erotic excitement; a boat is a nice accessory to have and I had to–breathlessly–agree.

~ §~

Word spread around the village quicker than a ship’s rat up a hauser. I was now the Onassis of Penmarris–Jackie, that is, not that fat bloke.

Next morning, Mummy bellowed down the phone at me as I consumed my cornflakes prior to going down to the Gallery.

‘Samantha, is that you?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, holding the phone several inches away from my delicate, shell-like ear.

‘Heard a rumour. That your boat out in the harbour?’

‘Yes.’

‘The bloody great big thing, flying a foreign ensign?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, get the bloody thing orf and put a red duster up in its place.’

‘Why should I use a red duster? All my dusters are yellow.’

‘Not that sort of duster, you blithering chump; Red Duster is what sailors call the red ensign–flown by all British ships the world over. Don’t forget to get her registered here too, none of yer Panama or other convenience rubbish. If she’s British, make sure she’s registered here. I expect to be given at least one cruise a year and if any royals come down, we need ter make sure that she’s fit for a queen.’

‘Queen?’ I squeaked, ‘our queen?’

‘How many queens d’yer think we’ve got? Philip might come, but keep him away from the controls, he’d go and put her aground on a reef, just fer the hell of it.’

‘Riiight, okay, Mummy, I’ll do what I can.’

‘Good, any problems with the authorities, let me know. I have a few chums in the Admiralty, don’t yer know. Mind you, the place has gorn to the dogs. What with the damn’ cutbacks, we have a smaller navy than bloody Switzerland. Got ter go, that idiot Crowland woman has made a dog’s breakfast of the flowers in church again–Fifi, don’t do that, it’s dirty.’

I heard a click and the phone went dead.

I contemplated my original wish for a quiet life down in the country, away from it all and being at one with nature.

‘Ah well,’ I thought, ‘this is more interesting!’

After feeding, watering, changing and inserting Heather into a BabyGro, making sure that the arms went into the arm holes and the legs into the holes cunningly designed for legs, I put her in the buggy and then we were off down to the quay and the gallery. Abby was going potty this morning–she had a rush job of vases–so she had gone off early to do her sweat and toil bit.

On the way down, I met a rather upset looking Jocasta on the way up.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, stopping the buggy and just remembering to put on the brake before it careered down the road and plunged into the harbour.

‘Philippa’s fallen off her pony and broken her stupid collarbone.’

‘Ooh, nasty. Where is she?’

‘In the Cottage hospital getting strapped up, silly moo.’

‘Why ‘silly moo’?

‘Because she thought she could jump a fence and show off to her sister, Jennifer. Luckily the horse is okay, otherwise I’d have broken her other collarbone for her.’

‘That’s not very charitable.’

‘No, well you just wait until you have another child; sibling rivalry is no laughing matter. Look I have to go, I’ll phone you later.’

‘All right, but remember, you were young once.’

‘Was I? I can’t remember, but even if I was, I wasn’t as stupid as my two!’

I continued down and found myself back at the quay. From about half way down I could see Lady Olivia rising and falling gently to the swell and felt a funny feeling in my tummy that she was my boat and any time I wanted to I could leap aboard, release the handbrake and zoom off anywhere I wanted–on the sea that is. That made me wonder if I needed L-plates or something to drive her?

Shrugging my shoulders, I continued on my way down the quay, past the Pottery, where I finger waved to my beloved and then opened my gallery.

As I walked in, my nose twitched slightly as the smell of new paint hadn’t totally disappeared yet. There were a number of paintings stacked up ready for hanging. There were also a few small sculptures to be placed strategically for viewing and possible sale.

I couldn’t wait for the opening in a few short days time and wondered how well the business would do. Alright, I had a few bob in the bank, but I didn’t earn it by the sweat of my fevered brow. The paintings of mine, that were going to be shown–with those of other local artists–were all my own work and I would be more than a little chuffed to actually have a few bought by people who appreciated art; well my art, anyway.

I parked the buggy in the corner out of the sun. Heather was fast asleep so she didn’t need much in the way of attention at the moment.

‘Right,’ I said to myself, ‘let’s get this show on the road.’

I had a lot to do today; I wanted to hang the paintings, place spotlights. Rearrange some furniture––

There was a knock on the door. Peering through was a well known face.

I went over and opened the door. ‘Hello Marcia, what does my favourite doctor want?’

‘Well may I come in then?’

‘’Course,’ I replied, stepping aside and letting her in.

‘’It all looks very nice,’ she said looking around.

‘It’ll look even better when the paintings are hanging.’

‘True,’ she said.

‘Erm, is this a social call?’

She looked at me and smiled.

‘Nice boat out there?’

‘Which one?’ I asked, innocently.

‘You know the dirty great flashy one with the radar what’sit whirling round and round.’

‘Oh that boat. Yes, she’s quite nice.’

‘Of course you being the owner, you will get to use her quite a lot.’

‘I don’t know about that––’

‘–And of course, you’ll need a ship’s doctor, on call day and night in case you get seasick or maybe scurvy, beri-beri or typhus; the list is endless.’

‘I’m sure it is, but I think I’ll be okay.’

‘Oh, right, erm–good, well I’d better be off to surgery then.’

‘See ya later.’ I said.

‘Right, I’ll be off.’ She went to the door and opened it.

‘Marcia.’

‘Mmm?’ she said turning back.

‘I might need a doctor, on board. Scurvy can be a bit tricky if you haven’t any lime slices for your pink gin–not that I drink of course–but I suppose that it’s better to be safe than sorry.’

‘Great!’ she said enthusiastically. ‘See you in the pub later?’

‘All right, Mummy Dottie’s babysitting Heather tonight, she wants to strengthen her stiff upper lip or whatever and she says that I need to get out and enjoy myself. I couldn’t believe it was her saying that and then I heard Sarah say something in the background so she’s probably takin’ advice from the ex hired help. She’s softer than she looks.’

‘I still wouldn’t want to meet her on a dark night.’

‘Didn’t you say you had surgery?’

‘Yes, Cap’n,’

‘Don’t you start, I’ll see you later, bye.’

~ §~

‘Right, let’s–’ There was another knock on the door.

‘Bloody h––come in Millie.’ I said as she came in, breathlessly.

‘Tell me you haven’t sold it?’

‘Sold what?’

‘Your yacht.’

‘No, why?’

‘It’s just I have contacts, who’ll give you a good price.’

‘But I’m not selling?’

‘Not?’

‘Nope.’

‘Oh, I heard, well never mind. That’s good. Am I invited?’

‘To what?’

‘Your inaugural voyage. You’ll have to have one, it’s good form.’

‘Where would I go?’

‘Not sure, you could venture into hostile waters like Cornwall; plunder and pillage for pasties, kidnap a few piskies and be back in home waters in time for tea.’

‘If and when that happens, you will be the first member of the boarding party–bring your own knife and fork.’

‘Will do, must dash, I have to see a woman about a rose covered cottage,’

‘Riiight, see you later.’

I shut the door and my with my head swimming, I made my way to the kitchen and put the kettle on–then looked in the mirror and it didn’t suit me, so I took it off again! It appeared that all of my friends and half the village wanted to get a ride on the boat. At this rate the engines would wear out sooner than you could recite, “the boy stood on the burning deck”.

After making my tea, I returned to the gallery, checked on Sleeping Beauty, who was still in the land of nod and blowing raspberries, then put my cup down and rubbed my hands in anticipation.

‘Righ’–’

There was a knock on the door.

I nearly swore; only the presence of my lickle, ickle baby girl, who was legendary for light sleeping, prevented me from uttering some dockyard badinage pertinent to the moment.

I opened the door and saw a teenage girl.

‘The boat’s fully booked for the next ten years.’ I said rather testily.

‘Do what?’ she said.

‘The boat.’

‘What boat?’

‘In the harbour.’

‘I don’t want a boat.’

‘No?’

‘No,’

‘Oh, sorry, got my spinnakers in a twist. Let’s start again. Can I help you?’

‘Job?’

‘Job?’

‘Mmm.’

‘What about a job? Oh, you’ve come in answer to the advert?’

‘Yes ’M.’

‘Come in then, don’t stand on the doorstep.’

I ushered the girl in; got her to sit down on a–erm–seat.

I made us both a cuppa–my original one was a bit wishy-washy and not strong enough for an old sea dog or is that bitch, like me. I giggled at that naughty word and the girl gave me a strange look for some reason.

I kept glancing at her, trying to make up my mind on the brief–very brief conversation, whether she was suitable. They say at an interview that you make your mind up in the first few moments, but I wasn’t so sure. She was a pretty little thing with long blond hair, and not too pancake-like makeup; sensible skirt down to mid thigh and blouse that was almost mumsie. All that made me suspicious. Why didn’t she have the grunge look, wear jeans and t-shirt that showed her navel and have a snivelling snarl on her face? She wasn’t yer normal teenage stereotype. Mind you, up to now she hadn’t strung a sentence together, so I would have to suspend judgement.

I gave her the tea and drew up a chair.

‘So,’ I said brightly, ‘you saw the advert?’

‘Yes ’M.’

‘It said, I think, “bright, alert assistant required to help in a new art gallery on the quay. Experience not necessary but should be quick with figures”. Do you think you qualify?’

‘Yes ’M.’

‘Goood–erm–tell me about yourself. Firstly it would help to know your name.’

‘Tracy–I’m 17 and live at ’ome wiv me mum.’

‘You aren’t from around here are you, Tracy?’

Perceptive aren’t I?

‘Na, Peckham Rye. Mum moved down ‘ere when scum bag pis–I mean–went off wiv vat cow.’

‘Cow?’

‘Yeah, she was a shop assistant at Tesco’s.’

I thought we were drifting from the point. ‘Okay, how did you do at school?’

‘Hated it.’

‘Why?’

‘I woz picked on wern I?’

‘Wern…I mean, were you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why were you picked on?’

‘Cos I were different.’

‘In what way?’

She looked at me, blinking. I could almost hear the cogs in her brain clanking and getting into gear.

‘I ’eard fings?’

‘Fings?’

‘Yeah.’

‘About what?’

‘You.’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What about me?’

‘Yer different like.’

‘Like?’

‘Yeah.’

This was getting surreal.

‘Tell me what you heard.’

‘My mum works in the post office; she heard fings…like you woz once a bloke.’

‘So; it’s no secret that I am a girl with bits that are superfluous.’

‘Super what?’

‘It means that I have boy bits that I don’t need.’

‘Riiigh’.’

She was silent, looking at me.

‘Well?’ I said.

‘Well what?’

‘You were going to tell me about things.’

‘Yea, right, well, I’m different too.’

‘You mean that you’re a boy too?’

‘Nah, I’m a girl.’

‘What makes you different then?’

‘Gay, in’ I?’

‘So you’re a lesbian?’

‘Yeah, I went to an all girls school and I fancied a coupla ve uvva girls, didn’ I. Only ve girls woz straight an they got it all round the school that I was a dyke, like and then my life was pure ’ell. Couldn’t study an got upset an’ me results stank.’

‘Did you get any good results.’

‘Only in art.’

Ah, I was getting closer. ‘So you like art?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So,’ I said, standing up, going to the corner, picking up one of my paintings and showing her. It was of a field with poppies on a bright summer’s day. I liked it as it was colourful and caught the moment. I put it on an easel. ‘What d’you think of this?’

She stood up and came over. I watched her expression as she inspected the painting. Her face had come alive–she was smiling slightly and her eyes were darting all over the place, absorbing everything.

‘Wow.’ She said.

‘Apart from “wow” can you tell me anything about it?’

‘It’s a watercolour, obviously; I like the delicate brush strokes, the way the sunlight plays on the flowers and the shadows mean that it’s prob’ly mid-mornin’. It has good balance wiv the tree on the left and gentle hill on the right, makin me eyes draw through to the back of the painting. It’s a brill picture–who painted it?’

‘I did?’

She turned to me her eyes wide with surprise.

‘You? Wow, can yer teach me ter paint like vat?’

‘Can you do anything yourself?’

‘Yeah, but not vat good.’

‘What have you done then?’

She went back to the chair and picked up her rather large shoulder bag, rummaged around and pulled out a rolled sheet, then returned and handed it to me.

I took off the laccy-band and unrolled it.

It was a sketched portrait, drawn of a pretty woman sitting on a deck chair with the beach and sea behind her. To the side was a long pier and children playing by the water. Sea gulls were flying in the sky and it was altogether a lovely and very detailed sketch from a raw but talented artist.

‘Vat woz at Sarfend,² last summer. Vat’s me mum.’

‘She’s really pretty?’ I remarked.

‘Mmm, so why did dad go off wiv vat cow of a bitch?’

I looked away from the drawing and noticed a tear in the corner of her eye.

‘I don’t know, honey,’ I said quietly, ‘sometimes things just don’t work out. My marriage failed.’

‘Cos you dress pretty?’ she sniffed.

‘Partly, I suppose but there were other things. Anyway, back to you. Why d’you want the job?

‘’Coz I love art and I want to be an artist like you and be famous an’ ev’ryfink. Bu’ I need to learn more.’

‘So you think you can learn from the experience?’

‘Yes ’m.’

‘I pay fifty pee above the minimum wage. If you suit me and I suit you, I’ll review things after three months. The job includes keeping the place spotless and being nice to customers. You have to be good with people mind. I don’t want you putting customers off. Do you think you can do it?’

‘Yeah, if I get the chance.’

I looked at her. She looked eager and keen now and not defensive and teenage angst-like. I wondered if I was making a mistake, but she was a character and there were plenty of those around here, and it might be the making of her.

‘Hmm, alright, be here tomorrow at nine and bring some work clothes. We’ll keep the nice stuff for when we open. Do you normally dress like that or did your mum say you should?’

She looked down at herself.

‘I like ter look pretty: How can I ’ook anuvver girl if I ain’t pretty?’

I sighed. ‘Oh for the simple life,’ I thought.

‘Well, see you tomorrow then.’

‘Fanks, ’M.’

‘You don’t have to call me ’M’, Samantha will be fine, Tracy.’

‘Okay, Samanfa, see yer tomorrrer.’

She picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder and bounced out of the gallery like a female Zebedee on steroids.

I sighed, wondering once again why I was so soft, but I saw something of myself in Tracy. That passion for art that you’ve either got or you haven’t, and that she had struggled for her sexuality–as I had. It was enough for me to give her a chance.

I put the cups in the sink for washing later and cast my eyes around the studio.

‘Now then,’ I said, ‘Let’s––’

My ’phone chirped. ‘Shit,’ I muttered under my breath.

Heather woke up and flexed her lungs, at the same time there was a knock on the door; I glanced at it and saw Jocasta and the girls outside. Philippa had her arm in a sling. I waved them in and answered my extremely persistent ’phone.

‘Yes?’ I snapped, none too politely.

‘It’s Dawn, you sound annoyed for some reason.’

‘Sorry, Dawn, can you hang on for half a mo’.’ I put my hand over the ’phone.

‘Can you sort Heather out?’ I asked Jo and the girls, who immediately descended on the flapping child while I retired out the back and continued the conversation outside.

‘Sorry, Dawn, all hell seems to be breaking loose at once. I can’t wait till you all come down.’

‘Yes, in a few days we’ll be Penmarris residents.’

‘And as mad as the rest of us. Did you ring for a reason?’

‘Yes, look, I heard that you now own that bloody great ship in the harbour, and we were wondering–’

I groaned––

___________
¹ Maureen Lipman as Beatrice Bellman (Beatie/BT)and one of her BT adverts from the 1980’s
See: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vEfKEzX9QLE

² Sarfend: Cockney-speak for Southend in Essex, a favourite seaside resort among Londoners, famed for the length of its pier, the longest pleasure pier in the world, being 1.33 miles long. It has its own railway with a train to take you to “The End of the Pier”.
See: http://www.southend.gov.uk/content.asp?section=583

---

To Be Continued…

Please leave comments…thanks! ~Sue

My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing, help with the plot-lines and pulling the story into shape.