Previously…

‘I am a bit worried about this sperm problem. We should get our finger out and do it soon.’

‘Interesting turn of phrase you have there, young Samantha. If I didn’t know you better, I would suspect that you were being a trifle risqué in your terminology, but as you are sweet and innocent, I will overlook it, this once.’

‘Oooh, fank you milady, I don’t know wot I’d done if you hadn’t ‘ave dragged me out o’ the gutter like and cleaned me up like.’

‘Oh be quiet child and fondle my nipple.’

After several minutes of asterisks we came off the ceiling and resumed our conversation.

‘I’ll ring up the clinic tomorrow and see if they can fit us in sometime next week after our sea voyage. I don’t want to be sea sick and pregnant at the same time.

And so another busy day had finished and we went to sleep after our shower, happy in the knowledge that we would soon be trying for an addition to our happy little family. Then there was the weekend where we would be shivering our timbers and doing some Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum type things on the seven seas on the yaccht that I had decided to rename–The Gin Palace.

Got you!

And now the story continues…

WARNING!

You are warned that this chapter involves extensive nautical references and descriptions. You are strongly advised to take a sea sick pill if you have a weak stomach and even if you haven’t, a sick bag is advisable–just in case.

On the quay, Mummy Dotty and David in his Naval chaplain’s robes stood on a little platform, built for the purpose by the Penmarris Boy Scouts and Cubs.

Multi-coloured bunting and balloons leant an air of festivity to what might have been an otherwise solemn occasion.

Mummy looked radiant in her pink confection and matching hat with fruit and veg. All around were the locals who were A, going on our mini cruise to the bleak foreign waters of Cornwall, B, others who hoped that they might stowaway on board, C, those who were just nosy, and 4, confused holiday makers wondering what the fuss was all about.

I was dressed up to the eights–not nines, there’s a recession on–Abby looked scrumptious, Heather, gorgeous in her little white sailor dress and matching cap and Mrs Pearson was wearing her best hobnail boots–my poor decks, I must find her something else. Others had made the effort and it was a festive and highly decorative scene that confronted me as I looked at the yacht as she rose and fell to the gentle swell, her white fenders kissing the side of the quay gently.

Dawn and the tribe had scrubbed up well and looked rather pleased that they had upped sticks and moved to this idyllic, if slightly anarchic, place. I know that the kids couldn’t wait to get aboard and press a few buttons and twiddle the occasional knob–worrying that.

My Captain and crew were all resplendent in Royal Navy-style tropical whites and everything was yacht shape and Penmarris fashion. I noted that Katie was doing her famous limpet mine trick and had hold of the Skipper in such a way that an oyster knife–or even a crow bar–would be necessary to prise her away from him. He didn’t seem to mind, although those rings under his eyes and deathly pallor made me wonder if he was man enough for the praying mantis that was our Katie.

Everything that could gleam on the boat gleamed and the brass looked as if it had been polished and buffed to within an inch of its life.

The Penmarris Brass Band were doing their utmost to make a musical occasion of it by playing sea shanties and other nautical type numbers which set the foot a-tapping and the little boys and girls on the quayside a-dancing.

The day was glorious–one of those Indian summer days that are as rare as hen’s teeth in these gloomy days of global warming and Conservative governments. The only things missing were the sea gulls who, for some strange reason, disappeared as soon as Mummy loomed over the horizon.

David raised his hand and the band stopped playing Abide With Me, which was, I must admit, putting a slight damper on the occasion.

Everything went quiet.

‘We are here for the renaming and blessing of this fine vessel. It is so good to see you all and I only wish that a few more came to Sunday morning Service; but enough of the advertising let us get down to the reason why we are here. Samantha here has graced us with her presence for only a short time but has entered into our hearts in a way that few others have been able to manage––’

‘–Get on with it,’ said someone in the crowd who only sounded a little like me.

‘–as I was saying. She is the rare sort of kind, genuine people who make others feel better, just being around her. As I can see that her face is getting redder than is natural or desirable I will move on swiftly. Let us say the Lord’s prayer together and then I shall ask Lady Fairbairn to take over.

The prayer was said with all solemnity and then the proceedings were handed over to the good lady.

‘Right, pin back your ears and if someone doesn’t shut that dam’ dog up, I’ll get me twelve bore out. Recently, I had a word with Phillip, who knows about these things. He might be Greek, but at least he had the good sense to marry an English woman of reasonably good stock and he briefed me on the form for these occasions.’

She turned towards the huge yacht. Everyone was quiet–even the dog–who knew when to shut up when he had too.

Mummy put on her half moon reading glasses, coughed gently into her gloved hand and read from a document that she had pulled out from her handbag like a rabbit from a hat.

‘In the name of all who have sailed aboard this yacht in the past, and in the name of all who may sail aboard her in the future, we invoke the ancient gods of the wind and the sea to favour us with their blessing today.

‘Mighty Neptune, king of all that moves in or on the waves; and mighty Aeolus, guardian of the winds and all that blows before them and Anemoi, the Greek wind gods Boreas, Notus, Eurus, and Zephyrus.

‘We offer you our thanks for the protection you have afforded this vessel in the past. We voice our gratitude that she has always found shelter from tempest and storm and enjoyed safe passage to port.

‘Now, wherefore, we submit this supplication, that the name whereby this vessel has hitherto been known as Lady Olivia, be struck and removed from your records.

‘Further, we ask that when she is again presented for blessing with another name, she shall be recognized and shall be accorded once again the selfsame privileges she previously enjoyed.

‘In return for which, we rededicate this vessel to your domain in full knowledge that she shall be subject as always to the immutable laws of the gods of the wind and the sea.

‘In consequence whereof, and in good faith, we seal this pact with a libation offered according to the hallowed ritual of the sea.

‘I name this yacht Penmarris Surprise and may she bring fair winds and good fortune to all who sail on her.’

She then picked up the bottle of Bolly and with practiced ease, smashed it against the bow.

Even as everyone was cheering and clapping, I was in tears, Mummy hadn’t even dropped an ‘H’.

In the upper saloon, on the bulkhead was a wooden plaque. On the plaque, beautifully lettered in gold was the name ‘Lady Olivia’ as part of the tradition where the previous name should be displayed prominently and proudly.

~ §~

After all the pomp and ceremony, I was nearly trampled underfoot as people clambered aboard for the post boat christening thingy–bash.

I will gloss over the festivities as those of you with a delicate constitution may feel that it was a bit over the top. I will only mention in passing that Sarah should not have tried diving into the chocolate fountain; Jocasta’s girls might have been wiser to avoid having a ‘how many pasties we can eat in ten minutes’ competition. Mrs Pearson, who quite frankly should have known better, should not have tried ‘that’ in the Jacuzzi, especially with her traumatised husband looking on, but strangely taking notes.

It would also not be wise to dwell on the noises coming from a certain cabin following certain manoeuvres on the part of Katie and the captain.

Luckily Mummy was on to her fourth pink gin by then and was hors de combat, regarding these and other things that delicacy forbid my mentioning. However, her participation in the Hokey Cokey, ably assisted by Jenkins, will go down in infamy.

In short, the renaming went rather well.

~ §~

Two hours later, those without boarding passes were thrown off the ship. A couple of jokers thought it was funny to try and walk the plank and got their knickers and other things wet in the process. I was lucky that Heather was fast asleep while all this was going on and her little mind wasn’t poisoned by the total lack of control on the part of some people–Marcia should have known better…but enough of this badinage, it was time for our mini cruise type jaunt.

After the infusion of copious amounts of coffee and pain killers, we were all, more or less back to normal. Mummy, who had the constitution of an ox–sounds better than cow–was soon back to her normal happy, placid self; not so Jenkins who, not being used to the high life had to go and lie down in a darkened cabin.

Tracy and her mum had the sort of shell shocked look of people who had led a sheltered life and didn’t realise that the world can be a rather shocking place at times.

Tracy sidled up to me before we went on board.

‘’Ear, ’Manfa, 'taint ’alf a giggle this, innit?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Well, you know, nuf said,’ she concluded and then tapped the side of her nose suggestively. She then went back to her mum who was making an effort to try to understand what Mrs Pearson was saying–I know the feeling!

The captain, looking a bit worn out for some reason, and the rest of his staff and crew helped everyone to his, her or their cabins. There would be a slight delay before setting off so that everything could be put back shipshape and Bristol fashion. I could see that Mrs Pearson was itching to get hold of her Hoover and had to be physically restrained by Mr P in an uncharacteristic show of male dominance.

Abby and I together with Heather made our way to our cabin–called the owners state room for some reason and chilled out for a bit.

I lay down on the bed while Abby changed Heather. I could hear sounds from other parts of the yacht as I looked up at the ceiling–or whatever it’s called on the ship. There was scrubbing, washing, squeals of delight, laughing, shouting and a few sounds which were unusual and probably naughty. But I was just happy to be there, in the lap of luxury, with my every whim, catered for.

If I so desired, I could watch satellite TV on the huge screen, which made the ones in those multiplex cinemas look puny by comparison. I could pick up the phone and ask for almost anything to eat–except, I understood from Pierre, the rather excitable chef, the ’addock, which was erff).

I could drink myself into an early grave from the large fridge and drinks cabinet in the corner.

One of the crew on board– I think it was the incredibly pretty one who looked after Heather last time–we had been told, could do manicures, professional; makeup and things with your hair that would defy gravity. I must get her name, I thought, Little Miss Perfect, perhaps?

Mentally, I slapped my face with a wet kipper. I was getting to be jealous of anyone in a skirt. Insecure or what?

Heather went down for another kip in the king sized cot with optional mobile attachments like balls, rings, stars, cuddly toys and bottle opener. I hoped that she wouldn’t wake up in the night, as I would like to have an uninterrupted sleep. This girl needed her beauty sleep!

After a bit I could feel a throb under me and it was nothing to do with what Abby was doing.

‘Ooh,’ I said, ‘someone’s weighed the anchor, sliced the main brace, shivered the barnacle and taken off the handbrake–we’re off!’

Both Abby and I ran to the window, no tiddly-wee port holes for us, we had a floor to ceiling job and we could see Penmarris disappear from right to left–or should that be starboard to port? There were people on shore waving at us with hankies, bras and things like that. The band was still playing, the scouts and guides were fighting and the children were gambolling or galloping around. It was a festive scene and one that brought a lump to my throat. Even the sea gulls, missing for some strange reason, returned as we left the safety of the harbour and surged out into the open sea.

I could hear the cheering from the deck and I wanted to join them until Abby coughed.

‘You may want to get some clothes on first, honey?’

‘Oops,’ I said sheepishly, ‘so that was why people were waving their bras at us–’

~ §~

I threw on a Calvin Kline dress–as you do; did something with my hair and reapplied my lippy and then I was ready. Abby wanted to stay and look after Heather. She had a headache, not surprising the amount of alcohol she had consumed earlier. I of course didn’t touch a drop, knowing the Jekyll and Hyde scenario if I so much as sniff a brandy. I was even banned from eating liqueur chocolates as they made me giggly.

I gave her a toe-curling kiss and Heather a chaste one and left for the deck.

The ship seemed rather crowded and then I remembered the amount of people we had invited on this jaunt. We had so many that several had to bunk up together, Katie being the prime example.

I was getting crude in my old age. It was being around all these old sea salts I supposed. I would have to try to be more refined and above all of that. After all I had a position to keep up and the youngsters looked up to me. Upon stepping outside, I slipped base over apex on the wet deck and landed on my adequate posterior, showing–to all who cared to look–my pink satin panties. The trouble was everyone looked and I felt a proper nana.

Mummy was looking down at me. She had some binoculars strapped around her neck and was wearing a headscarf with anchors on–very nautical.

‘What the hell are ye doin’ young Sam?’

‘Just dropped in,’ I said trying to make light of my embarrassment.

‘Well, it looks like yer enjoyed yer trip. Why in the name of blood and thunder did yer wear four inch heels?’

‘They went nice with the dress.’

‘Lord preserve us!’

One of the hands kindly went to my cabin and came back with some sensible shoes and I was soon ship shape and Bodmin fashion.

Dawn, Adrian, Hayley and Tim were all on deck, the kids looked almost as excited as the adults as the wind whipped at their hair and clothes.

I went to Dawn and gave her a sisterly hug.

‘You like?’ I said.

‘Yes, this is fantastic. Who thought when we were kids that we would end up here on a dirty great big plastic tub out on the high seas?’

‘Well, we did have boats then and they were plastic.’

‘Yeah, but playing with toy boats in the bath is hardly the same as playing with the full-sized ones on the open sea.’

‘Subject to family planning, we were thinking of taking a trip down to St Tropez next year. We got the idea from Miranda. We were thinking of going mob handed if people were up for it, including Katie, if Bentley, Bentley, Letwynd and Fartworthy can spare her and she’s still superglued to Captain Caveman; Marcia and her dishy hubby; Jocasta and co, Mummy and Sarah, Sophie if she’s still around–’

‘Miranda?’

‘Oh, Miranda, she gave me the idea of St Tropez–she’s around somewhere, last seen knocking back some bubbly–works for the Social Services and likes mixing with the cats–I think she has a thing going with Sonya Nicholson, the cool efficient woman in the girlie sailor suit that helps us when on board with Heather and does other essential things like hair and makeup.’

‘Blimey, Samantha, I can’t keep up with you. How d’you make friends so easily now? When you were in boy mode, you did a fine impression of a wallflower. You were so shy, you wouldn’t even go on Santa’s knee?’

‘Well it was August.’

~ §~

Cool and efficient Sonya, who, we discovered was the Chief Stewardess and Purser, was looking after Heather while the rest of us enjoyed the full on experience of motor cruising up and down the coast. We got ever nearer to the Cornish waters, where Piskies lived and the main currency were pasties and the preferred currency was the dynar, now replaced by the Cornish pound and shilling, and I could feel a certain nervous edge in the air as we realised that we were leaving safe waters and going foreign.

I remember the conversation I had with Mrs Pearson just a short few days ago.

Being almost a natural born local now and sprinkling the occasional ‘ee’, oo’ and arhs and one or two ‘manglewurzels’ into my conversation to prove that I had gone native, I was able to take in at least 50 percent of what she was actually saying, aided by my Devon-English phrasebook.

I won’t give you the undiluted version as it makes my head ache to even think about it, but this is the semi-translated version.

‘Tis well known that there is a fierce rivalry between Devon and Cornwall, with the Cornish people thinking that they have the right to self-government and other such revolutionary independent thoughts. Devon also has strong feelings about the origins, customs and traditions of Devon folk, but like the idea of grabbing as much money from the UK government as we can–we don’t bite the hand that feeds us. The Cornish think that us folks from Devon are trying to pinch bits of their nationality and Celtic roots, which we resent as we are as old as they are, roots wise. It’s just that we don’t have a song and dance about it. (see link).

‘They say we keep on selling Cornish pasties and actually making counterfeit ones outside Cornwall. We claim that they are trying to muscle in on the “Devon Cream Teas racket”.’

There was a lot more of this, most of which I couldn’t understand, but you can see that there is much bad blood and clotted cream between those two ancient counties.

We, however, came in peace and had on board, scrumpy and other things like gallons of clotted cream and pretty-coloured beads to placate the natives if they did happen to get restive. We should not have been worried about going into Cornish waters, but we were.

I was up on the bridge or wheelhouse as we old sea dogs call it with Abby, Sarah (gor blimey, this is a lark innit?’) her mum–the Lady Fairbairn and a few other hangers on, like Katie who was still hanging on to Cap’n Pugwash.

The wheelhouse would not have looked out of place in Star Trek, not the iffy set that wobbled, but the later ones that looked more lifelike and had pretty twinkling lights.

Sarah insisted on pressing the foghorn button, making everyone jump and her giggle like mad and a catamaran capsize half a mile off our starboard bow-which I think is to the right but could for I know be on the left.

‘Fer God’s sake, child, if ye do that again, I’ll turn yer pony into glue!’

‘Sorry, Mummy,’ said Sarah, smiling.

‘Where’s the handbrake?’ I asked to change the subject.

The driver, a rather dishy looking (if I was interested, but I wasn’t) man in a white uniform with brass buttons, laughed for some reason but kept his eyes on the road or whatever ahead.

The Captain had to do things with his thingy and whatsit, so Katie unhooked herself and came across to me and sat in one of the deep leather armchairs that pressed all the right buttons for me. I wondered idly if the seat had a massage setting as Katie sighed several times and looked dreamily at her dreamboat of a man. I felt faintly sick, and here is someone who cries when she reads Mills & Boon weepy books.

‘Hi Katie’ I said as she sighed for the seventh time like an asthmatic sheep.

‘Cor, I want to rip his trousers off and make mad passionate love with him in his hammock.’

‘Hammock, hammock? I thought that he had a bed like the rest of us?’

She looked at me like a star crossed, or is that an eyes crossed, lover.

‘He’s into tradition,’ then she seemed to pull herself together and get something of a grip on her emotions, ‘well Samantha, this is brilliant.’

‘Yes, it is rather. So when are you and the captain going to do the decent thing?’

‘What have sex? We’ve done that hundreds––’

‘–No, idiot; I mean get married?’

She started to look coy–not a pretty sight.

‘I—I’m not sure.’

‘Do you love him?’

‘Yes.’

‘More than all those others you fell head over heels with?’

‘They were different.’

‘How so?’

‘They were just infatuations, this is the real thing.’

‘What, all twelve?’

‘What are you implying?’

‘Nothing, nothing, it’s just that you should really be sure before you commit yourself. What do you like about him?’

‘Apart from the nice bum and incredibly large––?’

‘–I don’t mean physical–is it that large?’

‘Very.’

‘Doesn’t it make your eyes water? Well never mind that; what I’m trying to say is, what is he like to be with?’

‘In bed or out of bed?’

‘You have a one track mind, Katie, and you decent, law abiding solicitor too.’

‘Solicitors have needs.’

‘Not two times a day and twice on Sundays––’

‘–Three times–’

‘Never mind, oh, I give up. If you love him and want him to fold you in his arms and make mad passionate love swinging off the chandeliers and make a reasonably honest woman of you–then go ahead, but, before you do, make sure that he hasn’t got a wife in every port.’

‘Not all seamen follow the stereotype.’

‘Well as long as you’re sure. So I return to the question, when are you too lovebirds going to get hitched?’

‘In the fullness of time; when we have weighed up the options and the pros and cons. After careful consideration and long soul searching–if he doesn’t ask me, I’ll ask him by this time next week.’

‘Oh Katie!’

~ §~

While all this was happening, we were sailing on, though the deep blue waters off the coast of Cornwall. We went past several lovely beaches with golden sand, a number of cliffs, several coves and a lighthouse. The sea was calm and there was not a cloud in the sky. The sea breezes were gentle and it didn’t seem like autumn, but high summer.

All our friends were dotted about the yacht, enjoying the views or snoozing in a deck chair like Mummy. Most of the kids over the age of six were in the Olympic sized, hexagonal spa on the fore deck and looked wet and happy playing with the water. Some were playing deck quoits, others were taking turns doing a Kate Winslet on the bow–I just hoped that we wouldn’t hit an iceberg as I had forgotten to book the band.

Abby and I returned to the owners’ state room–I still get a kick out of that–owners’ state room. I once went on a short cruise around the Med with Olivia. Our cabin was down where the fishes swim and you couldn’t swing a ships rat let alone a cat in the place.

Our state room was vastly different from that, with its huge bed, polished wood everywhere, huge plasma screen, comfy deep leather seats, bathroom…in short, raid your piggy bank and get one if you can–you know it makes sense!

There was a knock on door and in came cool efficient Sonya Nicholson with Miranda who looked slightly flushed. More importantly, they had Heather who was awake now and wanted her mummies.

‘Thanks for looking after her,’ Abby said to Sonya.

‘Not a problem, she’s a sweetie isn’t she, ’Randa?’

Miranda smiled vaguely and then hiccupped.

‘That Bolly is evil.’ I said, ‘won’t touch the stuff, myself.’

Cool and efficient Sonya smiled fondly at Miranda.

‘I had better go and get her some strong coffee. Come on ’Randa.’

They went off and I raised an eyebrow at Abby whilst she gave superbaby a quick bum change.

‘They do appear to be an item.’

‘We’ll have to call this The Love Boat soon,’ I said.

‘Well, as long as we don’t get any cheesy stories and have to rename her Pacific Princess.

We both giggled and Heather gurgled.

~ §~

We cruised on in enemy waters and I expected at any moment to be dived bombed by kamikaze sea gulls using Cornish pasties as incendiary devices. We were lucky to have mummy on board as that meant, for some reason, no airborne or for all I knew, water born life forms dared come near.

Everyone got to drive or ‘take the helm’–as we seafarers say. I even got to push the little leaver that made it go faster and before we knew it, we were going at 20knots! I kept looking for the rope though but couldn’t find any with or without knots.

The Captain did shout at me though as I was heading for this small sailing craft with waving kids in it and the thing refused to move out of the way. Silly that as when I’m in my darling little Beemer and a ten ton truck comes near, I get out of the way fast. Not so on the sea, where for some daft reason small boats think that they can go where they like. I think it was okay though as we passed them with at least 20 metres to spare, they might have got a bit wet in the process but as they were wearing yellow wet weather gear, they had nothing to complain about.

I was relieved from the steering wheel then by a young lad, who looked just out of school and whose pimply face looked as white as his uniform for some reason.

Abby, Heather and I went up to one of the decks (not to boast, but we have three) and watched the coast go by. It was exhilarating to see our wake behind us and feel the throb of the engine through our feet.

The Cornish coast looked pretty as we followed the shoreline from a safe distance. We had toyed with the idea of parking in one of the harbours dotted along the coast, but decided against it as this was a sea cruise not a yacht parking cruise. I could certainly get used to this and Abby and I had all sorts of flights of fancy as to where we could go and what we could do. However, we both had businesses to run and also we had committed to having another baby if we could so it would just have to wait. Mind you, when we got married, what better excuse to have a honeymoon in some far off exotic place?

Mrs P came up at one point with Mr P. I wish that they wouldn’t tug their forelocks and curtsy like that. It was bad enough with Mrs P but in Mr P–it wasn’t a pretty site.

‘Hello, Mr and Mrs Pearson, having a nice time?’

‘Yez’M.’ They said in stereo.

‘How is the cabin?’

‘Bain’t seen nothin’ like it in all me born yurrs m’ducks,’ said Mr P with more animation than I had seen in him since he started reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover (confiscated after chapter 2 by his good wife).

‘Do you like it Mrs Pearson?’

‘Yez’M, ’ave to share it with four people but still, when you’ve slept in a bed wi’ six others and a pig, an two of ’em ’ad smelly feet, it baint nothin’.’

There was no answer to that and after more genuflecting they went off in search of the elusive scrumpy.

The yacht was a might overloaded with residents at the moment, but at least Abby, Heather and I, would have our room to ourselves. Not because we didn’t want to share, but Heather, bless, wouldn’t settle if others were in the room–that’s our story and we were sticking to it.

Even Mummy was sharing with Sarah, she said she didn’t mind as it reminded her of the blitz and anyway it was only for one night.

All too soon it was the evening and everyone got ready for dinner. It was a dress up affair for the adults who would be in the main saloon and the kids, headed by Jo’s children, Jen and Pippa would be on another deck and hopefully out of earshot in the other saloon. They were going to have a junior disco after eating and cool and efficient Sonya aided by Miranda, who must have been a masochist as she actually volunteered, were there to oversee the event. Sarah, Tracy and Sophie were with the younger ones too, so I had no worries about things getting too out of hand.

I was just in my slip as Sonya expertly applied my makeup. I didn’t look at myself as I only wanted to see the finished article, so I had to be patient. When she finished her magic on me, she moved on to Abby while I slipped on my dress. She was then going to sort out my hair, which needed sorting as it looked like a bird had nested in there somewhere.

I had pushed the boat out regarding my dress. It was a midnight blue Dolce and Gabbana lace taffeta cocktail dress made with flower lace combined with taffeta silk, built in wired bra, adjustable spaghetti straps and an attached belt with snap closures on the back. I loved it as soon as I saw it and I had been waiting for an occasion like this to show it off.

I stood by a window watching the twinkling lights of coves, harbours and villages go by as I waited for my turn to have my hair done.

After about ten minutes, Sonya had finished Abby’s makeup, dressing and hair and my jaw dropped when I saw the finished article.

Her makeup was flawless; her hair was wonderful, with gently waving curls cascading down to her bare shoulders. Her Karen Millen black, jewel bow, cocktail dress was simply stunning on her and the net underskirt helped the dress to flair out dramatically. She looked like a princess going to the ball–my princess.

I had little time to take all of this in as Sonya returned to me and worked on my hair for several minutes. I wondered what I would look like. I would hate to look like mutton dressed up as lamb and the only reservation I had about the dress was that it might be a bit young for me…

‘All done,’ said Sonya smiling and then twirling me in front of the mirror.

I stood up and then I could see myself from my head to my shiny black four inch court shoes.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Abby, coming up and looking at my reflection with me.

‘N…nothing, it’s just…’

‘…that you look beautiful?’

‘Do I? Yes I do. I scrubbed up well, didn’t I?’

‘Yes you did,’ laughed Abby, giving me a squeeze.

I turned to Sonya, who was packing away her lotions and potions.

‘Thank you, Sonya. You are an angel.’

She smiled.

‘It’s OK I love, my job. Now I have to shoot off. Bring Heather to my cabin when you’re ready.’

Sonya was babysitting for us tonight and I could see that she was one special girl. I must admit to feeling a tad guilty about being jealous of her. It was one female trait that I wasn’t particularly fond of.

Before we could say any more, she was gone.

~ §~

It was a wonderful evening and chef really pulled all the stops out to give us a meal to remember. The conversation was great and no one disgraced themselves by drinking too much–especially me, who stuck to a subtle, yet unpretentious grape juice of unknown vintage and origin. David kept us amused with a story about a defrocked vicar but it’s too rude to talk about here. Mummy told us about when she went big game hunting in Africa with Tremaine and half the royal family and that put me off my sorbet for at least two minutes. How could a sweet lady like her like to kill furry things for fun beats me–it must be a generation thing.

Jenkins was helping the staff to serve and was his usual unobtrusive and yet efficient self, gliding here there and everywhere. I had hoped that he might join us and let his hair down, but he was so shocked at the suggestion that his left eyebrow went up at least half a millimetre.

Mr and Mrs P looked a bit uncomfortable in all their finery. Mrs Pearson was wearing an evening gown with more flowers on it than in Kew Gardens that was probably quite new in 1950. It appeared that they never really did much in the way of going out much. I would have to try to persuade her to go out more. Mr P was wearing what looked suspiciously like a demob suit although he didn’t look that old. It smelt slightly of mothballs. His shirt collar was so tight; I had concerns about possible asphyxiation issues.

We could hear the occasion thump, thump of mindless head banging music wafting up from down below and I assumed that the kids party was going full swing. I worried a bit about fixtures and fittings and then remembered that we were insured against perils at sea and so I shrugged and forgot about it.

It was lovely having all my friends around me. It showed how far I had come since I had arrived in Penmarris as an upset, damaged and slightly shop worn person with issues. Penmarris had opened its arms to me and I was truly grateful.

‘So, Samantha,’ said Mummy taking me away from my personal thoughts, ‘where’s me bloody paintin’ then?’

~ §~

The party broke up at about twelve and we all drifted off shortly after. The kids’ party had finished, with much groaning and complaints about child abuse, an hour earlier. There had not, thankfully, been any fatalities, but Sarah had broken a nail and for some reason, this was a major trauma for her.

Abby and I strolled hand in hand back to our owners state room (I do like saying that!) after many hugs and kisses from our guests.

We crept in, not wanting to wake Big Ears. Sonya was on the sofa, shoes off, reading a book. She smiled as we came in.

‘How has she been?’ I whispered.

‘Like a little lamb. She hasn’t stirred.’

‘Thank you, Sonya.’

‘No problem. Anytime you want me to do this, just ask.’

We all hugged and Sonya left us. We gazed down at Heather in her cot. She was fast asleep and looked so pretty. I felt Abby’s arm go around my waist.

‘It will be nice if we can give her a little brother or sister to play with,’ Abby said, tenderly.

‘Mmm, it’s nice to have the set; let’s not waste any more time and get out the turkey baster as soon as possible.’

~ §~

The next day found us going around and through the waters of the many islands that make up The Isles of Scilly. It was pretty, even breathtaking in parts and if we had had more time we would have stopped, but we had to get back to port by lunchtime and so we promised ourselves that we would spend more time there, as soon as we could.

We had slept well in our luxurious bed following a night of muted passion as the last thing we wanted to do was wake up young Heather. Still it was nice and romantic and for that we were truly grateful–amen.

People went to breakfast at various times depending on when they woke up and the chef had a running buffet type system where you could have anything from cornflakes to full English.

As we returned towards home, the sea became a bit choppier and one or two of our happy band felt a bit sick. I of course, being an old sea salt, had no problems and smiled sympathetically at those who needed to use the loo on a regular basis. I had wondered why members of the crew called the toilets, “heads”, and I assumed that was because when you are sick that’s where the head goes–but I might be wrong on that.

I felt invigorated, with the wind whipping my hair and dress. Any cobwebs from the night before were truly dissipated in a short space of time. The kids seemed to love the slight rock and roll motions of the yacht and didn’t seem at all phased–messing about on deck, playing quoits or at one time back in the Jacuzzi being prunyfied. Not so Mrs Pearson who spent most of the time in the cabin refusing all food. Mr Pearson was not troubled however and it turned out that he was once in the merchant navy. He spent some time looking at the engines and fondling them in a suggestive manner. He really ought to get out more.

As we passed Cornwall, I could see at some stage that there would be some rough weather, although Captain Ahab assured us that we would be back before anything filthy happened. The dark cliffs interspersed with sandy coves and harbours looked lovely that morning. The hills and moors behind however, looked a bit foreboding as the storm clouds gathered. I recalled Mrs Pearson’s words of doom and gloom about nothing good coming out of Cornwall other than pasties and for a short moment, I wondered if those thoughts were prophetic.

However, we did beat the storms back to Penmarris and more than a few of us sighed in relief as the familiar harbour hove–or is that hoved–into view?

As we steamed through the harbour entrance, everyone was packing up and ready to go. Looking out of the vast window of the state room I noticed a rather official looking ship, slap bang in the middle of the harbour, right where we anchored our yacht normally.

It was sleek, about 45 metres long, looked as if it should have gun turrets, was grey in colour and called HMRC Gotcha on the stern.

I smiled at the name, thinking someone in authority for once had had a sense of humour. I noted as we stopped and dropped anchor nearby that a rubber inflatable boat–a RIB–with a large outboard motor on the stern came from around the other side of the ship and made towards us at a rate of knots. There were several people aboard, all wearing uniform and I swear that I saw some guns too.

‘Abby,’ I said while she changed Heather’s bum–again, ‘look at this.’

She finished what she was doing, picked up Little Miss Perfect and walked to the window.

‘What’s all that about? It seems like we have visitors.’

Both of us made our way to the main deck. My Captain was there–with Katie, of course–with a few of the crew and friends, all watching the fast-approaching RIB.

In seconds it was alongside and the seamen all scrambled aboard looking vaguely menacing. One of them, who seemed to be the boss, spoke to the captain.

‘We have been informed and have reason to believe that this vessel is carrying a cargo of illicit drugs. We have a warrant to search her and no one is allowed ashore until the search has been completed.’

There was a moment’s pregnant silence.

‘Who told you this information?’ I demanded.

‘We are not at liberty to divulge that information, madam. Skipper, may we begin?’

To be continued…

http://www.bbc.co.uk/devon/news_features/2003/flap_over_flag...

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.