SMUDGE, and other Stories 1998 ISBN 0 906340 14 4 Westfields Press, 121 Westfields, St.Albans AL3 4JR UK £6.80 [email protected]
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* JOCK
OVERBOARD *
BLANCHE
*
THE AWAKENING
*
JOCK
OVERBOARD
A true story
I was standing on the narrow strip of deck at the stern of the
cruiser, looking down at the water. It was fascinating to watch our V-shaped
wake spreading out to touch the banks of the river and then coming in again
into an upside-down V, so that we were being followed along by a sort of
diamond on the water.
I was all alone there. Looking down through the window behind
me, I saw that there was nobody in the after cabin. They were all up in the
cockpit and looking ahead.
We turned left into a broad dyke, and I heard the engine-noise suddenly
die down, as Bob reduced speed. The banks were all reedy there, and my diamond
disappeared, but I stood there watching the ducks bobbing up and down in
our wake, and their babies riding over the waves like tiny balls of fluff.
I remember leaning my head over the stern to watch our exhaust puffing out
a steamy stream of hot water.
What happened next I only realised afterwards, when it was too late.
Coming to the end of the dyke, and turning into the wide open spaces of Hickling
Broad, Bob had suddenly accelerated to top speed. There was also a very strong
wind from ahead, making the water very choppy. Anyway, I was pitched
head-first over the stern and found myself struggling in the water, which
in that Easter Bank-Holiday week, which came very early that year, was jolly
cold.
Floundering in the water, I saw the wide stern of the cruiser rapidly
drawing away from me, and passing through a gap between the shore and an
island in the Broad. Obviously nobody on board knew that I had fallen overboard,
and I knew they might not find out until they came to moor up for lunch.
I looked back towards the dyke. There was no other cruiser coming,
which might have rescued me, and I was very cold, so I began swimming as
fast as I could towards the bank. The trouble was, there wasn’t really
any bank at all. There was only a sort of thick field of reeds, a yard high,
growing out several yards from the shore, and past those there was a great
tangle of briars and brambles I could never have got through.
Between me and the nearest shore there was a small natural bay just
off the main channel, and just off the shore I spied a fallen tree floating
just clear of the reeds. It wasn’t moving. I suppose its upper branches
were stuck fast in the thick mud below the surface. I swam towards it, and
managed to clamber up on the wide part of the trunk near the root, and there
I stayed, marooned, cold, and miserable, wondering what would become of me.
They would come back to look for me when they eventually missed me, but they
wouldn’t have much idea of where I was, so I guessed they would be coming
very slowly.
My hopes rose when a large cruiser came along, manoeuvred carefully
into position just clear of the main channel, and moored at their mudweight
in my little bay. I reckoned that they were stopping for lunch, and I think
I was right, because they all disappeared below for a long time. After
a while a little girl came up on deck and began throwing bread to a family
of cadging swans. She was too far off to hear me, but luckily she was looking
in my direction, and presently I saw that she’d spotted me because she
called up the rest of the crew and they all started pointing at me. Then
I realised with a sinking feeling that there was little they could do to
help me, because I was outside the line of buoys marking the deep channel,
and they couldn’t risk coming any closer in.
All this time I kept my eyes on that gap by the island, looking anxiously
at every cruiser coming through from the other direction, and at last I saw
them - my own crew. They were all standing on the top deck, looking from
side to side. Two were using binoculars. I think even then they might have
missed seeing me, but the crew of the moored craft started waving to them,
and must have told them about me, because they fetched a wide turn and came
alongside them.
For a long time nothing happened. I guess they were puzzling over
how they were going to reach me. I decided to leave my tree and set out to
swim to them, but the set of the outgoing tide and the wind were too much
for me, and all I succeeded in doing was to fetch up on another waterlogged
tree even nearer to the shore.
Then I had a piece of luck. Round the corner from the dyke came a
family of four in a little day-boat, on hire from Martham. There was a great
deal of waving and manoeuvring, and my people must have persuaded them that
with their shallow draught it would be quite safe for them to come and get
me.
As they chugged nearer I could see from the mother’s face that
she wasn’t too keen but the children were very excited at having a real
adventure on their hands, and the father was enjoying his role as well. They
grabbed me and hauled me onto their little foredeck, where the first thing
I did was to give myself a good old shaking, from the tip of my nose to the
end of my tail, and when I got back aboard with my own people, little Jenny,
who didn’t seem to know whether she was crying or laughing, gave me
such a hugging that I thought she would crack all my ribs.
I was fourteen when Mum died. It was sudden, and it took quite
a while for us to get over it. Dad and I managed pretty well, I suppose.
He had plenty of work coming in, and my time was taken up with school and
dancing lessons, and that helped, though at first I didn’t feel much
like dancing. Seems silly now, but it never occurred to me that he might
marry again. I always knew that he and Mum had been truly in love, and I
never thought he would look at anybody else. But it happened.
She was from the Works Office. First time she came to tea, I found
nothing to object to. She brought me some sweets, and called me
‘Blanche’, and seemed very fond of Dad. She’d been divorced,
but there were no children. Within six months I was a bridesmaid.
Her name was ‘Queenie’. She was tall - nearly as tall
as Dad - and dark, almost Spanish-looking. She was quite a beauty,
- and didn’t she know it, too. She could hardly go from one room to
the next without checking her appearance in a mirror.
After we’d settled down, we got on pretty well, although somehow
I never really took to her. I thought at the time it was just a natural feeling
because she had taken Mum’s place, which of course she told me she could
never do, and didn’t try, but all the same, there was something. I
couldn’t put a name to it, but I felt she was always studying me, and
she would make remarks to Dad about my growing up and getting to be an attractive
young lady, as she put it. I found it hard to believe, but she almost
seemed to be jealous.
I wasn’t too worried. I’d be leaving school and getting
a job in less than a year, and then I’d be leading my own life.
But when Dad died, killed by a stupid learner driving a fork-lift truck in
the warehouse, everything changed. Just for a while after that, Queenie
and I seemed to draw closer together, and she really made an effort and helped
me over it; but within a month, Charlie came on the scene.
Charlie was in the Works Office too, though I often wondered
what they found for him to do there. He was as thick as they come.
Sticking the stamps on the letters perhaps. Anyway, Queenie started
bringing him home with her on Fridays, then more often, until pretty soon
I had Charming Charlie for tea every day, and for dinner at the weekends.
I’m no grammarian myself, but I soon found his conversation rather
less than sparkling, though he seemed to have picked up nice manners from
somewhere. I must say he was dishy to look at, with his big dark doggy
eyes and little sideburns. I could see why Queenie had taken a shine
to him, though in truth he was a good ten years younger than she was.
After a couple of months, it all turned sour. I couldn’t
help noticing that dear Charlie was beginning to pay more attention to me
than to Queenie. To say that upset her is putting it mildly. One
evening when they thought I was out I heard her challenging him about it,
and Charlie trying to laugh it off, and telling her she was imagining things.
She was ahead of him in imagining and from then on all I got
was the rough edge of her tongue, and a raw deal all round. Mean tricks,
too, like forbidding me to wear a bit of make-up at week-ends, and skimping
me on clothes. She seemed to hate me to look anything but a schoolgirl.
In the end I decided that I wasn’t going to stand for it, so I
ran away.
It was one Saturday morning after they had left for the supermarket,
leaving me at my homework. I packed two cases, and with all my savings
(including what Dad had built up for me in my Post Office Account) I took
off. I got a train to Torquay, where I knew my way around a bit from
having had two holidays there with Dad and Mum, though when I got out at
the station the old memories hit me and I had to sit on a bench for a while.
A nice porter came and asked me if I was all right.
I had some idea of calling at the boarding-house where we used
to stay, because I thought Mrs.Gitsham might give me a bed for a night or
two until I could get a job; but on the way I came to a small hotel with
a card in the front window saying Staff Wanted. To cut a long
story short, I was in luck. They were crowded out and short of a waitress
- come - chambermaid, so they took me on and I started there and then.
It was a good start. I had my board and lodging, though
the pay was nothing to write home about, supposing I’d had a home, and
I didn’t fancy making a career of it. However, on my first afternoon
off I went and called on Mrs.Gitsham. I didn’t tell her I’d
run away. Well, I was still of school age for another three months.
I didn’t foresee any trouble, but thought it best to play safe
. I guessed she might have our address still amongst her records, so I just
told her that Mum and Dad were O.K., thank you, and that we’d moved
to a bigger house.
“You had your heart set on being a dancer, didn’t
you, dear?” she says.
“Yes,” I says, “I’d still like to,
if I could find an opening,” and I told her all about the grades I’d
passed, and coming first in the over-fifteen class at the Festival.
“Well, my dear, perhaps you’ve come to the right
place,” she says. "My niece Mary is in charge of choreography at the
Pavilion Theatre, and I believe she’s on the look-out for new talent.”
So that’s how I came to leave the waitressing and start
my professional career as a dancer. Even at first, it paid better
than the waitressing,, and after I had paid Mrs.Gitsham for board and lodging,
I had a bit over for clothes and stuff. I worried a bit about having
my name on the bills, because I guessed Queenie might have got the Police
to post me as a Missing Person, so I took the name Blanche White. Well,
it was better than Blanche Black, that I was always being ribbed about at
School. By co-incidence, our current production was Snow-White, and
I played the lead, with seven little kids who were pupils of the local
dance-teacher’s, with pointy hats and false whiskers. They danced
around me in a circle, and fell over each other, and generally had fun and
made the audiences laugh. I suppose it did look a bit odd on the bills
- Snow-White played by Blanche White.
At the end of my second month there was a Charity Show, and we were
roped in to do our short ballet-sequence which had been so popular, as one
of the turns. It got the loudest applause of the evening, and we had
to take three curtain-calls. The kids seized the chance to over-act dreadfully,
and caused a riot.
Back in the dressing-room I had only just sat down to get the
make-up off when Mary came in. She looked at me a little strangely,
and said the Police were outside, and wanted to speak to me when I had finished
dressing.
“Police?” I said, calmly as I could, “What do they
want?”, though of course I had my suspicions.
“They wouldn’t say,” she said, “except that you
weren’t in any trouble.”
“I haven’t robbed any banks lately,” I said.
“Well, tell them I’ll only be five minutes.” I
wondered how they had found me out, all those miles away. I found out
later that when they had been looking through photo’s of me, the detective
had noticed how often we had been on holiday to Torquay, and had guessed
that I might very well have run off to a place I knew, and where there were
people I knew, and he’d paid Mrs.Gitsham a visit.
I didn’t stop to change. I nipped through the
connecting-door into the girl’s room, and out the back onto the fire-escape.
It was a daft thing to do. I didn’t know then that they already
had Mrs. Gitsham’s address, though I should have realised that they
could have got it from Mary, but in my first panic my only thought was that
I didn’t want to be dragged back to Queenie and Charming Charlie. But
somehow in the dark my pumps skidded on the wet ironwork on the bottom landing,
and I tripped over my long dress, and overbalanced.
I don’t remember any more, until I came to and found myself
lying on my back. At first everything was muzzy, but I found that although
I could hear things, I couldn’t move, not even to open my eyes, and
I couldn’t speak. What I heard soon made me realise that I was
in a hospital, and was being fed through tubes, and that now and again people
came and did tests. I guessed that I must have hit my head during the
fall, and from their conversations I found out that I had been there three
weeks, and that Queenie and Charlie had been to see me. I tried and
tried to speak, and to open my eyes, or wiggle my fingers or toes - anything
to let them know I could hear, but nothing worked, and it was really
frightening.
Then one day in comes Queenie and Charlie. For a while
they tried speaking to me, trying to coax me out of it, but I was still helpless,
and eventually they started chatting to each other. The doctor must’ve
come in, because I heard Queenie say, “Isn’t it time to turn all
this stuff off, Doctor, and let her die with dignity?” I thought how
lucky I was to have a thoughtful step-mother! Dignity indeed! The only dignity
she cared about was her own! This kind remark gave me quite a jolt. It was
pretty scary, after all, and I was very glad to hear the doctor’s answer.
“Not at all, Mrs.Black, he says.. Not only is it much too early
to think of such a thing, but recently the girl’s scans have been shewing
increased activity in some areas.”
“Doctors!” says Queenie, when he’d gone. They’ll do anything,
even in a hopeless case like this, to drag it out in case a miracle happens,
and they can take the credit.
“I expect he knows his job,” says Charlie. “We’ve
got to give her time.”
"Time!” says Queenie, “It’s like I said in the car -
it’s a waste of time. Silly idea, too, to come just because it is her
birthday. What does she know about birthdays? That kid’s not going to
wake up. They’ve tried everything. We’ve even brought her precious
CD’s to play to her. Nothing works. They should pull out the drip
and get it over with.
“It’s only been three weeks,” says Charlie. “People
have come round after much longer times than that. Perhaps a shock would
do it.”
“I can’t think of one,” says Queenie. “unless you
were to tell her it was you who drove the fork-lift that killed her dad.”
So - it was him! I’d read the newspaper reports, of course, but
the man’s name had been given as Cummings. Obviously Queenie had told
me Charlie’s name was Smith, to put me off the scent. I felt really
wild, with the pair of them, and then something odd happened. I began to
feel a sort of tingling sensation, starting in my neck and spreading right
down to my toes.
Just then, Charlie said, “ It’s very sad. Funny she should
have been playing Snow-White.. She does look beautiful, lying there."
“If that’s what you think,” snaps Queenie, “You’d
better give her a kiss.”
“I will, too,” says Charlie.
Next thing I knew, I could smell his beery breath on my face, and
he was helping himself to a wet slobbering kiss on my lips. That did it!
To have this cretin who had killed my dad taking advantage of me like
that was more than I could stand. I sat up straight, swung my right arm out
to the side, and fetched him a good clout round the face. He fell on his
back on the floor, and banged his head on the trolley. Made such a
commotion that the nurse came running in. I don’t know what happened
to those two afterwards, and I don’t care. Now my birthday was passed,
I was of age to do as I liked. Queenie couldn’t touch me any more, and
Charming Charlie might think twice before he started kissing those who
didn’t care for it.
I felt sorry for my brother-in-law. Wilf was very nice fellow,
but so shy and diffident, and he might have stayed that way for the rest
of his life, except that he had a daughter, and in due course this daughter
became engaged to be married, and the awful truth suddenly hit poor Wilf
- that he’d have to make a speech at the reception.
“What am I going to do, John?” he said to me.
“I can’t stand up in front of all those people and make a speech.
You know I can’t.”
“Of course you can,” I said. “Nothing
to it. Just crack a joke or two, and propose the toast, that’s all you
have to do.”
“All very well,” he said, “but it’s
Wendy’s big day, and I know I shall let her down.”
“You won’t let anybody down, Wilf,” I
said; but I guessed he probably would. He’d speak so softly that most
of the guests wouldn’t hear a word. He never could bring in the punchline
of a joke effectively; and he’d probably knock his wine over and ruin
the bride’s dress.
“Stand in for me, John”, he pleaded.
“Always willing to help out,” I said, “but in
this case, it’s not on. It’s your job, and nobody else can do it
for you. This time, Wilf, you’re on your own.” He fetched
a deep sigh, shook his head, got into his car, and drove off.
A week later we met at the club for our usual Sunday-morning
round of golf. The wedding was less than a week away, and with anxiety and
despondence added to his usual diffidence I expected an easy win. I was in
for a surprise. Never seen such a change come over a chap. Wilf greeted me
cheerily, chatted between holes about everything under the sun, generally
acted as though he hadn’t a care in the world, and was soon beating
me hands down.
“Big day, Saturday,” he said, retrieving his
ball from the hole at the thirteenth for a birdie two.
“Got that little speech ready, then, Wilf?”
I said.
He grinned. “I took your words to heart, John,” he
said. “I said to myself, ‘Saturday the 20th is the day, Wilf Higgins
is The man, I’m in charge, I’ve got to do it, so I might
as well make up my mind to enjoy it."
“And the best of luck, Wilf!” I said.
I still felt sure he’d make a hash of it, and put his new
jauntiness down to bravado. How wrong can you be?
Wilf’s speech was an absolute gem! Over and over again
he had to stop until they had done laughing. His Julie, mother of the
Bride, was fairly crying with laughter at times. My Joan said she reckoned
there’d be a little pool under Julie’s chair, afterwards, and much
of the laughter was augmented by the obvious fact that she had no idea at
all of what was coming. Her face was a picture! I told Wilf afterwards, it
was the best speech I’d ever heard, and so it was. Mind you, he had
it all written down, and I begged him for a copy. I’ve got it here.
It was in seven parts, and Wilf announced each part in turn, and for each
part he reached into a little case on his chair and put on a different hat!
Here’s how he began:
‘Part One - The Introduction:
One man in his time wears many hats. Today, reluctantly and
with trepidation, I must display to you the top shelf of my modest
wardrobe.’ (Here he put on his Mortar-Board.)
‘Accustomed as you now perceive I am to public speaking, you
are about to be amazed by the hash I may make of it; but today is the day,
I must perforce occupy the speaker’s chair, so we must all make the
best of it. Perhaps the best you can make of it is to take a nap, preferably
a quiet nap, at this juncture, and I will awake you by a suitable signal
when normal service is about to be resumed. I hope you are all sitting
comfortably.’
‘Part Two - The Welcome’: (Here he put on a paper hat, out of a
Christmas cracker.)
‘Relations and friends all, - those of you whose title
is a only an hour old, and those whose title is rather older, you are all
very welcome here today. Many of you are very young - very young; many of
you are very old - very old; the rest of you are neither; but all of you
are as old as you feel. Most of you have come a long way to be here, and
some, a very long way. Old and young, from far and near, we thank you all
sincerely for coming, and for your good wishes, your prayers, and your gifts.
I hope you are enjoying your time with us, and I wish you a safe journey
home.’
Well, I thought, our Wilf’s doing all right; and nobody’s
napping. Here’s how he went on.
‘Part Three - The Company Chairman’s Remarks’:
(Here he put on a rather battered top hat, the sight of which was the beginning
of Julie’s convulsions.)
‘Madam President, Fellow-Directors, and Shareholders; This
Company, trading as BHW, or British Higgins-Welby Limited,’ (Welby being
Julie’s maiden name) ‘has been in business now for thirty years
- years notable for the production of three famous models.’ (He referred
first to his eldest son, Queen’s Scout, Cambridge graduate, and now
a civil servant.) ‘The 1954 model, originally developed as The Scout,
now holds its place in the market as the BHW Cambridge. This model
has been successfully exported to many countries of Europe, to Turkey, Corsica,
and the United States. Essentially a ladies’ model, and much admired
for its fast acceleration and road-holding qualities, it is now regarded
as indispensable by many of our politicians at Westminster. Recently our
subsidiary company, British Hill-Bird,’ (his daughter-in-law’s
maiden name) ‘has been established in Kent, and in February 1981 the
BHB Mini’ (that’s Wilf’s first grand-daughter) ‘was launched,
and wildly acclaimed. Originally found rather noisy in transmission,
modifications have been made, and she is making good progress. Fuel consumption
figures are most impressive, and she is already proving a lively little
run-about.’
(Then he referred to his younger son, six foot two, who had just left
a management-trainee job with Woolworth’s to work manage a milk depot,
and recently married.)
‘The 1958 model, the BHW Lofty, acclaimed from its earliest
days for its leg-room, and headroom, has always been popular with the ladies,
and has been exported to Europe, Scandinavia, Russia, and the Isle of Wight.
Formerly on display in certain prominent Woolworth’s showrooms, this
model is now the subject of experiments with electrical power, and a
revolutionary new fluid drive, involving milk; and a subsidiary company has
been established in Hastings for this purpose, trading under the BHC, or
British Hill-Child label.’
(Then he started on the Bride - an Oxford graduate, very musical,
a staunch Baptist, qualified as a Housing Manager.)
‘Finally I come to the famous BHW Oxford, launched, in 1956. Built for
comfort, with piano and guitar music supplied as standard, this is essentially
a model for the young man about town. Popular also with churchgoers,
on account of the high quality of its moral bearings, it has also proved
very efficient in an estate version, with optional rating rebate. I must
congratulate Charles’ (that’s the Bridegroom) , ‘newly elected
to the Board, on his very recent acquisition of his new BHW Oxford Estate,
and I recommend him to take particular care of the excellent bodywork. A
regular hose-down in the yard, with plenty of cold water, followed by a good
leathering, will maintain her in excellent trim. Today sees the launching
of our third subsidiary, British Hill-Jones Limited. We wish the new company
every success, and look forward to the appearance of some exciting new models.
Who knows? Perhaps BHJ will set their sights upon the Queen’s Award
for Industry, and in this connection it is interesting to observe that this
year one of the new Directors is due to take up her qualification as an M.A.
I am happy also to inform you that the parent company is in a very healthy
state, and that our shareholders will continue to enjoy a good return on
their investments.’
By this time, he had our undivided attention, and Wilf was evidently
enjoying himself, as he had told me he would. Here’s how he went on.
‘Part Four - A Scholarly Dissertation.’ (Here he put on his Academic
Hood.)
‘The illustrious name of this wayside Inn cannot have escaped
your notice. It is called The Geoffrey Chaucer. Not for nothing, dear students!
Not for nothing! This very day an astounding discovery has been made. This
very day, one was taken by the host down to the cellars to inspect the wines.
These cellars are extensive, rambling, and gloomy, and there in the furthest
and darkest corner, slipped down between the ancient bottles, amongst the
cobwebs and dust of six centuries, one discovered a roll of parchment. This
is that very parchment, which I will now unroll before your astonished eyes.
Without, is the superscription The Brydes Fadres Tale; within, the
following:’
(Here he produced a large roll of thickish paper, unrolled it,
and blew off a cloud of dust - talcum-powder actually - with five verses
written in authentic Chaucerian script, bringing in the fact that the Bridegroom
worked for the NatWest Bank.)
‘Harde by that Westren Bank a yong man steyed,
And gret desir hadde he to find a mayde
On whom he kolde deposit alle his credit,
His capitale, and the intresse which fedde it.
‘Atte laste, a Housynge Managere he fixt on,
And she helde soveryn sweigh in nearby Brixtoun.
“I tell yow flatte,” quod he, “as God’s my Makere,
My herte is sette on being yowr caretakere.
‘Certein I wisshe to flote with yow aloon.
Investe with me, and lette no chek be knowen
To interceptte the casshe-flo of oure love -
Seurtees in oure vaultes and heven above.”
‘Seeing that he nas no commune teller,
She mortgaged hir assethes to this handsom felawe,
And so she housed him with michel grace
In oon the fairest mansiouns of that place.
‘The bildynge stondes on a sure fondacioun,
Somdel Westren of Newe Stokwel Stacioun.’
(Laying down the ‘parchment’, he put on a flat cloth cap,
and changed briefly to a more serious tone for this next section.)
‘Part Five. Fatherly Advice - brief, memorable and useful:
My children, you would do well to reject that pernicious suggestion
that a good marriage is based upon give-and-take, and embrace the true maxim
that it is based on give-and-give; to reject that pernicious calculation
that it is a fifty-fifty affair, and embrace the truth that it is a
hundred-hundred affair; to reject that mundane arithmetic which calculates
that a half-and-half makes one, and embrace that mystic and heavenly mathematics
which asserts that one-and-one makes one.’
For the next part he put on a pressman’s eyeshade.
‘Part Six. The Commercial:
Copies of this speech are now on sale at one halfpenny each,
in aid of the Reception Disaster Fund, and the Chaucer Manuscript will be
auctioned with a reserve price of £20,000 in aid of the same
charity.’
Last of all he put on his paper hat again, and rang a bell.
‘Part Seven. The Toast:)
Now, if the nappers are all sufficiently awake, I will conclude
with an anecdote and an invitation. When Charles first came to Bexhill, he
offered to play me a game of chess. Whether he was under instructions to
let me win, or whether his observation of my Queen on the board suffered
because of his preoccupation with his Queen on the settee, I know not; but
Charles won our hearts and the lady, and I won the game and a charming
son-in-law. Now I invite you all to take part in that curious ritual in which
you raise your glasses and pledge the health of the Bride and Bridegroom,
but drink it yourself.’
From that day, Wilf was a new man His new-found confidence was
a joy to behold. The following year he won promotion to the headship of his
Department, and now he is Head of a large Comprehensive. He’s got
fingernails, too.