Sunday 14 August 2022

14 August 2022

 I have been watching the proms from the Albert Hall in London this last weeks. The music has been wonderful. Tonight it was a programme including Edgar’s chello concerto and Sibelius second symphony.

The Sibelius brought back memories of when I was sailing from London to Helsinki and Kotka with United Baltic Corporation. It was a wonderful time. I learnt to navigate a ship through ice because the Baltic Sea around the Finnish coast freezes in winter. Before the pandemic my wife and I sailed on a cruise to the Baltic Sea and had a day in Helsinki. We visited the Sibelius memorial and had coffee in a way out cafe close by.

This period of my life led to a novel Running After Maria.






Saturday 13 August 2022

13th August 2022

 It is something which has been puzzling me for several months. Why have Leicester City run out of money? Did it suddenly happen because of the covid pandemic? Have the owners lost money on their duty free business? Unless I have missed it there has been no explanation. It could be they have fallen foul of the fair play financial rules. If they need to sell, let Tillman’s go for a substantial amount. I have always been of the opinion that if a player really wants away let him go. Obviously if the player refuses to play in trying to engineer a transfer while still on contract, that could be deemed a strike and the player should not be paid. There is always the danger of any move not working out. Two examples from Leicester City. Maguire moved to Man United and continually gets booed and Danny Drinkwater went to Chelsea and hardly played. 

What is it about certain religions and free speech. Salmo Rushdi gets stabbed as far as we can tell for writing a book which did not agree with some peoples feelings about their religion. Are these people so unsure of their faith that they have to resort to killing anybody that disagrees with them. Surely their faith is steadfast enough to ignore criticism. Let us hope Salman makes some sort of recovery. 

Which leads us on to the increasing tendency to try to stop people expressing a view which does not fit with your particular thinking. What surprises me as a retired academic is the way universities are bowing to mob rule in stopping speakers having a platform if their views are not in line with the most vocal students and staff. Some subjects are not straight forward but much more complicated than seems on the surface. Why are the British castigated over slavery when they were helped by Arab traders and dare I say it African chiefs. Don’t get me wrong slavery was abhorrent and still goes on in many parts of the world. 

I see Leicester City lost. It looks like it is going to be a long hard season. Was it only six seasons ago when I was there as the Premier League trophy was given to Wes Morgan. Maybe it will not be as bad as I think it will.

Friday 12 August 2022

12 August 2022

 I watched and listened to farmers in the UK showing the affect of theBlack of rain on their produce. They are telling us the yields c outdated be down as much as 50% this year. I can sympathise with them. My bean crop has failed this year and the potatoes are down by a large proportion. It is not my livelihood I have to contend with but the feeling of having provided some fresh fruit and vegetables. It is all blamed on climate change. What none of the commentators points out is the drastic affect of the increase in population. The leaders must find a way to get the message across that the population of 5he world must be stabilised and then reduced.

I see everybody is complaining about delays in getting an ambulance and in a & e. They blame it on covid. Well four and a half years ago when I had my heart attack we waited over three hours for an ambulance, spent two hours outside a&e and three hours before I saw a doctor. What I am saying is it is not a new problem. What I can say is all the staff looked after me wonderfully.

I see British tennis players Dan Evens and Jack Draper have reached the last eight of the Canada Open tennis. It is a shame their matches have been put on in the vending in Canada which means after midnight in the UK. Most tennis followers will miss these matches. The organisers could have thought of putting them on earlier so British tennis fans could watch them.

Hearing people describe their favourite beaches on the radio made me think of a poem I composed some time ago.

The Call

By

Eddie Gubbins


The sea is calling, always calling 

Even when the sailor has long left voyaging behind. 

The sea calls, ever calls,

Over the noise of this sometimes dreadful life. 

To sail away , to leave this life behind,

But to where? 

That is what adds to the thrill. 

Let the voyage be long or short, 

Let the oceans be calm or fierce, 

In the urge to sail away, 

Lies man's eternal quest 

For something new. 

Why oh why does man always strive after the new 

When accepting the present would save a lot of heart ache. 

It has long been a mystery to me but, 

More than in any other profession, 

The sea  offers a greater chance to satisfy this need. 

The sailor never arrives 

Because each new port is a stepping stone to the next 

And on to the next 

Until the nomadic lifestyle grows too much. 

It maybe that the sailor observes other people 

Settling into a pattern of life which brings rewards 

Such things as family and home, 

Anchored to other views of living 

Rather than constantly on the move. 

So the sailor leaves the sea 

And puts down roots.

Or does he? 

The sound of a seagull screaming , 

The wind moaning around the roof of his house  

The sound of waves lapping on the shore 

Will awaken in the hidden recesses of his mind 

The longing to feel the excitement once more 

As the ship goes silent, 

Ready to leave for the sea. 


Goodnight


Thursday 11 August 2022

11th August

 So there are to be hose pipe bans round the country. Watching the Commonwealth games, I noticed the hockey pitch was soaked with water sprays. I just hope the Football clubs do not use sprinklers on their grounds. I know the pitches are hard but the players will have to live with that. They will have to learn to keep on their feet. So says me who never headed the ball or made sliding tackles. Those around me did the heading of the ball. My job was to get the ball and make the telling passes. I have to confess not always successfully!

I see there was a meeting of the government and the bosses of the energy companies. How can anybody in their position earning £100s really understand what it is like to be short of money. Like the boss of Thames Water nd his £500000 bonus even though the company lost money last year. The bosses must live on a different planet. If he gave his bonus to those in energy poverty he could pay £3000 to 150 people without it hurting his standard of living. If all the leaders gave their bonuses up like this many of the poorest could be helped. 

Things change and Liz Truss is leading the charge of  those who have no idea how the world outside their circle lives. How can tax cuts help those who do not pay tax? The basis of our system is that the wealthy help the poorest who usually are not poor through choice but circumstances. Even the hated Mrs Thatcher knew this.

On a brighter note who will host the Eurovision Song Contest. It had to be outside London. 

Things change as illustrated with a poem a few years ago. Published in my collection through Amazon in a Golden Age:

As we are all reminded in the words of the song “ Things they are a changing.”



The Golden Age?


There used to be pubs on Market Square

Named after heroes

The Lord Nelson, King George or Prince William,

Or mythical beings 

The Griffin, Green Man or Unicorn.

With a snug, a lounge and a bar.

Where smoke curled and swirled, round dark oak beams,

Like the smog in Bleak House.


Men in dull grey jackets and  shiny ties,

Lounged on wooden benches, 

By tables scarred with stubbed out fags

Topped out with over flowing ashtrays.

Drinking mild, bitter or boilermakers,

The consistency of the silt laden stream 

Which flowed at the bottom of the yard.

The drink went down to the thud of darts

Or the clack of dominoes on a board.


Ladies sit with their men in the lounge

Drinking port and lemon the colour of blood.

Or in the snug

Gossiping about the pregnant teenager from down the road,

Or Mrs. Smith and her brood and her men.

The barmaid wobbled her large breasts

As she pulls the pints for indifferent drinkers,

Thinking of rich men and sun kissed beaches.


A dyed blond night lady pulls up her skirt

Revealing nylon clad legs and smiling,

Hoping that some man would talk and take her home.

The other women turn up their noses, shake their heads,

Making plain that she was an outcast.

Now the pubs have gone.

Turned into banks and shops.

New theme pubs have been designed,

All chrome and leather,

With flashing screens and loud music,

Where drinkers guard their bottles of larger 

Which come from God knows where.



The girls prance around, Salome without the veils,

Attracting the boys in only their shirt sleeves,

Even when the ice is on the ground and breath freezes on the nose.

Once at ten thirty, people would stagger home,

Now they spill out onto the square,

Falling, vomiting, shouting, laughing, growling and fighting

Before staggering towards the night club

Where Mrs. Bennet's dancing school once stood, 

Teaching the young to twirl and prance 

To the beat of a dance band.

Now lights flash, mist spreads from hidden blowers

Bodies gyrate and grind.

Times change


Wednesday 10 August 2022

Wednesday 10 August

 Another to us British hot day. Before it got too hot this morning did some tidying in the garden.Because I am reluctant to hose the plants it is looking rather forlorn and sun baked. The forecast is for it to get hotter tomorrow.

The crews of the grain ships leaving Ukraine must be nervous that one side or the other will stick to their bargain. When I was at sea as an officer on a tanker I can recall how nerve racking it was when the ship was arrested in Indonesia. There was a dispute between the governments over what 50 odd years later I cannot recall. We were stuck in port with armed guards on board. Eventually we were ordered to leave. The crews of the grain ships must be feeling just as nervous. You can read about my tim3 at sea in my semi autobiographical book Tales From The Sea by Edmund Gubbins.

I was struck by the analysis that given the Russian invasion of a democratic sovereign state Ukraine China believes they have the green light to invade Taiwan. Is it no coincidence that these countries are free democracies where their citizens are at liberty to criticise the government and vote them out. Both Putin and the Chinese leader cannot abide anybody disagreeing with them to the extent of killing their opponents. All most people want is to be left to get on with their lives and to speak freely when they do not think their leaders are looking after their interests.

I wrote a poem for my creative writing class some years ago called:

Tinamenne Square


Blood red, the flags flying above the Hall of the People

Where Nixon met Mao

And saved the world!

Blood red the sun shining on the flagstones

Of Tinamenne Square

A red halo around the monument to the people.

Red on the spot where a man alone

Like Canute forbidding the waves

Defied a tank.

Above the gate to the Forbidden City

A portrait of Moa smiles down

Benevolent as a grandfather.

All people are now equal

But the people are pushed aside

Black cars carry the great and the good

Speeding along the street

And the flags flutter blood red in the breeze.

We are all free

But policemen photograph every face

As they emerge into the square.

There is no God, says Mao

While people queue four hours

Shuffling in awe struck unison

Passed the body of their old leader.

And blood red the flags fly above the square.

By the museum the clock ticks

Counting the days, minutes, seconds

Until the rest of the world will descend

And maybe pull back a small corner

Of the veil that surrounds the peoples land.

And Mao smiles down

Grandfather to his people

More equal than the other animals

In the biggest farmyard in the world

And the flags fly blood red

Above Tinamenne Square


Published in a book of my poems A Golden Age and Other Poems by Eddie Gubbins available from Amazon.


9th August 2022

 Here we are with the same problems. Lying in bed with my morning cup of tea listening to the Today programme. All the noise is about the Tory leadership battle and how to get through the crisis. Even to a long retired academic like me the solution of cutting taxes does not wash with those on low incomes and many pensioners. They do not pay national insurance or in many cases income tax. Cutting taxes will not help them. They need either a boost to their income or a payment to cover the cost of rising fuel prices. How can people on massive incomes like business leaders and politicians have any clue as to how these people can cope.

My next thriller Whatever happened to Sophie which I am writing is about this problem. It is the latest to involve Ken and Norman Food following Brotherly Love, A Legacy from Mary, For the Love of Pauline and The Daisy May.

Monday 8 August 2022

Monday 8th August 2022

 Sitting in the garden in the shade. It has suddenly become hot. Looking around all the plants are wilting in the dryness. There is not much I can do about that because it looks like the drought will last at least another two weeks. We do use a bowl for washing up which we the use the water to water the hanging baskets and flower pots. They appear to be staying the course and at least giving me a little splashes of colour.

I did get mad this morning listening to the poor dentists bemoaning their lack of money. Like a lot of people who are on high salaries they do not want to give anything back to the society which by their support enabled them to be where they are now. Why do the rich not want to pay their fair share? They hide their money away in dubious schemes knowing that they do not have to worry about where the next meal is coming from or how to pay the bills. 

Trying to watch tennis on the tv with Andy Murray but it is raining in Montreal. We have no idea when the match will start. According to John  Mac it only rains at Wimbledon. Now there is more tennis on tv from all round the world we know this is not true. The other question is what has happened to all the British women tennis players? All that money and nothing to show for it.

It is still warm here for the UK at seven thirty in the evening. The forecasters reckon by Wednesday it will be 35 here. I remember when I sailed through the Arabian Gulf with the temperature in the high forties so 35 does not sound too high. The trouble is as one gets older it is harder to tolerate these extremes.


Sunday 24 April 2022

The money lender

 The money lender

The lady pulled her shawl close about her thin body against the cold as she approached the door to the bar, cuddling her baby under the shawl to try to keep it warm. Pushing open the door, she wiped the snow from her straggly hair and thin face before looking around. In a dim corner she spotted a man.

He was sitting at a table counting some money. On the table a bottle of gin and glasses. In the shadows behind were two tough looking men. As she approached the table, she noticed the snow on the man’s hat brim. He has just arrived, she thought.

He looked up when she stopped the other side of the table. His podgy face showed a hard expression his lips drawn into a thin line. There was not a hint of a smile and his eyes were like hard black ebony. He put the money away in a canvas bag and shoved this into the pocket of his overcoat. Reaching under his coat he withdrew a small note book from an inside pocket. Turning the pages he stopped when found what he was looking for.

“ Ha Mrs Waters. I am glad to see you. That will be five shillings.”

“ Mr. Burke, I came to ask you to defer my payment this week. My husband has had an accident at work and is off sick. We have no money coming in. I cannot pay you.”

The man’s expression got harder, his eyes like coals. “ We have an agreement you and I. I expect you to keep up the payments as agreed. How am I to live if all my clients welch on what they owe me? If you cannot pay, I will have to send my associates round to take what is of value so that I have my money.”

Mrs Waters tried not to cry but tears still ran down her cheeks. “ If you take anything from my home, I will have nothing. Besides there is not much of value left in the rooms. There is a good chance I will not be there when your men come. Unless I manage to pay the rent, the landlord threatens to throw me and my husband out onto the streets. If that happens, the chances are my baby will get ill and not survive. Have you no heart?”

Mr Burke shook his head. “ That Mrs Waters is not my problem. If I let you off your payments, all my other clients will want to defer theirs. Now you will go away and find the money you owe. I am not responsible for what happens to you. All I am asking is for you to pay me the money you owe. That is not much to ask for is it?”

Turning to one of the men standing in the shadows, he ordered. “ Escort Mrs Waters back to her home and see if she has anything of value to the tune of five shillings. Then come back here.”

The man took Mrs Waters’ elbow and escorted her from the bar. She shivered in the cold blast of air and wrapped the shawl tighter round her baby as she left the bar into a blast of freezing air.


Tuesday 8 March 2022

 A short story from my book The Cigar and Other Stories.

Connections!!!



They are pervasive! They are everywhere! They flash! They make money for the government! They are not fair! Nobody likes them! They are an intrusion into everybody’s life! They are an echo of Big Brother from “ Nineteen Eighty four!” They should not be allowed to get away with this!

So thought John as he changed into his black sweater and black trousers. As he pulled on his black jacket, his heart raced at the thought that he was going to stand up to this menace. By his actions this night, he and his friends would take one small step in ridding the world of these things. He did not have words to describe how he felt about their existence, creeping silently without notice along many streets on the edges of towns and cities. They must be eliminated and not allowed to proliferate like some alien species breeding their way to taking over the land.

Before leaving his house to join his friends, John crept into the bedroom where his daughter Lisa lay sleeping. He gently lifted the duvet and made sure she was comfortable. Lovingly, he looked down at her young, innocent face framed by that shock of blonde curls. He bent down and kissed her forehead. At the door, he turned and took one last look at her face framed in the small nightlight she always insisted on having beside her bed. She was smiling in her sleep, looking for all the world to John like a little angel in a stain glass window.

Carol, his wife, was sitting by the fire watching the late film on television and drinking her bedtime drink when he looked into the sitting room. 

She looked up, smiled. “ I will be in bed when you get back. You will be careful won’t you John?” 

John kissed her cheek and smiled in return. “ I am always careful when on a mission. See you later when I get back.”

John had to admit to himself that Carol knew what he was up to on those nights he left the house late. She never objected, never tried to stop him going out, merely told him, as she did this night, to be careful. Whenever he thought about it, John was never certain whether she approved of what he was doing or not. Deep down he understood she let him get on with his campaign, avoiding any argument that might upset the domestic harmony and in doing so, effect Lisa. 

Before leaving his house, John picked up the package he had prepared earlier in the evening, checked the contents and stuffed them into his shoulder bag.

Outside the house, it was dim under the widely spaced streetlights lining the road where he lived.  As he came out of his drive, the lights of a car parked further down the road from his house came on. Seeing this, John walked quickly to the car. When he approached, the car door opened and he got into the back, depositing his package onto the back seat. There were two men in the car, both like John wearing dark clothes.

“ A good night for it,” George remarked from the driving seat. “ Terry has the hoods.”

Terry grinned, his teeth white in the dim light. John took the black balaclava from Terry and placed it on the seat next to his bag. Once John was comfortable, George drove off towards the outskirts of the town. Near a cemetery and a park, George found a quiet parking spot, parked the car and sat watching the road. All was quiet. 

With a grin at the others, he pulled his black balaclava over his head, nodded to Terry and John and got out of the car. Terry and John followed, Terry carrying a folded light ladder, John a shoulder bag.

With George leading, they walked towards the main road, keeping close to the hedge that surrounded the cemetery. As they approached the main road, George held up his hand as a signal for Terry and John to stop. 

Looking up and down the road, George made certain that nothing was in sight. He shrank further into the shadows when a car came over the brow of the hill to his right and round the sharp bend in the road a hundred yards from where they stood. The car slowed quickly as it came towards the cemetery and passed the yellow box on top of a post near the edge of the road. There was no flash as the car sped away, before slowing at the traffic lights near the junction further down the road to their left.

Once all was quiet, George waved and the three men moved out of the shadows of the hedge and ran across the open space to the post. Terry assembled the ladder while George stood watch. John placed the bag on the pavement and arranged some cans and wires on the tarmac. 

Giving half of these to Terry, John climbed the ladder. Hurriedly, he placed the wires around the yellow box and attached the cans to the lenses and the cover for the camera film. When this was done, he reached down, took the rest of the stuff from Terry and attached this to the back of the camera. 

Sliding down the ladder, John lit the fuse as Terry folded the ladder away. George signalled for them to run and they quickly rushed into the shadow of the hedge by the cemetery. There was a whoosh and suddenly flames engulfed the yellow box. 

At this, George turned away and hurriedly led them back to the car. As they approached the car, they peeled off their balaclavas and slowed to a walk as though they were three men returning from the pub. By the time they were back in the car, the glow had faded.

They laughed and applauded, patting each other on the back. Still laughing, George started the car and drove back towards the main road. When they passed the camera, it was blackened and drooping and obviously not working. They could not help letting out another shout of joy.

“ One less for the money grabbing government to make money out of,” Terry giggled as they sped back through the town to their homes. “ They should trust us motorists to drive safely without all this nineteen eighty four stuff. I know when I am driving too fast and always slow down.”

“ See you in the Royal Oak on Friday, John,” George said as John got out of the car. “ We can talk about which one will be next.”

“ See you Friday,” John replied as he shouldered his bag, waved to Terry and walked the few yards to his house.

All was quiet in the house, the windows dark. In the hall Carol had, as usual, left the light burning. John took off his coat and hung it on its peg in the hall before going through to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee and stow away his bag. 

He sat for a while thinking about their campaign and how successful they had been so far. Though they had never tested his theory, he was convinced that most people supported what he, Terry and George were doing. Sighing, he rinsed his cup, placed it upside down on the draining board and went up the stairs. 

He looked in at Lisa. She lay on her back, her eyes tight shut, blonde curls framing her face and a beautiful smile on her lips. Crossing the floor silently, John kissed her forehead and closed the door gently as he left her bedroom. Carol was asleep, curled up under the duvet one hand under her cheek, her face looking so peaceful in the light from the landing. John took off his clothes, slid into the bed by her side and kissed her gently on the forehead.

The sun was shining on the park making the grass appear more green than normal. The flowers in the flowerbeds gave a flash of colour and the ducks on the pond looked up in anticipation every time anybody walked by. 

The little girl skipped along the path, her blonde curls bouncing on her head and a smile on her face. 

“ Look Mummy,” she called in an excited voice. “ The ducks want some bread. Did we bring any?”

The woman walking by her side smiled and reached into her bag. “ Here you are. I didn’t forget. Now you be careful of the water.”

The little girl with the blonde curls and washed out jeans, trotted across the grass to the pond. The ducks, as though they had been waiting for this moment all afternoon, came squawking and pushing across the pond to where the girl was standing. With an excited giggle, the girl slowly broke the slice of bread into pieces and threw them into the water. Her squeals of laughter were almost drowned out by the squawking of the ducks as they fought over the scraps of bread.

“ Come along,” the woman said taking her daughter’s hand. “ We have to get home to cook your daddy’s dinner.”

The girl smiled her angelic smile and skipped along beside her mother. They left the park and turned onto the main road by the cemetery. Getting to a place along the road where there was a traffic island in the centre, they paused to let the girl look right and left and right again just as her mother had taught her. There was nothing in sight. The girl looked curiously at the blackened yellow box drooping on its pole like some tree that had been struck by lightening. She did not say anything to her mother. 

They started across the road, then there was a roar as a car came up over the brow of the hill turning sharply right passed the camera. There was a squeal of tyres, the car bucked and rocked and then a sickening bang as the car smashed into the little girl and her mother. They did not have a chance. The car was travelling too fast in the knowledge gained from the email grapevine that the camera was inoperable. After hitting the girl and her mother, the car skidded uncontrolled and smashed into a wall by the cemetery. Silence descended, broken only by the blaring sound of the car horn. People came running, cars stopped and the smashed car was soon surrounded by helpers.

John followed the policeman down the long, dimly lit, concrete corridor. Their shadows stalked along the wall at their sides like ghosts accompanying Macbeth as he went to meet the witches. Their footsteps echoed off into dark side passages. John felt numb. He had felt numb inside ever since he had been called into the human resources director’s office that afternoon. A policeman had been standing there by the desk and as gently as possible had told him what had happened. 

At the end of the corridor, the policeman pushed open a door, asking John to wait. John stood by the door hardly hearing the rumble of voices from inside the room. After a while, the door opened and the policeman waved him inside. The room they entered was white tiled with a row of what looked like over big filing cabinets to one side. In the centre were two metal tables with white cloth covered shapes lying on top.

A man in a white boiler suit smiled faintly at John and motioned him over to one of the tables. Taking hold of the white cloth, he gently drew it back. The blonde curls were now revealed framing a bruised face. The blue eyes were closed. John nodded trying desperately not to sob out loud. The man in the white boiler suit replaced the white sheet. Walking to the other table he lifted the white cloth. Carol lay her face bruised and puffy. John nodded and turned away. The policeman held open the door to the room and led the way back down the corridor, the footsteps once more tapping their echoes down dimly lit side passages leading to the depth of the hospital. Shadows accompanied them like the ghosts of John’s past come to heckle him.

“ If those idiots had not damaged that speed camera, the car might have been going slower and might have been able to stop.” The words of the policeman dropped into the lengthening silence of their passage along the corridor.


Monday 28 February 2022

The Chieften

My aanti-war poem from the book of poems A Golden Age and Other Poems

The Chieften

 Blue flowers, dark stone, on some wind swept moor
As I look, the wind carries the sound of sadness. 
The stones fade, in their place a grave
Gaping dark in the early morning light.
Lights of torches approach up the hill
Lines of people, men and women, all silent.
Around the grave men in chain mail standing
Sword points in ground, hands clasped on hilts 
Heads bowed low.


Four men carry a body on a stretcher

Leather stretched between two spears.

A long forgotten chieftain, golden circlet on head

Golden cloaked, sword grasped in hands

They lay the body in the grave to silence

Except the whine of the wind in the gorse.

Dark stones are piled one on another, higher and higher.

When they are finished, a woman steps forward,

Kneels and plants some blue flowers among the stones.

The men in chain mail lift their swords above their heads 

In salute to their departed chief, turn and march away

To some other war.

Blue flowers bloom each year, the dark stones washed clean 

By the falling rain.


Eddie Gubbins

Tuesday 22 February 2022

 A another short story from my collection The Cigar and other stories


The Girl In The White Dress


The ship I was sailing on, the Felipe, arrived in Balak Papan, Borneo, late one evening in 1963 as the big red ball of the sun was setting into the deep green of the jungle. The Captain’s orders from the company were to load fuel oil for Port Headland in Australia.

As soon as the Felipe docked and was securely moored, the agent boarded and informed the Chief Officer the cargo was not ready to load and would be at least two days. This was in contrast to normal practice where the ship would arrive in port, load the cargo in twenty-four hours and depart. The delay in getting the cargo ready had some compensation for the crew. It meant they had an opportunity to relax and a chance for some time ashore.

The weather was glorious the next morning when I took over the managing of the ship from the Chief Officer. The first task was to stroll around the decks to make sure all was in order before returning to my cabin to enter information into the safety log leaving the crew to inform me if anything needed my decisions. 

The phone rang in the middle of noting fire drills, lifeboat inspections and drills, fire fighting equipment inspections, maintenance and drills and the state of the lifejackets.

“ Good morning, Third Mate. How are you this morning?” It was the Captain sounding amused and cheerful. “ Mr. Bolton the Managing Director of Eastern Operations is visiting the ship for lunch. He will be accompanied by his aide and his daughter. She has made a request to be shown round the ship while he is talking to me. As you are the youngest officer on the ship, you will be the ideal man for the job.”

“ Do I have to?” I asked politely, imagining a morning spent in the company of such a girl. “ She will be impossible. Educated in some private boarding school, we will have nothing in common Why not ask the second mate? He comes from her background and mixes with people like her all the time. He will know how to talk to her.”

The Captain laughed. “ Young Eddie, this is an order not a request. I have asked the Chief Officer to look out for the safety of the ship while you are entertaining Mr Bolton’s daughter. Try not to upset her too much with your social comments. I will send word when you are required.”

As I put the phone down, I had a mental picture of the Captain chuckling to himself as he thought about how I would be uncomfortable showing this teenager over the ship. I sighed, anticipating the morning was not going to be much fun for me.

Later that morning, a sailor opened my cabin door after knocking loudly and being asked to enter. “ Third Mate. There are a couple of official looking cars approaching the ship along the jetty. The bosun thinks it would be a good idea if you, as the officer of the watch, were on deck to greet whoever is in those cars when they arrive.”

Standing at the top of the gangway a few minutes later, I watched curiously as two Mercedes cars approached the jetty. They stopped at the bottom of the gangway. Three white shirted, dark trousered Indonesian men got out of the second car and adjusted their sunglasses. They spread out along the jetty facing away from the cars and the ship. Like the bosun, who was standing by my side, I laughed out loud. The scene was taken straight from one of those B movies I showed to the crew while the ship was at sea.

Once the bodyguards were in place, the doors of the lead black car opened and a man stepped out. He was tall with slicked back grey hair and glasses, dressed in an immaculately cut tropical suit and shiny shoes. As soon as he was out of the car, he placed a panama hat on his head. Trailing him a younger man carrying a brief case and dressed in a short sleeved white shirt and white trousers emerged. Finally a girl followed. From where I stood she looked about fourteen and my heart sank. Her brown hair glistened in the sunlight and, like her father, she donned a hat and sunglasses as soon as she was out of the car. She wore a short white dress and white sandals.

This was the girl I had been ordered to show over the ship. The duty seaman stood politely at the foot of the gangway ready to help if needed. I noticed like all the seamen who had stopped their work to watch, he ogled the girl.

Mr Bolton ignored the duty seaman and climbed the gangway unaided. The girl and the man with the briefcase followed. When they reached the top of the gangway where I was standing with the bosun, Mr Bolton nodded to me.

“ Show me the way to the Captain’s cabin, Third mate,” he ordered without so much as a good day greeting. His accent was clipped and what I regarded as upper class.

The girl looked at me with large brown eyes. Close up I had to admit she was pretty with a good figure and was older than the fourteen I had at first estimated. Her expression was the same as that adopted by the local Lady of the Manor for one of the local peasants she happened to meet. The next few hours were not going to be pleasant, I concluded.

“ This way Sir,” I answered politely indicating the ladder leading to the accommodation deck. As he followed me I did notice he was looking round the ship as though checking all was in order. The girl looked straight ahead as though her surroundings did not interest her. The man with the briefcase trailed in our wake mopping his forehead with a large white handkerchief.

After showing them to the Captain’s cabin, I returned to the deck and walked round the ship. As everything was in order, I went back to my cabin for a coffee and the safety log. I had not been there long when the phone rang. 

“ Come to my cabin and collect Mr Bolton’s daughter, Third Mate.” It was the Captain and he still sounded amused.

I grunted into the phone but dutifully climbed the ladder to the Captain’s cabin. Deep within myself I was cursing the Captain. How was I going to show this apparently bored, spoiled girl around the ship without saying something out of place or upsetting her? I imagined the rest of the crew laughing behind my back at their egalitarian third mate looking after a girl from a very privileged background.

Mr Bolton smiled thinly when I entered the Captain’s cabin. “ Lydia is ready to be shown round the ship. I will leave her in your capable hands.”

Lydia climbed to her feet from her place on a chair by the window, smoothed down her short white dress and placed her sunglasses on her small nose. She was almost as tall as me.

I led the way out onto the boat deck and waited for her. The sun was high in the sky and the jungle looked particularly green across the river from the berth. Heat haze distorted the trees and the boats drifting with the current further up the river.

“ Well Miss Bolton,” I said smiling. “What would you like to see?”

She looked at me, though I could not read her expression with her eyes hidden by her dark glasses.

“ If we are to spend the next hour or so in each others company, you had better call me Lydia,” she said without a flicker of emotion.

“ Eddie,” I replied.

She shrugged. “ Daddy said you would show me all over the ship. Lead on McDuff.”

Taking her instructions literally, I led on. Viciously ignoring her white dress and sandals, I started with the engine room. Well not exactly ignored the white dress but took a certain pleasure in the thought she might learn what dirt was all about. I know now this was being petty and she most likely knew what dirt was like from mucking out her horses. She listened politely as the engineer explained about the boilers and the turbines. Followed me down to the propeller shaft and the steering engine room. Going back up towards the deck, I climbed the ladder behind her. Her dress was so short I had a good view of her sturdy legs and floral panties. Stop those lewd thoughts, I seemed to hear my mother saying.

Then to the galley to see her lunch being prepared and to the dining room with its white table clothes and silver cutlery and down the corridor to the games room. I followed this by walking along the deck to the focastle, the anchors and the chain locker. What amazed me was despite my best efforts, Lydia appeared as clean as when we first set out.

Finally I took her to the bridge, my territory. We lent over the chart table looking at the charts for the area. Rapidly I showed her the wheel and the magnetic compass on the top deck. Lastly to the radio office and the radio officer explained the wireless system. I had to reluctantly admit though I might have been prejudiced against her at first, by now the atmosphere between us was much friendlier.

We stood on the bridge wing looking out over the deck of the ship and the jetty with its silver pipelines when we had finished looking around the ship. 

“ Would you like to come to my cabin and have a drink before you go back to your father?” I asked her tentatively.

For the first time that morning she smiled. “ That would be nice. What can you offer?”

“ I have beer, fruit juice, coke or gin.”

“ A cool beer would be nice.”

She looked curiously round my small cabin when I showed her inside and sat her down in a chair. After I had served the beer, we talked about ourselves. I found she had in many senses lived a sheltered, rarified life when compared to mine. It sounded great but there were drawbacks. Her father and mother had moved round the world on company orders. Lydia had been deposited in various boarding schools for all of her education. Then in the holidays, if she could not join her parents, she would stay with relations. Irrationally, I started to feel sorry for her.

“ I take my A levels next year,” she remarked which told me she must be seventeen. “ If I get good grades I will be off maybe eighteen.  “ I already have a promise of a college place at Oxford University.”

“ What will you study?” I asked politely.

“ Ancient history.” She smiled. “ There is no need to pretend an interest in what my life is like. Daddy cannot order you to listen to me or take an interest in what I am doing.”

“ I am enjoying hearing about your life,” I answered truthfully. “ It is so different from mine.”

“ I did enjoy you telling me about what it is like going away to sea. I have only known one seaman and he never said much about his life at sea. Besides he is much older than me and treated me like a little girl. He works for the company. Vincent Burke.”

I laughed. “ We have a mutual acquaintance then. I was his cadet on the Halvid a couple of years ago.”

“ You know him then? I met him a few times at my Uncle’s for parties and weekends. What do you mean you were his cadet?”

“ The Captain of the Halvid assigned each cadet to one of the officers. The idea being we followed them around and learnt the job. We ran errands for them and did the bits they found boring or dirty. Actually that is not fair as far as Vince was concerned. He is a gentleman and treated me like a friend. He is the only officer I sailed with who appeared to know rich and aristocratic people in every port he visited. Sometimes he would take me ashore to exclusive clubs and I would mingle rather nervously with influential men and women. He taught me a great deal.”

“ I met him at weekends and balls at my Uncle’s house in Yorkshire. His family appeared to own half the county.”

“ We have to get you back to the Captain’s cabin so that you can go to lunch.”

“ Thank you for showing me around,” she said as we entered the Captain’s accommodation kissing me on the cheek. 

Over lunch Mr Bolton invited me to spend the afternoon with his daughter at the company compound. The Captain concurred with a grin in my direction.

That afternoon, I rode through the refinery to the company compound in a car sent for me. Laid out like a village were the bungalows of differing sizes surrounded by manicured lawns and flowerbeds. At the centre was a clubhouse with bar, shops and a gym. Across the road from the clubhouse was a nine hole golf course. A bit apart from the other buildings was the large sprawling bungalow of the Boltons.

The car dropped me outside and the driver instructed me to phone the car pool when I needed to return to the ship. 

I stood on the edge of the lawn for a while looking round and then walked along the path to the bungalow. A maid met me at the door and took me round the back where Lydia was waiting. She smiled in welcome. Pulled round her body was a wrap.

“ Come on,” she said smiling and taking my hand. “ We must get to the pool.”

The pool was large, surrounded by tiled terraces with cushioned sun loungers. Lydia chose a spot and waved to other people sitting or lying on other sun beds. She pointed to the changing rooms at the back of the sun terrace and I quickly changed into my swimming trunks. When I rejoined Lydia, there were towels spread on the sun bed. A white coated waiter stood waiting, a tray in hand.

“ I have ordered my drink. What do you drink?”

“ A Bacardi and coke,” I replied reaching for my wallet.

Lydia laughed. “ You do not have to pay. Everything goes on Daddy’s account. In fact every member of the club pays for their guests because there is no cash used on the compound.”

It turned out to be a wonderful afternoon. Though Lydia had at first given the impression of a superior and stuck up girl, by the pool we were like any young people enjoying each other’s company. As we talked and swam, I came to realise Lydia must be lonely unless some of the other expatriates brought their teenagers with them. Also, when coming aboard the ship, she had to be nervous. Why she had been apprehensive, I could not imagine. Her upbringing must have taught her to handle such situations. That afternoon she grasped the opportunity to talk and be with somebody close to her own age.

I was invited to stay for dinner at the bungalow of the Bolton’s that evening after our swim. The car took me back to the ship to dress properly. The Captain was there at the dinner and some of the other higher managers and their wives.

After dinner, Lydia and I went for a walk around the gardens. It was very pleasant with the insects chirping in the shrubs, a soft breeze and the stars twinkling in the sky. To my surprise Lydia took me to a summerhouse at the bottom of the garden and we made love on a bench illuminated by the moon. A perfect way to end the day, Lydia remarked as we walked back to the house.

As the ship sailed, I was surprised to see Lydia waving goodbye from the riverbank. There had been no promises of long lasting friendship or underlying love. Just a pleasant day spent in each other’s company.

Monday 14 February 2022

 This is a post from my collection of short stories called The Cigar and Other Stories.



Letter to Joe


Dear Joseph


Thank you for helping me move that wardrobe the other day. The charity van collected it the next morning, consequently it was not on our drive for long.

I trust your foot is not too bruised and the swelling is starting to go down. The wardrobe was far heavier than I anticipated. It was an accident when it slipped while we were turning it onto its side to get it out of the door. It came as a complete surprise to me that you knew such words, let alone could say them with such force.

Has the skin on your knuckles grown back? I thought you said push when we were maneuvering it through the door.  It would have got through easily without chipping the paint if your hand had not been in the way.

The stairs are much steeper than I have ever noticed or it might have been the weight of the wardrobe that emphasised the slope. I know I was supposed to take most of the weight while you held it off the carpet and made sure it did not hit anything. It seemed to have a mind of its own and quite took over.

People have told me there is a very good tailor in town who does invisible mending so your trousers should be as good as new when he has finished with them.

As for the window at the bottom of the stairs, the glazier advised me that I should have toughened glass to replace the broken pane in case we try moving something down the stairs again. The glass he has put into the frame, which was still usable, is very nice with a slight pattern on the surface.

Now the blood on the carpet is a different matter. I have tried carpet cleaner but there is still a stain. My wife suggested vinegar but I am not too confident in her sources. I might have to get a rug to hide it. Have you any suggestions as to what design of rug would look in place at the bottom of the stairs? I have always valued your advice.

The ambulance people were excellent. They patched you up in no time and whisked you into the ambulance without any fuss. Maybe I should have asked them to help me get the wardrobe down the rest of the stairs. They appear to have experience of getting burdens round awkward places without banging into things.

I tried to phone you in the hospital but they would not let you answer the phone. Something about you getting agitated if you heard my voice. You have never told me about your having any heart problems. Hence, my writing this letter which I will give to Vera, your wife, to deliver.

If you stay in hospital much longer, I will come and see you. A visit from me might cheer you up.


Regards from your dear friend.


Eddie

Thursday 27 January 2022

A short story from The Cigar and Other Stories

 


I am back after almost a year since I last posted anything on my blog. It has been a fraught year trying to stay free from covid. Missing my family until last weekend when we got together. 

As a start this is one of the short stories from my book The Cigar and Other Stories. 

The Cigar


I was sailing as a cadet on the oil tanker Wifredo around the islands of Caribbean and ports along the eastern South American coast. It was a well organised ship and the Captain insisted that each cadet was attached to one of the ship’s deck officers. In this way the cadet would learn what duties were required of a ship’s officer both at sea and in port as part of their learning process. The officer I was to assist was the second mate. I followed him round the ship and sometimes ashore while he was working. Helping him in his jobs and running errands when ordered. Over time during the voyage we had become more than colleagues but good friends.

That day the ship berthed in one of those South American ports bordering the Caribbean Sea to load crude oil destined for Europe. As was often the case, it was the middle of the night when the ship arrived in the port. After securing the ship, the second mate and I had watched from the catwalk as guards were posted, one on deck, the other at the foot of the gangway. I asked the second mate why in this tin pot dictatorship they needed to post guards. He shrugged not really sure of the answer.

“ What are they looking for?” I asked as our bags were searched when we went ashore to deliver papers to the agent early the next morning.

“ Subversive material,” he muttered while smiling at the guard.

When we took over the loading of the cargo from the Chief Officer, it was mid morning. The water ballast had been pumped ashore and the crude oil was now about to flow into the ship’s tanks.

As we opened and closed valves to start loading into one of the tanks, the sun was beating down on the black painted deck. Heat haze rose from the steel of the deck causing the structures to shimmer and waver. The only shade from the direct sunlight was under the catwalk which joined the amidships and aft accommodation. This was high above the deck to give safe passage when the deck was battered by waves while out at sea. Joining the heat haze was the cloud of gas from the open vent through which we measured the oil depth in the tank.

By the amidships accommodation, a guard in his green uniform, gun slung over his shoulder, lounged against the rail watching our efforts. Ashore, another guard sat on a bench by the foot of the gangway chatting loudly to a refinery worker.

I measured the oil depth and reported this to the second mate.

He grinned. “ Another forty minutes until we have to change tanks. I’m off to the cargo office to enter the figures in the book.”

“ And get a mug of coffee,” I muttered.

“ I heard that,” he laughed. “Privileges of yer officer class me boy. I’ll bring one back.....”

He never finished what he was saying. Like a statue in a museum, he stood fixed to the spot, his eyes bulging from his head. I glanced in the direction in which he was looking and froze.

The guard had straightened and was pulling out of his pocket what looked like a large cigar case. Calmly, he unpacked the cigar from its silver case, throwing the case into the sea.

We stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. Both of us were silently willing him to put it back into his pocket but, after rolling it between his fingers, cutting off the end, he raised it to his lips.

After that it was, to me, as though everything happened in slow motion. There was the lifting of the arm to place the cigar in his mouth, the reaching into a pocket and extracting a lighter, the hand going round the lighter, thumb on the striker and the cupping of the hands against the breeze.

His thumb moved and the lighter sparked. Flame leapt from the wick. His head lowered until the end of the cigar disappeared into his cupped hands. He straightened and the end of the cigar glowed red.

The second mate had ducked under the catwalk and I quickly joined him, hunching down behind one of the pillars. 

Nothing happened.

I took a quick look.

The guard was standing looking straight down the deck through the gas cloud pulling contentedly on his cigar. All I could see was the glowing red end. It appeared to get bigger and bigger.

“ You’ll have to order him to put it out,” I told the second mate trying to sound calm.

“ Not me after what happened to Dick the last time we were here.” The second mate sank further into the shadows under the catwalk. “ All he did was let the national flag touch the deck when he was lowering it one night. The guard shot at him and arrested him. He spent two weeks in jail before the company could get him out.”

I stepped out of the shadows and took a measurement of the oil. About half filling the tank, I thought.

A sound made me turn sharply and I once more froze to the spot. In measured steps, his gun slung jauntily across his back, the guard was walking along the catwalk towards the stern contentedly puffing on his cigar.  Screaming at me from behind his back in big letters on the accommodation bulkhead. NO SMOKING in three languages.

I stood rigid and glued to the spot. The measuring tape dangled unnoticed in my hand. Clouds of gas drifted upwards over the catwalk from the tank opening. The smell of oil filled my nostrils. My stomach was filled with ice.

Clank, clank, went measured footsteps along the metal grating over my head. Clank, clank, like some sound of doom approaching, the red tip of the cigar, big and round, bright even in the sunlight. 

As though out for a Sunday stroll round the village square, the guard passed overhead, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. My eyes followed his progress but my feet were fixed to the spot. I wondered how much I would feel when the ship exploded.

The guard walked out of the gas cloud and continued until he reached the end of the catwalk. Turning towards the port side, he strolled under the NO SMOKING signs, took one last puff on his cigar and threw the butt over the side of the ship.

Looking in my direction, he grinned with pleasure. “ Very good cigar. Come from Cuba.”