The Buick

East to West the island rises, a lighthouse surmounting broken headlands.

Birds nest in the cliff face and below, a breakwater where a million crabs

commune. At low tide, pools in rockfalls bloom with anemone and seaweed,

simple fish and shell things. There is music when storms blow from the North

accompanied by drumbursts of waves, and in the season, whalesong.

Ragged dunes contain shelving sands and where marshes reach to mainland, a

cluster of huts among odd boulders fallen from the island's spine. On the

shore are fishing boats drawn up, a careened dhow, and a rickety jetty from

which urchins dive. Fishermen mend nets and a carpenter works beside the

dhow.

Round the promontory comes a sharp destroyer gathering speed toward the

horizon where a tanker stretches. A liner in the roads makes a lee for a

cutter approaching - at once a uniformed pilot leaps to the ladder depending  

overside, swings up and is ushered to the bridge.

Next to the lighthouse is a flagstation and from its low roof a boy watches

through binoculars as the liner passes below the cliff. Jumping down he  

returns the glasses, checks time with the signalman and mounts his bike. A

made road begins descent on the South side of the island and here he waits

until TILBURY reappears in the centre of the channel into port. A moment,  

then the boy is off, flying down the hill past the The Deputy Conservator's

Residence, The Senior Pilot's House, bungalows, dispensary, a cantonment of

marines until he reaches The Harbour Master's Office, skidding to a dusty

stop. He goes to a doorway, checking time with a clerk within. He sees the

liner, attended now by tugs, passing the window, passengers leaning over

rails, sailors fore and aft ready and at the bridge languid officers in control.

The Harbour Master's Office overlooks East Basin and there the boy waits by

a launch tied up. Soon a coxswain arrives with the duty pilot for a departing

vessel and the boy asks permission to accompany them. The launch would pick  

up The Senior Pilot from the liner. They set off, weaving through moored

launches, idle lighters, the water carrier HATHI and three frigates at bouys.

Alongside one of the frigates is a whaler crewed by cadets, oars shipped.  

A Petty Officer harangues the boys through a loudhailer. Laden dhows squat

at the harbour entrance waiting to discharge. One has a shiny black motor

car lashed on deck, a Buick. Another is a castle of kerosene cans.

They leave TILBURY astern now, tugs grunting around her, winding hawser for

the tow into her berth. At Grain Wharf the pilot boards an American bulker

in ballast and the launch lays off as the tugs bring up TILBURY short of her

berth. She drops a bow anchor then two tugs come onto her stern quarter shore

side so the great ship swings a hundred and eighty degrees. Leads are thrown

and cable dragged ashore to static winches that draw her into the berth. All

fast, the tugs sign off with brazen toots and the liner acknowledges - a long,

loud, steamy blast. The launch idles alongside the wharf. The boy checks time
with the coxswain. Satisfied, he looks up to a lowered companion where
The Senior Pilot shakes hands with a deck officer and descends, turning to
exchange salutes with the Captain on the bridge wing before boarding the
launch.  

The dhows too have berthed. A tall crane has the Buick in a sling, up and

across, lowering it to the ground. A fat man waits with a Customs officer.  

The launch makes its way back to East Basin. HATHI passes, high on the water.

Two more whalers are lowered, all three circling the frigates, C.P.O. in a  

motor pinnace bawling. The launch eases into the basin and ties up, the boy

ashore, gone to retrieve his bike while The Senior Pilot completes paper

work in the office, then he and the boy walk homeward.  

That evening the boy finishes packing, dismantles his bike and stores it

away. He collects a jarful of pens and pencils, sheaf of foolscap, a pair of

battered plimsolls, a cricket ball, fishing hooks and a photograph. He

leaves this parcel outside the kitchen door and joins his parents on a

verandah overlooking the channel.

Next morning his effects are taken down and loaded on a launch and he makes

his farewells. He wears grey flannels, striped blazer and tie. His mother

insists on a hankerchief which he stuffs out of sight and when the launch

leaves The Senior Pilot throws a salute. From the harbour the boy is taken to

the Palace Hotel and he checks in at B.O.A.C. where a stewardess recognises

him. He joins passengers for the London flight on a smart coach and they

soon leave city bustle behind. Near the airport, ahead, half a dozen

vehicles are stopped at a road block, armed soldiers grim - beyond, smoke

dissipating in the heat haze. An officer waves the coach through. In a

ditch, on its side, doors awry, glass strewn, bullet holed, is the Buick.

Two bodies lie covered with gunny sacks. One has a drivers cap laid on it,
the other, gross, seeping blood.  

The flight to London is a long one and the Stratocruiser drones comfortably

between stopovers. The boy reads and dozes. A stewardess takes him up to the

flight deck where the Captain signs his log book. He is met at Heathrow by

his aunt who fusses him to her home, gives him supper and sends him to bed.

In the morning she drives him to Waterloo Station where he joins boys from  

his school. He has added a tasseled cap to his uniform and he and Biggs Major

shepherd the spots aboard their carriage.

'Good Hols?' Biggs Major asks.

'Oh, you know,' the boy says, swatting Chapman Minimus.

Supermoon Sunday

I'm doing a couple of hours on the lightship today, giving O'Neil a lunch break. It's a Bank Holiday, white cloud, cool, breezy in the open, not too many visitors about. I settle down with the paper. Sarkozy's had it, Boris is in, the Empire is out, Leveson drones on and on. It's the same old, same old world, no worries, mate. Well, there's war, pestilence, murder, famine and the usual bunch of nasty mayhem going on, sure, but not here, not on the lightship. Here, it's tranquility itself.

A couple of your man's tranquil friends arrive, wondering why they haven't heard from him, which is normal. I occasionally get texts from him three weeks after the event. We talk, as you do, about everything and nothing, all the while taking in the view. The rivers are stirring up a nice chop this afternoon, wind against the outgoing tide, miniature spindrift flying off in all directions. Yachts in the seaway crisscrossing and amongst the ubiquitous Bermuda rigged plastic bathtubs, a pretty little gaffer tacking nicely. She turns into a broad reach, heading our way, tight as you like, everything on presenting a nice three quarter view, passes us showing off her counter stern. Soon she arrives in the rivers' confluence, tries a tack but it puts her in her no-go zone, her way falls off and she turns back with the flow, and out of sight.

Himself back from lunch, I get ready to go, do goodbyes, but I'm called back. He needs to give his phone number, which he can't remember, to his friends. I get out my phone and pass it on. I'm his bleeding P.A. now, or what? Our yacht has found good wind on the far side of the haven and is making steady progress upstream. It's what we can all hope for, don't you think?