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?  

WITNESS

One day, Boulnayele the Navigator, then but a young bull, swam with his family, Everine the Dancer and her mate Boulanoure the Scout of the tribe of Darcane the Mighty. The whales were nearing the rich waters of Broken Sea, Boulnayele exploring among frozen islands when a spine of ice gashed his flank. Hanoloure the Healer was called and pronounced the wound more blood than body, prescribing rest and slow swim, and it would heal itself.

So it was that the tribe swam on, leaving Boulnayele to follow in their wake, though not before Everine admonished him send his call at each tide, that she might be assured of his safety. Boulanoure protested, with unseemly pride, surely no harm would befall his son, for had he not already mastered many of the skills of his sire? Boulnayele enjoyed his slow solitary swim, feeding from teeming life brought down to the sea by glaciers, resting in the lee of ice giants which hung below the surface in jagged spears. There he sheltered one still night when faint throbbing echoed and he sensed the approach of a large vessel. Manwhale.

His father had warned of the threat and he remained alert, monitoring the ship's advance. There were icebergs about but the ship maintained a steady course, its beat undiminished. Boulnayele scanned the vicinity and located a lone berg on directly opposing track to the manwhale and he knew collision was inevitable if it came on as it did. Surfacing, he sighted the ship. Bright lit, it bore down on the converging iceberg. At last the ship appeared to check its momentum and began to veer away, but too late.

Boulnayele felt the tremor of the glancing impact, heard a tearing sound, and the ship was mortally wounded. Stopped, it began to sink, and from its heights dropped tiny figures, some to cling at wreckage, others frantic in the deadly waters, a few in small boats which had survived the crash. The prow of the ship submerged. It broke apart, roared and steamed, and at last slipped away to the deep. Drowning people quickly succumbed, food for sea life, and pathetic flotsam drifted.

Boulnayele swam on, remembering, when at gatherings of The Great Tribes, he had listened to stories of Man and his mastery of the seas. Boulnayel dreamed of swift vessels which reached all corners of every ocean and deepships that plumbed darkmost trenches. Yet, this night he had witnessed the killing of a giant manwhale, stricken by the lightest touch of a passing iceberg, just such a cut as he had sustained in his careless idling. He had much to learn.

Talking Minds

Years ago I was involved in a robbery . . . being robbed. Two men in masks, one armed with a knife. It was a frightening experience. The knifeman demanded money, "Give me the money," he said. No, really. For a minute there I thought he wanted my autograph. I won't go into detail, only tell you that, realizing the weapon was one of those long thin kitchen knives, that it would bend, I grabbed the blade. As I say, I won't describe the bloody outcome of our little dance, back and forth, me losing my hold on the knife as it sliced fingers, scraped bones. It ended when I took advantage of the momentum as he pulled back trying to wrest the knife from me. I let go of it, spun round running, claret everywhere, and, well, I escaped.

All these years, the experience has been fucking with my head. Post Traumatic Stress. It changed my life, and my lifestyle. I was never the depressive type, and I didn't curl up and feel sorry for myself, but it wasn't long before I began to have some pretty extreme anxiety attacks. That's the perfect phrase for what happened to me, "anxiety attacks". I was in hospital for five days, came out strapped up, an Out-Patient, getting physio at the hospital, and then, a couple of weeks into my recovery, my physical recovery, I was walking in the High Street when I saw a couple of lads on the opposite pavement. They were of that ilk - you know? Samish age and manner of dress as my attackers. I "escaped", and when I was sure in my mind that I hadn't been spotted, followed, that the danger was over, I slowly began to relax, letting myself believe that it was only my vigilance that had saved me. I became "normal" again, never questioning the irrationality of my behavior. That's how it's been. Recurrences of incidents like that, anytime, anywhere.

For years I tried to put the thing from my mind, tried to avoid day to day anything that might bring back that fearful memory. Those masks, the desperate eyes, the flickering tongue of the knifeman, the blood. I might be watching TV and a trailer would pop up for some thriller or other and there'd be a shot of masked men in action. Click. I'd go and make coffee, calm myself. Almost worse than irrational fear was the private shame I felt about that fear. Me, jack the lad in a lad's world, frightened by one and a half junkies (no idea why the little guy turned up, all he did was . . . wear a mask). I relived the fear whenever an incident triggered my anxiety. I relived the shame. I never "escaped" and thought what a prat I was being. I always put it away in that recess of my mind and locked it up.

Two years before retirement, I asked my G.P. (he had put me on Citalopram when I'd finally told him where my head was at and it had helped me by perceptibly calming my headlong reactions to incidents) for advice about getting professional help. Out of all the bumph he laid on me I saw a possible path. I joined a weekly therapy group. I attended several sessions, mostly listening, but I did manage a couple of references to "my trauma". Out loud, the gist, not the details, but I felt something was changing. I was thinking about it. Health in Mind, the Service overseeing all this, mentioned "talking therapy". I hadn't talked to me about it for twenty years, so the idea of exposing myself to some hippy trippy graun reading sandal wearing dogooder did have a certain appeal. I was about to move to my retirement home (!), a flat I'd wanted for a long time, and as soon as I'd settled in I got in touch.

July last year, I arrived at a local venue to meet my talking therapist. I expect she has one of those official titles like Certified Mind Control Operative but to me she was just right. Let's face it, she could have been a bloke in cords and a jumper, with clever spectacles. I knew she wasn't, obviously, from the correspondence but she might have been. I'm not sure I could have "talked" to a man, however sociologically appropriate. So, there's Sue and me, sitting at a table on that first morning. I'm thinking, well, this should be good, I shall indulge my friend here in the biker jacket and delicate frock, let her think her script is doing the trick then go home and contemplate my navel. That's what I was thinking, for about five minutes. Then I began to talk. I had once before talked to a shrink attached to St Georges Hospital, the tape of which I'd been given, but which I only listened to once before I destroyed it. I couldn't cope with my description of the fear, I think.  That was the last time I'd talked about the incident, to anyone.

It's a new year, and a new cliche. Or new me as we call it in the talking game. I have no idea what Sue did to get me at it, but I talked and talked, and she listened and listened. Every session I'd go in and talk. There was some exchange, certainly, Sue had questions, gave me encouragement, advice, brought in a picture of a man in a mask (FUUUUUCK!!!) but mostly I talked. She gave me a couple of assignments as we went along and I wrote stuff. That's easy, but the talking was hard, at first. I got all of it out in the end and my mind began to feel airy, containing those frightening memories, sure, but they were like all the other memories, the good and the bad. I began to do stuff I couldn't manage before, like taking the train to London  without having to arrange with my son to meet me. Those two junkies disappeared (Old Bill said I needn't worry about them, and my friend Tyrone said what junkies). Probably had an accident. 

They changed my life. They could have changed me terminally, but they didn't know about Sue. I know about Sue. We had a break when she went on holiday, and I did have a wobble when it came to the first week without a session. I knew what was happening, though, and I sorted it by thinking about it. I can think about "it" now, and understand about myself. I can even laugh about it. And Sue, it cracked her right up.

Dead in the Water

There's a bloke walks his dog on the quay, occasionally we meet, greet, and I have a minute with the dog. Beat up old boxer cross, Ralph by name, on his last legs. I've been away, got back a couple of days ago. This morning I fancied breakfast on the Pier, fuel up for a good long walk, nearly. Table next to me one of the regulars catches my eye, "You knew Mr. Holroyd, didn't you?" I didn't but it turns out he's dog bloke, and I get the news. His body was found washed up across the river, in the marina. 

Sad. Ralph died, and Mr. Holroyd decided it was time. A note was found on his kitchen table, "Sorry, I've had enough. Funeral paid for at . . ." He was a sick man, my neighbour tells me, and he missed his wife, she died in '94. He got Ralph not long after, and soon enough they became part of the scenery. Mr. Holroyd  was a cobbler, a proper old style shoe maker. Before retirement, he worked from home, on commissions from bespoke tailors, on special orders for the NHS, and on repairing the good shoes of discerning local gentry. I like a good shoe. I once had a pair made, loafers copied from an ad in Playboy. Oxblood, they were, and I wore them first with a dark blue Tonik suit on a Saturday night. Let me see, first we went to The Whiskey A Go Go in Wardour St., hooked up with our American friends from Lakenheath, bought 45s, then we had Chinese, later driving to the Cromwellian, ending up at a party in South Ken. They say if you remember the Sixties you weren't there. Sure, if you were mostly unconscious, you wouldn't remember.

My loafers lasted forever, soled and heeled, oh, half a dozen times until my middle age spread spread all the way down and they became a little tight. They disappeared in the move here from London. It's such a shame about Mr. Holroyd. I would have liked to have got to know him better, perhaps well enough to persuade him to make me a pair of good walking shoes.

History is Over

There’s always one, isn’t there?

“It’s all about oil,” he goes, reassuring the regulars of The Cock and Pullet, “We want it, they’ve got it, deals are done, everybody’s happy.”

He’s right, nearly. TV News keeps us up to date, to the second, with the latest people’s revolution in, this time, the Middle East. Ordinary Arabs take to the streets armed with mobile phones, texting, texting and texting. Every scene has at least one group of women given a say, the real revolution in a world of men in charge. Intelligent, educated women provide well prepared sound bites. In the background student types nod in agreement. Some of the men, some of the older men, avoid complete endorsement of a woman’s point of view by giving the V sign and grinning. Of course, they don’t have the oil. Their rulers have the oil. Their rulers have the oil and they keep the money they sell it to us for and we look after it for them in our banks. It’s an international gang show.

We’re entertained, sure, and we have our opinions about foreign affairs, reinforced by the television news these days, our favoured source of information. We watch bespoke-tailored horrible men greet fulsomely robed horrifying men like the old friends they are, and we watch retired generals, civilised by Gieves and Hawkes, glad-hand uniformed despots like the old friends they are. The entourages mingle, men at ease, a meeting of like minds.

It has not yet percolated into the general male consciousness that our time has come. Everything changed with the revolution in Communication. Communication is democracy unlimited, and modern women are embracing Communication Technology and its wide possibilities with quiet determination. Look at them. Listen to them. They know. Men are fucked.