Levkas Man Read online

  It was bloody stupid of me. The ship was going where I wanted to go—a new life, and all I said was, ‘I’ve got a job already, thank you.’

  It was the old man, of course. I knew that. And walking back alone through the deserted streets, back again to that house and my childhood bedroom, I tried to understand what it was I had done. I’d been given the chance of escaping from the pattern and. God knows why, I had rejected it. I’m not the sort of person to suffer from a guilt complex and the discovery that he was my father didn’t really make a damned bit of difference.

  Lying in bed, still thinking about it, I began to be dimly aware that it wasn’t so much the old man as the world he represented that was drawing me away from the old shipboard life towards an uncertain future. The things he had tried to teach me, and which I had rejected—it almost seemed as though they had lain dormant in my sub-conscious. There was no other way to account for the awakening of interest I had felt when looking at his books, particularly when talking to the girl and Dr Gilmore. And then, too, there was the feeling that I had to see him again if I were ever to understand my own behaviour pattern—a favourite phrase of his I remembered. About the only thing we had in common was the hastiness of temper that led to violence.

  I was at Borg’s shop just before ten with my suitcase packed. He was standing by the Buddha, waiting for me, and I could see he was relieved. ‘You’re all ready. Good. I have ordered a taxi.’ He pulled an envelope out of the pocket of his loose-fitting tweed jacket. ‘That is your air ticket, also sterling for Malta and some drachmas—you will need that in the islands.’ He handed it to me, smiling. ‘You see, I am trusting you.’

  ‘You’ve no option,’ I said, and the friendliness went out of his eyes. He stood there, waiting, knowing I had a reason for saying that. ‘Have you got a big chart? I asked. ‘One that includes the whole of Greece?’

  He took me through into his office and produced the Eastern Mediterranean sheet. It was folded in four, and as he opened it out, the creases showed that it had been much used. Black hairs gleamed on the back of his hand and his signet ring flashed in the sunlight from the window as he traced the line from Malta to Crete. ‘About five hundred miles,’ he said. ‘And Heraklion is a port of entry. You can get your Greek transit papers there.’

  ‘Is it a power boat?’ I asked.

  ‘Sail and power. It’s an old boat, but she has a new engine.’

  ‘Say four days.’ My eyes were searching the long, south-thrusting peninsula of the Greek mainland. ‘Another two, perhaps three days to Samos. And you don’t need me there until early May. That’s more than a month.’

  ‘A month is not too long for the authorities to get used to your presence. What are you getting at?’

  I had found what I wanted and I straightened up. ‘No objection if I take a more northerly route, have you? We’ve plenty of time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The Ionian Sea—I’ve always wanted to have a look at the west coast of Greece.’

  He knew it wasn’t the real reason, and for a moment I thought he was going to be difficult. I put the envelope with the ticket and the money down on the desk. He looked at it and then at me. ‘How long will it take you?’

  ‘A week,’ I said. ‘Not more.’

  He hesitated. Finally he nodded. ‘Ja. Well … okay.’

  We talked over the details then, and when the taxi came he took me out to it himself.

  ‘And when I’ve completed delivery?’ I asked.

  ‘Then we have another little talk, oh?’

  Just over an hour later I was in the air.

  Two

  MAN THE SEEKER

  1

  It was dark when I arrived in Malta, the air soft and smelling of the sea. The airport taxi took me to the Phoenicia Hotel and from there I got a bus to the yacht marina at Ta’ Xbiex. The waterfront was crowded with boats, a forest of spars standing against the night sky, and it took me some time to locate Coromandel. She was lying on the Manoel Island side between a chromium-plated gin palace and a big Italian ocean-racer. She appeared to be a conversion from some sort of fishing boat; and sandwiched between those two gleaming monsters, stern-on to the quay like all the rest, she looked her age. A light showed in the wheelhouse for’ard and my hail was answered immediately by a short, ruddy-faced man with greying hair. He was dressed in blue jeans and an old blue jersey and he came aft wiping his hands on a piece of cotton waste.

  ‘Mr Van der Voort?’ A wooden board served as a gangplank and he put his foot on it to hold it steady as I went on board. ‘Sorry not to meet you.’ He took my case. ‘Is this all your gear?’ He seemed pleased when I said it was.

  The decks were badly worn, the bulwarks shabby, and there was paint flaking from the lockers aft. But the deckhouse itself gleamed with new varnish. ‘We slapped a second coat on this afternoon, so mind out.’ And he added, ‘Sorry the old girl’s in a bit of a mess, but as soon as I got Mr Borg’s cable I had her slipped for a scrub and a coat of anti-fouling. We only got her back this morning.’

  I followed him into the wheelhouse where the floorboards were up and most of the steering gear dismantled. He was installing an automatic pilot, purchased as scrap from a yacht that had been towed in badly damaged. ‘Most of the equipment on this ship is my own work, as you might say,’ he said. Aft of the wheelhouse was a short companionway leading down into a cubby-hole with a workbench. The light was on, illuminating a chaos of paint pots, brushes, tools and bits of machinery. But the chaos was only superficial, the after bulkhead lined with a neat array of boxes for screws and bolts, the area above the work bench fitted out for tools, and clamped to the starboard wall were pyrotechnics, log, foghorn, fire extinguishers. Below these, in special racks, were three aqualungs and a couple of outboard motors.

  On the far side of the Wheelhouse a second companionway led for’ard, down into a saloon which had probably once been the fish hold. The contrast was very marked. Here was order and comfort, chintz coverings to the settee berths, chintz curtains over the portholes, the brasswork gleaming and the fine Honduras mahogany polished to a rich gloss. He showed me to my cabin, which was aft, a two-berthed stateroom with a different patterned chintz. And when I complimented him on the condition of his ship below, he said, ‘Ah, that’s the wife. She’s very particular.’ And he added, ‘She’s gone to a movie with the people from Fanny Two. Had enough for one day. It’s always bad after you’ve been on the slip—the dirt, you see.’

  He showed me where the ‘heads’ were and then left me to sort myself out. In the lights below he had looked younger than he had seemed at first, around forty, I thought. A good solid type, not very bright, but reliable. I wondered what his wife would be like. Borg hadn’t said anything about a wife.

  When I returned to the saloon, he was waiting for me there, the drink locker open beside him and two glasses on the table. ‘What’ll you have, Mr Van der Voort—a Scotch?’ He had cleaned the oil from his hands and face and was wearing a bright check shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  I said a Scotch would be fine and told him my name was Paul.

  He smiled, showing me an even line of what looked like false teeth. ‘Good. First names are best on a small ship. Mine’s Bert and my wife’s is Florence, though she answers to Florrie.’ He gave a quick cackling laugh. And as he poured the drinks he said, ‘It’s lucky you didn’t ask for gin. They only let us have one bottle a week out of the bonded locker, and the gin’s just about had it.’ It was malt whisky and he gave it to me neat.

  ‘Does your wife go with you on all your trips?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. The ship’s our home, you see, and Florrie’s a good sailor. Better than I am in some ways.’

  I asked him when we could leave and he said he thought by the week-end. ‘We’ve tanked up with fuel and water, and the stores are ordered for tomorrow. It’s more a case of getting the ship ready. Mr Borg’s cable caught us on the hop like and the Aegean is quite a long haul.’

  ‘
We’ll be going to the west coast of Greece first,’ I said.

  ‘Oh? Mr Borg said Crete.’ But he took the change of plan in his stride. In fact, he seemed relieved. ‘Pylos is a good port of entry. We’ve done that before. It’s 366 miles and the course is nearer the South Italian ports. Whereas Crete—it’s a lonely run, you see.’ And he added, ‘As long as we don’t get a gregale—a nor’-easter wouldn’t be comfortable heading for Pylos. But with luck we’ll have a westerly this early in the season. Not that it matters, mind you. Corie’s a sturdy little ship. Built as a fishing boat up on the Clyde way back at the turn of the century—1906 to be exact—and sound as a bell. And she’s got a brand new engine.’ He said it with pride. ‘Come and have a look.’

  He took me up into the wheelhouse and down the companionway on the port side. Aft of the workbench he lifted a hatch. ‘I spent all winter installing this myself.’ He switched on the light to reveal a big Perkins diesel. There was a generator, too, and a range of Nife batteries, also a compressor, and the whole engine compartment reflected the loving care of a dedicated engineer, copper and brasswork gleaming and not a smear of oil anywhere on the bright paintwork. ‘She’s been test run for about six hours with extra warps out aft, and going round to Manoel Island shipyard and back she ticked over sweet as a bird. Can’t wait to get to sea and give her a proper try-out.’

  ‘What speed will it give you?’

  ‘About eight knots I reckon.’ He was staring down, his eyes bright with anticipation. ‘Did Mr Borg tell you what he’d done?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I asked, wondering what Borg had got to do with it.

  ‘No, of course not. A nice fellow like that wouldn’t go advertising the fact that he’d helped somebody.’ He leaned his thick hairy arms on the edge of the hatch, feasting his eyes on that gleaming lump of machinery. ‘When I bought Coromandel she had an old Kelvin in her. One of the very early ones. I sweated blood on that bugger—everything gummed up and rusty as hell. The miracle is that it got us out here.’

  And he told me how for two seasons he had kept it going, making his own replacements when anything broke. Then in August last year Borg had chartered the boat for a few days.

  ‘I think he got a bit tired of the Hilton and wanted a breath of sea air. Then, when we got out to Gozo, he said what about making a quick passage to Pantelleria. He’d been looking at the charts, you see, and he suddenly had this urge to make a passage. He didn’t seem to understand about Customs clearance, but as it was a quick trip there and back I thought I’d take a chance on it. Halfway across that clapped-out old engine started playing up. It was a broken valve and it took me a whole day to machine and fit a replacement. We couldn’t even sail. There wasn’t a breath of wind.’

  ‘Did you get to Pantelleria?’

  ‘In the end, yes. By then I had explained to him about Customs and entry formalities—Pantelleria is Italian, you see—so we didn’t go into the port of Pantelleria, just motored round the island, close in, so that he could see the extraordinary lava formation. We spent the night in a little cove, gave him a quick run ashore and then back to Malta. Well, to cut a long story short, on the way back he said he happened to know a scrap merchant in Holland who had a modern diesel engine for disposal. It had been salvaged from a small trawler sunk off the Hook. He’d enjoyed himself so much, he said, that he’d like to make me a present of it. And that’s it,’ he added, pointing with pride. ‘Mind you, it was a bit rusty, but it was bloody generous of him all the same—must have cost a damn sight more than the charter. I waived that, of course. And all he got out of it was four days at sea, a few hours ashore on Pantelleria and some wine.’

  ‘Where did you pick up the wine?’ I asked.

  ‘At Pantelleria. He was very fond of wine and some people in the cove we anchored in for the night let him have four cases.’

  ‘What about the Customs when you got back to Malta?’

  ‘Oh, we didn’t clear Customs—couldn’t very well after slipping out like that. Not that they worry about wine. Anyway,’ he added, ‘when we put into Emerald Bay—that’s on Little Comino in the straits between Malta and Gozo—some friends of Mr Borg’s were there in a motor boat, so we were on our own when we got back to the marina.’ He straightened himself up, still staring at the engine. ‘Looks nice, doesn’t it?’ He switched off the light and closed the hatch with obvious reluctance. ‘Mr Borg’s a friend of yours, I take it,’ he said as he led the way back to the saloon. ‘Well, you tell him how grateful I am. That engine, and now a charter we didn’t expect. It’s not often you meet a rich man like that who’ll do a good turn for somebody less fortunate.’

  Unworldly was the way Borg had described him. But it was difficult to believe that anybody could be quite so naïve. It was only when I got him talking about himself that I began to understand. He was an East Londoner, who had spent most of his life as a fitter in the R.A.F. He had married in Cyprus and had then left the Air Force and settled at Great Yarmouth, where he had built up a small engineering business turning out specialized items for the North Sea rigs.

  ‘But the Government changed, inflation hit us and we lost business to Dutch and Danish firms. If I’d held out until they devalued maybe I’d have been all right—at least I’d have got a better price. As it was, I sold out at about the bottom.’ His broad shoulders moved, a self-deprecating shrug. ‘I’m not much of a business man, but at least the boat was cheap.’

  He had converted her himself in the fish port at Great Yarmouth, and then they had sold their house and sailed south into the Channel. ‘It was marvellous—just ourselves and the sea and foreign ports. Nothing to worry about, only the weather.’

  He was on to his second drink then and he began telling me the story of the voyage out, how they had run into a force 10 gale in the Bay of Biscay. ‘Can you navigate?’ he asked suddenly. ‘By the stars, I mean. Mr Borg said you were an experienced sailor.’ When I said I could, he nodded. ‘I studied it a bit—we’ve got a sextant on board, Reed’s Almanac and all the tables. But I haven’t the patience for that sort of thing. Anyway, we didn’t see the sun for three days …’

  He paused, his head on one side, listening. There was the sound of voices and then footsteps on deck. A moment later a small, bright-eyed woman in orange slacks appeared in the companionway. She stopped when she saw me. ‘Oh, you’ve arrived.’ She came forward quickly and shook my hand. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here.’ She glanced at the glasses and her nose wrinkled. ‘I don’t suppose Bert thought of offering you anything to eat?’

  ‘I had a meal on the plane,’ I told her.

  ‘Sure? I could knock you up an omelette very quickly.’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  She hesitated, her eyes taking me in. She was a good deal younger than her husband, a small, sturdy woman with dark eyes and a very clear olive-brown skin. Her black hair and the oval shape of her face gave her a madonna-like quality. But that was only in repose. She had a volatile personality, and this I learned later stemmed from her mixed parentage—her father had been English, her mother Cypriot. ‘Well, I’ll make some coffee anyway.’ And she disappeared into the galley, which was aft of the saloon on the port side.

  It was over the coffee that she asked me a question I should have been expecting. She wanted to know why I was going to Greece so early in the season. ‘Hardly anybody leaves the marina before May, most of them not until June.’ She was frowning slightly and there were little lines at the corners of her eyes as she stared at me, waiting for an answer.

  Her husband sensed my reluctance. ‘When he goes is his own business, Florrie. He’s the charterer, after all.’

  ‘I know that, Bert. But still … it is our boat. I think we should know.’ Her voice was subdued, but quite determined.

  I don’t think she suspected anything. It was just that the hasty fixing of the charter made her uneasy. And rather than attempt to invent a reason, I told them about my father’s expedition.

  She relaxed at once. �
��Oh, that explains it.’

  ‘Is it caves he’s exploring?’ Bert asked. ‘Or just a dig?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I said.

  He asked me where the camp was, and when I told him he went up into the wheelhouse and returned with a chart of the west coast of Greece. ‘If it’s caves I might be of some use,’ he said, spreading it out on the table. ‘As a kid I belonged to a speleological group—pot-holing, you know. We went to Spain one year—had a look at Altamira. That’s the cave that’s full of prehistoric paintings, on the north coast near Santander.’ His tubby finger indicated Jannina. ‘It looks as though Preveza would be the best port—Jannina is about sixty miles away and a good road by the look of it. We can make our entry at Pylos and then go straight up the coast, through the narrows between Meganisi and Levkas. Do you know the Levkas Canal?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘A queer place—for Greece, that is. More like Holland really. Very flat, and a bloody great fort at either end. Preveza is only about eight miles beyond the north end of the canal.’

  We studied the chart for a bit, and then I said I was tired and went to bed.

  I saw very little of Malta during the next two days, only Manoel Island and a few of the narrow balconied streets of Sliema. Whilst Bert finished the installation of the automatic steering gear and Florrie dealt with the stores, I completed the varnishing of the brightwork and started on re-painting the bulwarks. ‘Not often I get a charterer who’ll work as hard as you,’ Bert said. But I didn’t mind. There was something very satisfying about getting that old boat ready for sea, and the work kept my mind off my own problems.

  Saturday morning we took on bonded stores, cleared Customs, and after a meal ashore, we slipped and headed out towards the entrance of Sliema Creek under engine. It was blowing hard from the south-west and we turned under the battlements of St Elmo and winched the gaff mainsail up and then the mizzen. The sun was shining on the piled-up mass of Valetta’s honey-stoned buildings, and as we cleared Dragut Point a machine-gun rattle of firecrackers burst from the roof of one of the churches, little puffs of smoke against a cloudless sky to celebrate some saint’s day.