Low life
Big guns
Jeffrey Bernard
In the past, I've always resolved to while awaY those endless hours of boredom while held prisoner in a hospital bed by reading those books I've never got around to but which I've stupidly felt obliged to read. at The Mill on the Floss and yet another te- mpt at Ulysses, for example. But it "(3esn't work. Reading can be hard work lasnd too much for a sick man. You have to ,r,"e Pretty fit to read Bernard Levin on 'oviet dissidents, but to get through The 11 °II the Floss, Proust or even the more re' and slender but overrated French Lieutenant's Woman while stuffed with irlore tubes than the London Underground sYstem, you need to be a marathon man Capable of eating Jack Dempsey after 26 Mlles. What I did get stuck into though was ._load of hospital C. S. Forresters. The _tiornblower books. I like them when I Celle read them and they stand up well. Ex- ant , lightish, stirring stuff. Anyway, I've waYs been a fan of Nelson and his col- neagues and recent events in Europe have in waY diminished my wish to blow a few Water. enchmen and their ships clean out of the But there I was in St Stephens, no 74-gun ship of the line, but a mere sloop shipping water, short of provisions and out of powder. Ever since I've been back here in port licking my wounds I keep looking at the captain's log book for that last day of memorable action in St Stephens. Cape St Vincent palls beside it. Anyway, three days ago, I awoke at 3 a.m. and lay there tossing in my hammock until 6 a.m. I was desperate for my fix of tea and by 6.15 a.m. when the West Indian enemy still hadn't hove in sight with the tea trolley, I made my own way with my tea bag and limped to the kitchen. All seemed quiet and deserted. I put the tea bag in the cup, boiled the kettle and then, too late, I heard it — the rustle of a dress. It could have been the crack of a mainsail. My inbuilt lookouts, utterly exhausted, were asleep. I turned round and, clapping my reading glasses to my good eye, I beheld the awesome sight of Fernanda, the gorgon of Granada, bearing down on me, her top gallants straining in front of the wind. There was no time to bequeath my dear Susan to the nation or to run up a patriotic signal. This mere sloop, as redundant as a dinghy at Trafalgar, was suddenly about to be engaged by the 136-gun, Santissima Trinidad, the biggest warship afloat. Vainly I swung the wheel hard to port but her first shot knocked the cup out of my hand and sent boiling water everywhere. 'You not supposed to be here,' she screamed. `Dis my kitchen. Get de fuck out.' Now she was wrestling the kettle away from my grasp and, weak, panting and undermanned as it were, the last thing I could afford was a Rastafarian boarding party. I backed away and dropped anchor by the fridge. She stood by the sink riding the swell, a master gunner wearing gold-rimmed bi-focals and peering down the barrel to judge another broadside. There are, thank God, and always have been, moments of inspiration that have changed the course of history and as my right hand suddenly felt the comforting lump of a half pound of butter I knew she was but a Rupert to my Cromwell. I had offered my kingdom for a horse and got Shergar. The butter hit her on the left shoulder with such force she spun round and dropped the kettle. Making full sail and all speed she sailed past me, screaming, to take refuge in Alfred Tennyson ward. I could hear her in the distance as I refilled the kettle. 'De man in Ellen Terry, Mister Bernard, he fucking mad. Try to kill me. He cut my arm wid butter. Crazy man.' It was a momentous victory. Britannia rules the kitchen. Of course, there were diplomatic peace talks as I lay in the cockpit panting, trembling and almost vomiting after the strain, the loss of temper and what you might call the exercise. A friendly Jamaican envoy, the night sister from Alfred Ten- nyson, brought me more tea and soothed my fevered brow as the church bells rang out the length and breadth of England. At midday I came home. Whether I can take two more weeks in bed, even at home, I'm not sure. I still can't read a major opus and when I dipped into Carola Oman's Nelson last night it made roe restless and I lay here fretfully, longing for action again and my own 74-gun command in a really big hospital like the Belle Vue in New York. I'd give them a tea-bag party that would make the Boston one look sick. But it's all brought one thing home. My body wants no more of the low life. It's in a dreadful state and it wants mollycoddling.
By the way, there have been more lovely cards and notes from readers, whom I thank from the bottom of my pacemaker. To them I shall reveal in my will where I've hid- den the tea bags.
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