Hello, sailor
Jeremy Clarke
T hate avoiding people I like just because
I owe them money. I worry about it. Take my Buddhist friend Chris and his wife Edwina, for example. For the last month I've owed them £750 rent. I'd rented their house while they were teaching English in Thailand. Though I didn't stay in the house for even one night (I parked my car in the driveway twice — that's all), the fact remained I still owed them the dough.
Chris and Edwina came back to England for a month, before heading off again in their new motor sailer for the South of France for another six months. I finally bit the bullet and went to see them on their boat the evening before they set sail from Dartmouth. I still couldn't pay up. but I had to face them sooner or later. There was a special offer on 12 packs of Fosters lager in the Dartmouth Co-op. As a peace offering I bought as many as I could carry from the check-out to the boat pontoon, about 75 yards away. I also took a dozen fresh duck eggs, three Captain Hornblower novels and an Every Day With Jesus daily meditation calendar in case they were shipwrecked.
Chris and Edwina were sitting in their wheelhouse. (I could see them through the window.) Also present to see them off were their next-door neighbour Geoff; Geoffs son Cain; and Cain's girlfriend, Clare. They were drinking red wine from huge glasses. Everyone was smiling. The interior of the cabin was panelled with oak and lit by a gas light. Laden to the chin with beer packs, I descended the wooden stairs into this cosy, convivial, bare-legged little drinks party, convinced that my unannounced arrival was going to spoil it.
Chris has a stammer. As I came down the stairs, he was trying to get a word out. I forget which one. A monosyllabic word probably. Its the monosyllabic words that trip him up more than anything. He gets stuck on the first letter and the effort to get the rest out nearly kills him. If it makes you laugh he really doesn't mind. Edwina was standing behind him, caressing his ear and kissing the top of his head. When Chris saw me, he abandoned whichever word it was he was trying to enunciate, shouted out my name with joy and relief, leapt to his feet, pushed his way through his other guests to where I was standing and flung his arms around my neck. He was shouting my name over and over again. Edwina was right behind him, also shouting my name. She got her arms around my neck as well, but she couldn't get a satisfactory hug with her husband already on me. In her frustration she tried pulling him off me. Chris wouldn't budge, and, for a moment, there they were on the verge of having a row about it. And this was before I'd had even a chance to put down the beer and the duck eggs.
After they'd taken it in turns to hug and kiss me, they questioned me, earnestly, their faces right in mine, about how I'd been. The money I owed them wasn't even on the periphery of their minds, I swear it. They were simply overjoyed to see me. Where had I been? Why hadn't I been to see them? They thought something must have happened to me and they'd been worried about me. Why didn't I come with them at least across the Channel? Why not come down to the Mediterranean with them? Not only was I forgiven, apparently, the offence was erased from their consciousness. Then Edwina thrust a glass into my hand and Chris filled it so recklessly that some of it overflowed and spilled on Clare. Then we celebrated.
When I woke the next morning I noticed first of all that I was still on the boat, and secondly that we were at sea. Edwina was in the galley frying duck eggs. Geoff was still on board, too. I could see him through the window. He was on deck with Chris, unfurling a sail. 'Sorry, Jerry,' shouted Edwina when she saw I was awake. 'We've decided you're coming with us.'
I got up and went on deck and looked around. I couldn't see any land anywhere. I edged along the rail to the front of the boat where Chris and Geoff were fiddling about with lengths of cord. I said to Chris, 'But I haven't brought my passport.' 'Oh, you don't need one for F-F-France these days,' he said. I glanced at Geoff for verification of this. He is an engineer and can be relied on to know the facts. He thrust out his lower lip and nodded in agreement.
I edged back to the wheelhouse. Edwina presented me with a warm plate, on which two lightly fried duck eggs slithered to and fro on a layer of warm grease. I managed to eat one, and it was while I was being sick over the side immediately afterwards that I saw land ahead. It had a familiar look about it, too. My, how they laughed when they saw the look of relief on my face. We were back on the pontoon at Dartmouth by lunchtime.
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