A Ship's Tale (53 page)

Chapter 31

TWO YEARS LATER

Spring had again returned to the serene view overlooking the river, as I walked along the stone path leading down to the harbour. The streams that flowed into it were swollen from winter weather, seemingly too big for their bridges, and the afternoon sun warmed my face on the first day free of winter. There was a sky full of brightly coloured kites, held up by the winds blowing from the river, anchored to the earth by small children. The grass along the hillside glittered bright green from the shower that just passed. The snowdrops and crocuses were everywhere.

Katherine and I had managed to find a small cottage on the outskirts of town, and by now were accepted as part of this community, where we'd made some firm friends. I'd given up the idea of the sea and established a small gardening business and nursery. I had local customers, including two of the big estates in the area around Loch Lomond between Dumbartonshire and Stirlingshire. It was always a challenge to negotiate prices with people who thought of landscaping as merely playing with dirt. After trying it themselves, they eventually came around.

We very often have the whole crew over for tea. We're always delighted with their company, and the camaraderie is something we all cherish. Every anniversary of our arrival in Dumbarton, we take a small boat to the mouth of the river and throw a wreath of flowers into the sea, to remember Bowman and his part in our lives. Harris hands everyone a dram of whisky for a toast and then throws one over the side for his long-time friend. When we get back, it's time to celebrate our wedding anniversary as well. There will be other anniversaries to celebrate in the future as the “boys” marry. Just recently, we went to Larry's wedding. He married a wonderful girl he'd met when we first arrived. He now works as an assistant river pilot, carrying on his maritime training. He's become well respected by the other river pilots for having held the wheel of such a ship as the
Bonnie
through her voyage here.

All the boys found good homes with the people who first took them in, with some of the younger ones being legally adopted. As a result of all the publicity, one or two were reunited with family, but they would return each year for the anniversary of our arrival.

At times I go to see Edward on his favourite bench in a park overlooking the river. It's a lovely park, with spectacular views over Port Glasgow and the Firth of Clyde. He often sits for hours reflecting on years past, and we talk about our voyage, still laughing about all the things that happened since the first day we met aboard the
Bonnie Clyde
. His eyes are often sad as he talks about old friends who are no longer of this earth. This makes him feel more alone, because there are few people left who can share the memories of his life since he was a young man. Being so close, he often makes the trip to his old haunts in Ireland, but complains it's never as it was. Given that, he makes a trip to visit old friends in Clochan Leigh, also known as Donegal, where his mum had been a true Irish folk heroine.

Edward's mum owned the only pub in the village with her family, a tidy establishment called the Central Pub. She kept a portrait of King Edward the VIII behind the bar, to be hung over the mantle each time the English troops came through. One time, they even occupied The Central and forced the women to cook for them, as they made free with contents of the bar. His mum demanded the soldiers stay quiet, because the children were ailing and needed their rest. After many such demands, she was allowed to talk to their commanding officer. When he casually asked her the nature of the illness, she told him it was the scarlet fever. The alarmed troops left Donegal within the hour, never to return. There wasn't any scarlet fever, but the quick wits of one woman had been responsible for running off the constant invaders.

Edward still teaches navigation at the local college and treats people to the hundreds of stories that have made his life one they can only envy. One of the things that annoys him most is using a cane to get about. This seldom slows him down in the occasional confrontation with some argumentative soul, who will quickly find that Edward is quite adept at using it as a club, or hooking a leaned-back chair off its pins by the leg. He was never one to withdraw from a good argument!

Harris and Boris have a small boat repair business on the waterfront and are often consulted about ship restoration. They also teach technical skills to some of the small boat captains, always an appreciative lot, as well as at the local technical college. I'd often thought of the storm that seemingly ripped Boris off the yardarm that stormy night. How he managed to escape was to remain a mystery, for he would never elaborate on it. I've often thought of that one terrible moment. Without Boris the voyage could have never succeeded. And having developed a friendship with him, I don't know how I would have taken it if he'd been injured or lost, but I'm sure I'd never have properly gotten over it. Still, through the years that followed he would only say that he saw it coming and was thus able to escape unharmed. He would never elaborate on the details, like a magician who never discloses his professional secrets.

Every now and then, we meet for an evening's serious drinking at the Elephant and Castle Pub in Dumbarton. On one occasion, we had a surprise reunion.

We were sitting in our usual corner, when an American tourist and his wife came to sit at the next table. He looked over at us, and then looked again, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. He came straight over and as he stood by us, I looked at him properly for the first time, and then we all recognised him. It was our submarine skipper, Captain Johnson! He told us he was pursuing his hobby of finding tall ships to photograph and maybe sail aboard. He'd just arrived to see the ship down by the river. As he was speaking, he realised that we weren't there by accident, and that the ship must be the same one he'd been on two years earlier. We had a grand time telling him what had happened on the rest of the voyage. That turned out to be a truly memorable evening!

The people in the town never forgot our adventure in bringing the old ship back and often ask about different stories they'd heard. Sometimes I find it remarkable just how much the stories can change when I hear them repeated by other people. Still, it's good for many a pint in the local when we're asked to recount our adventures “in the interests of accuracy.” No one ever grows tired of a good story.

Martin corresponds with us every so often and tells us the latest from the Beasley Inn and news from around the village. Once in a while we get together with a ham radio operator here and have a lively chat with him. Ever since the orphanage closed down, the building continued to fall to ruins, until a decision was made to dismantle what was once a grand old building and various contractors carried off the materials to other jobs. As for O'Connell, he'd been dealt with severely and was rarely seen in the company of Mrs. B. The Inn went on as usual, but we seldom discussed what happened there. Occasionally Martin can't resist treating us to an amusing story from his many years serving under the Beastly One. Eventually, the old sunken coal ship had been cleared away, and there was talk about preserving the area as a bird sanctuary.

Harris still keeps in touch with Brian and his family, along with Richard and the many mates who helped us on our journey, and those who supplied us with provisions and information prior to and during it. I never knew so many people were involved or how much planning had gone into it until it was over. I now understand why Bowman, Harris, and Edward didn't give over much information.

Earlier that day I went with Harris and Boris to the local zoo. The regular staff knew them well, and had been there when Boris came marching through the main gates with a large brown bear two years earlier. We went over to a concrete wall where we could see into the bears' enclosure: a grassy mound with trees, rocks, and water running by the perimeter.

We stood quietly and watched a female play with her two cubs in the morning sunlight. After a while, Harris opened his coat and took out a large package of sausages. After unwrapping them, he threw several to the bears, who immediately gobbled them up. Two young keepers, who didn't know us, were working nearby and saw this happening.

“Ye there,” one of them shouted, “can ye no read the sign, mon? It says dinna feed the animals!”

Harris was bent over looking at the bears and began to straighten, but Boris grabbed his scarf and pulled him back down.

“Let me say something,” he told Harris. Boris then stood up and called out, in impeccable English, “Yes, I can read, but my friend here doesn't speak much English. I speak Russian so I'll tell him what you said.” Boris then addressed Harris earnestly in Russian, as if translating. “There you are, now he knows,” Boris called again.

The young zookeeper waved in appreciation and walked over to us. “Lovely creatures, eh? 'Tis a shame we lost the auld one. Ye should hae seen them together. They were a happy lot, and the cubs are a proper nice addition. Tell yer friend there to enjoy himself,” he told Boris, “but dinna feed the animals.”

Harris had been looking in astonishment at Boris. As the zookeeper walked away, he said, “I'm going to kill you! Since when has your English become so good?”

“Only when I try very hard without thinking,” Boris replied through his greying moustache.

“Tell your friend, indeed!” and Harris seized Boris in a make-believe headlock, as I laughed like a fool.

“Not so loud, you're supposed to be stupid,” Boris laughed. Harris watched as the zookeeper walked off, then threw the remaining sausages to the bears.

“I really do miss that old boy,” Harris sighed, “but I'm glad his last years were happy here.”

“Look!” cried Boris with sudden excitement, seizing us by the arms and pointing towards one of the young cubs. It was standing upright on its hind legs and was turning just as its father had been trained to do, smelling the air and making a tiny roar.

“You know,” Harris said, “despite all the things that were reported missing after our sailing, Brown Bear was not among them. They never missed him, because they never really cared.”

“You did,” said Boris. “If not for your reaction, I wouldn't have known.”

“It was you who managed to get that organized and get him on board without anyone noticing. I would never have thought that possible,” Harris snorted. “You little weasel!”

I left them and got a ride from a friend to the river. Walking down to the harbour, I sat down on the spring grass next to Katherine. We looked down at the old ship, now shining with a new coat of paint. The standing rigging had been overhauled, and the sails had been removed from the yardarms and long since discarded. The broken yard had been repaired and hoisted back up the mast. Katharine had managed to charm much of the cookware from the ship's galley, that would after all never serve as one again, and each of us had a keepsake from the
Bonnie
Clyde
in our homes.

She sat in the sunshine gleaming, and on her bow was inscribed
Bonnie
Clyde
in gold, with Dumbarton added on the stern. She was now on permanent display for everyone to share in the history of shipbuilding in the region, the grand story of the age of sail.

Katherine said the ship had never looked so good. “Almost makes me want to do it all over again,” she smiled.

“Really?” I asked, in mock surprise.

She wrinkled her nose at me. “I said almost.”

After a while, a group of boys were introduced to us by friends who were returning from a tour of the ship. We lolled, reclining on the grass in the lovely afternoon sun, as I told them how the ship came to be here, as I'd been asked to do by their parents. It was a very abbreviated version of the long story I'd told so very many times before.

They sat there listening, mesmerised by the story of the run through the Channel under sail, being chased by the Royal Navy, the circus tent sails, our mates, the brown bear, and our own part in the saga. Later, as we were preparing to leave, one of the young boys came over to me.

“Mr. Flynn, is that really how the ship came to be here?” he asked. I stood up with Katherine, and brushed the grass from my trousers. I looked down at the boy and smiled, then reached over to take Katherine by the hand.

“Could be,” I answered. “But then again, it might be just another ship's tale.”