Down The Hatch (20 page)

Higher up on the mountain, on the next bend, The Bodger heard the sound of Gavin’s passing.

“Sounds like one of our high-powered friends driving into the scenery.”

“Can’t be,” Dangerous Dan said. “They’ve all been practising for months for this race. They must be miles ahead by now. I’m afraid that must have been one of ours.”

“Well I can’t stop now. Let’s just hope the Next-of-Kin Book’s up to date.”

They overtook Gotobed at the top of the mountain pass where he had stopped to admire the view and to start the second crate of beer. Here they changed drivers and Dangerous Dan took over for the hairpin descent down the mountainside, humming the chorus of the Grand March and Chorus from Act Two of
Aida
as he wrenched on the hand-brake to lock the rear wheels round the curves. The radio orchestra and chorus were bucking into the Soldier’s Chorus from Act Four of
Faust
as Dangerous Dan drove out on the long dusty straights of the inland plateau.

“I wonder if the wind-screen washers work?” said Dangerous Dan.

The Bodger pressed a rubber bulb which might have been borrowed from a Victorian dentist’s surgery. Two jets of water struck the windscreen with the force of fire-hoses.

“Like opening an artery,” The Bodger said.

When the great bell of the Church of the Immaculate Conception struck half past four, a wave of alarm almost amounting to panic passed amongst the race officials at the finishing line. The winner of the Targa Mango could be expected to average just over seventy-five miles an hour and was due to finish any time after four and certainly before a quarter past. It was now after half past four and the five-mile Avenida d’Aquila, down which the winner must come, was still empty. Furthermore, it was plain from reports throughout the afternoon that strange things had been happening on the track. The true position was still not clear but officials at check-points along the route denied any knowledge of Joe Perglosi, or Roger Quilter, or Jan Rameau or indeed any of the favourites. Every check-point relayed the same story. They had seen a pearl-grey Armstrong Siddeley, a green Sunbeam and a red M.G. but nothing else. Later, under pressure, they admitted to a Land Rover, driven fortissimo. But, emphatically, nothing else.

The finishing line control point was besieged by excited pit managers and reporters.

“What’s happened to Alec Scriabin?”

“Do you mean to tell me they haven’t seen anything of Joe Tartini? God, he’s just won the Pan-American, he should take this one standing on his head!”

The officials wrung their hands, re-telephoned and returned with the same story, with the addition of a blue Vauxhall.

“That’s my girl!” cried the Man from the Prudential. “That’s my car! “

“Who’s driving that?”

The officials consulted the list.

“Senor C. Stoker and Senor S. Coxswain.”

“. . And with that report from Arthur Sullivan, our correspondent in Cajalcocamara, we return listeners to the studio. . . .”

“Damn! I wish I’d got that station before. We might have got some idea of how we’re doing, Dan.”

“We’ll know in another half an hour. Can you get the opera again? I was rather enjoying that. Would you like to drive the last bit, Bodger?”

“That’s very generous of you, Dan. I’d love to.”

It struck The Bodger that they had not seen another car for some time.

“You sure we’re on the right road, Dan? We haven’t seen another car for a fair old time.”

“We must be. They seem to be expecting us wherever we go. The Navy must be popularity boys round this neck of the woods, judging by the chuck-up we’re getting. It’s understandable, you know, Bodger. The bright boys can do a hundred and seventy on these stretches. They must be home and dry by now. Our team are all behind us. We’re in between.”

“Between the sublime and the ridiculous,” said The Bodger.

Dangerous Dan looked at his watch. “Still, we’re not doing too badly. We’re averaging a steady fifty. That’s pretty good for beginners. If enough of the lunatics up front pile themselves into brick walls we might even get a place.”

The prospect of being placed in a major motor race went straight to The Bodger’s head like old wine.

“Steady, old fruit,” said Dangerous Dan. “I only said might. Ease off a bit. I’ve got a wife and two kids.”

Antonio Vivaldi, the man with the chequered flag, had once been a matador and he had brought his skill with the cape to the track. His cape-work now had more aficionados on the race track than it had ever had in the corrida. The greatest names in motor racing had flashed under his flowing veronicas. The Targa Mango was his favourite race. He had looked forward to it and had even practised a special pass in its -honour. But, at five minutes to six, Antonio sadly decided that his services would not now, if ever, be required. Stuffing his flag into a hip-pocket, he retired to the staff cantina.

He had barely tipped the bottle to his lips when there came a great growling roar from the crowd outside. Antonio Vivaldi, of all people, did not need to be told the sound’s significance. Such a cheer could only greet the first man home in the Targa Mango.

Spluttering and choking, Antonio Vivaldi was just in time to reach the finishing line, unfurl his flag, and wave it as The Bodger shot past. It was not a graceful movement and would have been hooted out of any bull-ring in Spain, but it was the best he could do with the wine still running down his chin. However, he recovered enough to execute a series of properly elegant passes over the unspeakable Sunbeam, the unmentionable M.G. and the indescribable Vauxhall which followed. Where the other drivers were, Antonio Vivaldi had no idea. He stuffed his flag away again and resumed his bottle, only vaguely conscious that he had played a walking-on part in the twilight of the gods.

There were no other finishers except, at midnight, an erratically-driven Land Rover and, at dawn, a Jaguar containing a dreamy Steward and a rapturous ash-blonde.

When the news of The Bodger’s winning drive was first flashed round the world, incredulous editors searched their press cuttings and cabled their correspondents to come in out of the sun. It was not until a picture of The Bodger, garlanded, dust-stained, smiling, and being embraced by the Chief of Police’s daughter, was radioed to the world’s capitals and the headlines appeared “British Cars, 1, 2, 3 in T. Mango!”, “New Racing Star!”, and “Gentlemen, A Toast--The Bodger!”, that the motor racing press and industry awoke to the fact that they had been the victims of what
The Times
later described as “the greatest turn-up for the book since David and Goliath”.

The three-legged donkey had won the Derby, slowing up. The tortoise had soundly thrashed the hare. Cartoonists hugged their sides and sharpened fresh pencils. In Modena and Turin and Coventry and Stuttgart men looked at each other in a wild surmise. In Detroit, executives fed the result into computers and said: “Overseas-sales-wise, this is a severe reversalization. It’s gonna cost us several mega-bucks, R.J.” In Paris, small swarthy men tore their berets into shreds and jumped on them, crying: “Nom d’un poisson, alors qu’est ce que c’est que ça, ce
Bodgaire
?” In London, a bewildered director of the winning firm was shaken from his club armchair and thumped on the back by the committee. All over the United Kingdom, Chief Constables added another name to their lists.

Deep in the unmapped wilderness beyond the mountains of SanGuana, a long line of cars worth over a million pounds had come to a halt because the leading car was axle-deep in a swamp. The magnificent engines were now motionless, gently pinging as they cooled in the shade of a line of mango trees.

The wilderness had already begun the process of assimilation. Ants tentatively probed the superb high-hysteresis racing tyres and wandered questioningly over the mirror-finished engine surfaces. A large green snake dropped with a slithering plop into a bucket seat. The first tendril of a searching vine had completed half a careful revolution around the wire spoke of a wheel.

The drivers had left their cars and were clustered round Wolf-Ferrari who was studying a silver cigarette case on which was engraved a small-scale map of South America.

At half past one the next morning, The Bodger, still wearing his garland, walked back along the jetty towards
Seahorse
alone. The Bodger could not remember a time when he had been more pleased with himself and with life. He and Dangerous Dan had won the Targa Mango (although exactly how, The Bodger was still not sure). Aquila had been very hospitable. They had all been invited to a ball at the British Consulate where they had eaten Crème de Carburettor Soup, Lobster Thermidor au Armstrong Siddeley, Chicken M.G. with slices of orange Sunbeam, followed by cafe au Vauxhall. The wines had been excellent and plentiful. Afterwards The Bodger had danced with the Chief of Police’s daughter who was South American rhumba champion. All sorts of genial people, and even Commodore Richard Gilpin, had come up and shaken him by the hand. He had refused an invitation to drive in the Dutch Grand Prix at Zandvoort the next week. Over the brandy Aquila had decided to form his own navy and offered him the job of Commander-in-Chief. Altogether it had been a memorable evening.

It had all been splendid, but shortly after midnight The Bodger had felt a need for solitude, a craving for that communion with his inner gods which comes upon many men after an evening’s drinking. The Bodger’s walk through the town led him, with that unerring instinct which leads a naval officer to his bunk like a homing pigeon, back to the jetty.

The Bodger steadied himself on Beaufort shire’s gangway while he measured the remaining distance to
Seahorse
by eye. His attention was distracted by the row of lights hanging on the gangway rail. The lights fascinated him.

They led his glance towards
Beaufortshire’s
quarterdeck. It seemed to The Bodger an inviting sort of place.

Carefully, The Bodger mounted the gangway. The quartermaster at the top regarded him with hostility. The Bodger resented the man’s look.

“Where’s the Officer of the Day?”

“Turned in.”

“Well, get him out then.”

The quartermaster hesitated. He had not yet placed The Bodger. He was definitely not one of
Beaufortshire’s
officers but he had nevertheless an undefinable, familiar look about him.

“Tell him the Commanding Officer of H.M.S.
Seahorse
wants him.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

All the quartermaster’s doubts were instantly resolved.

“Tell him I want the bar opened. Immediately. Urgently!”

Had the quartermaster then turned back and politely asked The Bodger to leave, all might still have been well. But the quartermaster only hesitated and went to call the Officer of the Day.

The Officer of the Day was the Navigating Officer.

“I’m afraid our bar is closed, sir,” he said coldly.

“
Closed!
’’ The Bodger pondered upon the enormity of the suggestion. “What a ridiculous idea, if I may respectfully say so.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Very well. Where’s your captain?”

“The Captain is ashore, sir.”

There comes to every man at some time the sickening certainty that the bartender is not going to give him a drink. The Bodger bowed before the verdict.

“Very well.”

The Bodger negotiated the gangway once more. The quartermaster and the Navigating Officer congratulated themselves that they had conducted a tricky interview with tact and finesse, and retired.

With one foot on
Seahorse
’s gangway, The Bodger stopped. An idea had just struck him. It was a concept of such imagination, such consummate daring, that The Bodger remained where he was for a moment, quite stunned by his own virtuosity.

Sober, The Bodger could contain his own more outrageous flights of humour; in the cold light of day, he could resist temptation. But under such a starlit night, after such a day, The Bodger resisted only briefly and capitulated.

The Bodger looked cautiously over
Beaufortshire’s
upper deck. It was deserted. Stealthily he moved along the jetty, removed
Beaufortshire’s
wires from the bollards, and placed them on the jetty. Then he ran to
Seahorse
, crossed the gangway, saluted gravely, and mounted to his own bridge.

“Slow ahead together,” he said.

Like a cat The Bodger shinned down the ladders and padded aft to the motor room where he again saluted and said: “Slow ahead together, sir, aye aye, sir.”

The Bodger made the switches and set the submarine’s main motors turning slowly ahead.

“Both main motors going ahead, sir,” he said, in a reasonable imitation of the Signalman’s sepulchral voice.

The Bodger ascended to the bridge and said to the voice-pipe: “Very good.”

He remained for some time looking aft, watching the water churning from
Seahorse
towards
Beaufortshire
.

“Stop together.”

Once more, The Bodger descended to the motor room.

“Stop together, sir. Aye aye, sir.”

The Bodger broke the main motor switches, walked forward to his cabin, and stretched himself, still fully clothed and garlanded, upon his bunk.

In the distance, as he fell asleep, The Bodger could hear the sound of voices but they were no more to him than the faraway buzzing of flies around a rubbish heap on a hot summer’s day.

A submarine returning from abroad was normally given a very modest press reception--seldom more than a column and a photograph in the local paper and a paragraph in the national press. H.M.S.
Seahorse
's return from SanGuana was given the most complete press coverage the Submarine Service had ever experienced. A helicopter met the ship in the Channel, before she had raised St Catherine’s, before even Geronwyn Evans had struck his tuning fork and led off “First the Nab and then the Warner”. She was photographed every inch of the way to her berth where Captain S/M and his staff were fighting to keep their feet amongst the television cameras and the clamouring crowd of reporters and families. Photographers swarmed over the jetty and the catamarans, snapping
Seahorse
’s ensign, The Bodger’s hat, Leading Seaman Gorbles, and in passing, the Naval Correspondent of the
Daily Disaster
who was struck smartly on the head by
Seahorse
’s first heaving line.