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 work bench. 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 Flor-rie." 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 three hundred sixty-six 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-nineteen six 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 com-panionway 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 Coro-mandel 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."