Barnabas Tales Page 21

  Some were trembling with anxiety but most were excellent, since Jane and her colleagues were careful conscientious teachers. A number were outstandingly good, quick and accurate with the casualty, dexterous with the bandages, and confident with the mannikin. A few made mistakes which I explained to them - there is a tendency to bandage first and think afterwards. One girl was so anxious that I sent her out to calm down and then come back to show me the techniques which she had been too shaky to demonstrate. On return she did them perfectly and I told her, like the others, how well she had done.

  Then Sir Mortimer lumbered in. I took him to the casualty with her injured shoulder and leg and asked him to examine her. He seemed consumed with shyness and doubt but eventually asked her where she hurt and what had happened. Then the blood running down her ankle and foot caught his attention and eventually I prompted him to notice that one of her arms was hanging limply and that she winced whenever it moved. As he still seemed at a loss, I suggested bandaging the injured leg and making a sling. He found the dressings and bandages, wrapped them round the leg and then studied the safety pin suspiciously. He turned it around, put on his reading glasses and examined it more closely while I watched in surprise. Eventually I took it from him, opened it and showed him how it worked. "Ah, most ingenious." he murmured.

  We went to Resusci-Annie and I told him that she was blue and extremely unwell. Sir Mortimer reached into his pocket, brought out two large silk handkerchiefs and spread one over her head and the other over her chest and looked at me expectantly. After a moment or two I prompted "ABC". He looked puzzled - "DEF?" he suggested. I took a deep breath and explained what ABC stood for, and recommended careful reading of the volunteers’ handbook. At the end I said very gently that I did not feel I could pass Sir Mortimer at this time. He flushed, started to say "Now look here..", and then tightened his lips and turned and left.

  The last candidate, a schoolgirl, sailed through the tests with flying colours. I congratulated her and asked her to invite Jane to come in - I wanted to discuss Sir Mortimer with her before facing the whole group. Everyone else had done well.

  Jane came in and we discussed what to do. I asked how Sir Mortimer had managed earlier "Oh, he has not been to any classes." replied Jane "and I tried to dissuade him from entering." I thought for a moment "It seems rude to announce the results to the group, especially as we are his guests." "Well, he has just had an urgent phone message and had to leave. He sent his apologies."

  With Sir Mortimer safely away, I joined the group and truthfully told them how excellently they had done, and that their certificates would be posted to them within a fortnight. I said that I looked forward to them competing at County and Regional level, and obtaining higher qualifications. The cheerful faces and smart uniforms augured well for the branch and for any local citizens who suffered accidents.

  As I drove home, I thought "I'll never be asked back to examine here"

  From time to time over the next ten years I took friends to visit the little grey town with its narrow streets. These lane and alleys could still be blocked and defended if Llewellyn ap Gruffydd or another medieval Welsh warlord should reappear and swoop down from the hills, and no doubt Sir Mortimer's warrior blood would rise effectively to that challenge. I was correct about one thing - I have never been invited back to the branch.

  WILL THE TIDE BE HIGH ENOUGH?

  Dear Bill, I thought that I should write with a few details of my recent adventures, since I have heard that Winston has invited you to sail with him. I suggest you give it very careful thought before accepting.

  A few weeks ago I joined him and his then heart-throb for a trip to Brittany. I hoped cousin Jane could come, but Aunt Sarah was taken ill. So the crew was Winston as skipper, Penelope, and me. As you can imagine it was a little difficult providing them with adequate privacy in the confines of a Sadler 34.

  We motored across the Channel in calm weather and spent a pleasant week on the North Brittany coast. I can quite see how Port Fever develops and Winston enjoyed the trip so much that he could not bring himself to leave on the Friday, so it was Saturday afternoon before we set off from the Tregeir River to return to Fowey, sailing overnight. But by then the weather had changed with a deep low-pressure system coming in from the Atlantic. Despite that we set off and Winston said that he planned to arrive at Fowey at high water which would be at 11.00 and getting over the bar into the river would be easy and comfortable. I did not think to check his tide tables.

  We fairly soon had to reef and Winston appeared unfamiliar with sailing the boat in rough weather, despite owning it for years. Penelope was willing but more decorative than helpful, and had difficulty coping with simple things in the galley. By dawn the sea and the wind had risen. We avoided a few big vessels in the shipping lanes but were being pretty severely shaken. Then Winston came up on deck looking grave, to announce that there was an imminent gale warning for the Western Channel and he was feeling too unwell to take the next watch. And he went below.

  So with some help from Penelope we reefed more deeply and continued towards Fowey while the weather to the west looked ever more threatening. Since I seemed to be in charge, I asked Penelope to bring up the tide tables and the chart to check the details. Winston had misread the tables and we were due to make landfall with the tide flooding out from Fowey over the bar - not a good time with a south-westerly gale approaching and with wind against tide at the entrance. However the chart showed 6.6 meters at the bar so there should be water under the keel even if we experienced very deep steep waves. I sent Penelope below to tell Winston the situation and to say that I thought it would be difficult to beat westwards to Falmouth, and with a gale approaching quickly running for Plymouth seemed even less attractive than trying to get into Fowey. On the other hand we could head out into the Channel to get sea-room well away from the coast. Penelope came back to say that he was rather green and just shook his head and would not say anything at all.

  By now we could see land, and I started the engine to have it ticking over. It fired for a minute or two, then died and would not restart. Winston had not wanted to fill up with diesel in France and said he would wait to return to England. I suppose the crossing had so shaken the fuel tank that the deposits in the bottom had swirled around and blocked the filters. It is not usually too difficult to clean them, but it’s a fiddly job and takes time. Finding them in rough weather was not an attractive prospect. Thus Penelope and I (Winston scarcely counting at this stage) were left without engine power. Next I sent Penelope to ask Winston to radio ashore, request advice, and announce that we were trying to enter the river. She came back to say that the transmitting side of the radio had not been working for weeks and her mobile phone battery was flat! She did volunteer that she’d checked the fore-cabin hatch was securely closed so she was getting the hang of life afloat.

  Fortunately the dinghy was on deck, and the life raft was packed at the top of the port locker, so I made sure that Penelope and I had knives to cut any lashings if necessary. We were wearing our life-jackets well clipped on. Fairly soon we could see the entrance to the river, filled with spray and white water. From the cockpit we could see the backs of the waves and then spume flying inland. I looked over my shoulder to the west, which was black and even less inviting. Since the wind was dead behind us, we put in the cabin washboards shutting Winston inside, turned around, let the main down completely and roughly lashed it, and unrolled about a third of the foresail. With that the die was cast and we turned towards the river mouth and sailed straight for it.

  I have never been in such fierce water. The Sadler shook and groaned, now with the bow up and then almost vertically down. Several waves broke over us into the cockpit, but the mast and rigging held and nothing broke. We let out more foresail and that kept us moving through the outrunning tide. One especially big wave broke just behind us and shoved us forward. I wrestled with the helm and kept reassuring myself that the six meters of water shown on the chart meant that
at the bottom of the troughs the keel should be clear of the bottom. After a terrible shaking, we came through safely past the worst of the waves, and sailed up to the town.

  The next problem was where to stop and how, and whether to try to tie up or to anchor. Even with only a little foresail we were still moving quickly. I thought we might need to sail up-river to some shallow muddy area and anchor, but round one of the bends the wind slackened and we tied up to a china-clay mooring buoy, even though strictly forbidden to yachts. We took the washboards out and a little later Winston came on deck.

  And that, Bill, was the most unpleasant trip I have ever experienced. I blame myself for not checking on Winston's experience and seamanship before I agreed to sail. He was not the slightest help when the chips were down, so my advice is to decline any invitation from him unless you have one or more experienced yachtsmen on board, and unless he agrees to take your advice. And make sure he does not economize on diesel. Winston is an excellent chap on dry land, but hopeless afloat. Penelope turned out to be able to keep her head in a crisis and is, I think, wasted on him. She was not very impressed when he opted out while we were in serious difficulties. Watch this space! It is a very ill gale that blows no good at all!

  But seriously, think more than twice before leaving sheltered waters with Winston in charge.

  With all best wishes, Mike

  WINDY WILLOWS REUNION

  “Pour yourselves another drink.” Ratty called. “I’m adding a special herb I found yesterday.” Mole settled himself deeper into the saloon armchair while Badger filled another two glasses. “I suppose he will be late, as usual.” said Mole. Badger grunted.

  A few minutes later Ratty joined them and the three friends looked at each other. “Comfortable little place you have here.” said Badger “but did you never want to get somewhere larger, more central, and get on in the world?” “Get on in the world? Bless you – no! I’ve got the river, my old skiff, and everything I want. My old den became a little small for me, but here I have space to entertain my friends, and I feel the barge rocking comfortably when boats go by. A little music and, as I’ve always said, messing about in boats is the best possible way to live. You have no need to worry about me” and he shook his head until his ponytail swung wildly.

  Mole looked over his drink at Badger “What about you? Are you satisfied being an elderly philosopher, writing your regular column, and courted by politicians? You used to know everything which went on in the Wild Wood, but you rather ignored anything beyond.” Badger, immaculately clad in his black and white Saville Row suit, stroked his greying hair. “It is not what I imagined when I was a youngster, I admit, but there is so much folly around with weasels and dormice and even Toad’s old washerwoman in Parliament that I do really believe someone has to speak up for simple common sense. The trimmings of fame are tiresome, but sometimes I convince myself I’ve helped steer the ship of state away from various rocks.” “And you’ve done quite well for yourself” added Ratty. “Even on this quiet river we heard of your trips to Davos and places like that, and once a paper blew on board with pictures of Badger Mansions in Knightsbridge, wherever that may be. It said you were part of a rather extravagant set.” “It’s near a bigger river than you’re used to.” replied Badger, slightly nettled.

  Ratty looked at his watch. “What can have become of him? Toad knew the time and promised he would be here.” “He was always late.” said Mole. He went on “About myself in the years since we last met I went into teaching. Now I’m headmaster of a comprehensive school. Administration and paperwork keep me out of the classroom for most of the week, but I still teach a few groups. We struggle to integrate many of the new animals. A family of meercats joined easily enough, but we had a puff adder who caused unending problems and finished up with an ASBO, and a young polar bear who complained the school was too hot. Students are allocated by lottery now, and next year we are going to have to fit a hippopotamus and a stick insect into the same class. I don't know how we'll manage. I’ve never married, so the salary is enough for me, though I couldn’t bring up a family of moles on what I earn. But, no complaints, I feel it’s worthwhile, as they say, to encourage the lion to lie down with the lamb, side by side rather than one inside the other.” “Very creditable” murmured Ratty. He pricked his ears up. “Isn’t that a car?”

  And indeed it was a car, or two cars welded together. On the tow path a stretch limo glistened with chrome except where mud smeared the wings. A uniformed chauffeur called across to them. “Is this Ratty’s Repose?” They signalled assent and he opened the vehicle door and out stepped a portly figure resplendent in sequins, tights and gold braid. Even the worldly-wise badger drew in his breath. Toad approached the gangplank. “Wait a moment, Toad” cried Ratty, taking off his chef’s apron and striding across the plank. “We don’t want any of those things to go into the water – they might dissolve.” Toad waved his helping hand away and waddled over the plank.” “Hello, darlings!” he cried.

  Inside the saloon the four old friends looked at each other, each with a glass in hand. “To Kenneth Grahame” said Ratty “We owe him a great deal.” They drank the toast, and Toad turned to Mole “Which Kenneth was that? Kenny Williams – now he was a great chum of mine.” Mole looked at him in surprise.

  As they sat down to their meal Toad lifted a many-ringed hand. “To the Fellowship of the Willows” he cried “Forty Years on!” and he began to sing the song until Badger sternly shut him up. In a kinder voice he said “We have already told each other something of our past years. Toad, please tell us about yourself.”

  Toad looked around. “I have had a marvellous time. I wish I had discovered show business earlier. As soon as I made a name for myself I sold Toad Hall to a man who made it a theme park, and then my talents floated me to the top. Whenever I appear with my orchestra, or singing in opera, at Glyndebourne or at Glastonbury, the crowds gather round. The young girls and many of the chaps swoon and throw themselves at me. Sequins fallen from my suit have been sold on e-bay for hundreds of pounds. Then there are the films I have starred in. I simply cannot believe what a humdrum life I used to live, nor how I managed without a Lamborghini and a private jet.” He paused for breath. None of the others could think of anything to say. “After the meal, Ratty, I’ll sing you some songs including two I have specially written for next week’s Royal Performance. I have sent copies to the Palace and expect their party to join in.”

  Mole turned to Ratty. “This is a wonderful stew, Ratty. I must congratulate you on your cooking. What special herbs and ingredients have you added?” The conversation flowed gently throughout the meal, during which Toad ate and drank at least twice as much as the others. They cleared away, until over coffee Toad turned to Ratty “Be a good chap Ratty, please, and ask my man in the car to give you my guitar.”

  Ratty returned shortly. “I couldn’t find your man. He must have had difficulty reversing, and the car has slipped into the creek. It is very shallow so I expect he has gone for help. This guitar was inside.”

  Toad strummed the guitar. “No doubt you remember the old song which included -

  The Queen and her ladies in waiting

  Sat by the window and sewed.

  The Queen said “Who’s that handsome man?”

  They answered “Mister Toad”?

  At the Royal Performance two new extra verses will be –

  The Queen and her ladies in waiting

  Gasped as the great music flowed.

  The Queen said “What a marvellous voice –

  Melodious Mister Toad!

  The lyrics they are so clever,

  The messages they encode

  Make us the greatest admirer

  Of the songs of Mister Toad.

  Badger muttered quietly “Corrode, nematode, and commode seem better rhymes to me.” But Toad was already in full flow singing in his deep husky voice and interspersing songs with stories. The others drank their coffee in silence while Toad’s performance
washed over them. Eventually he slowed, fell silent, rested back in his chair and closed his eyes. The chest rose and fell rhythmically.

  Ratty looked at Mole and Badger “He hasn’t improved, just got louder and even more self-centred. What can the crowds see in him? Is it his Eartha Kitt voice?” Mole and Badger shook their heads. Mole stood up and said. “Thank you Ratty very much for bringing us together, and for such a magnificent meal. I think I can see why Kenneth never wrote a sequel. After forty years I look back to our time together through a haze of kindly reminiscence. Perhaps in another forty years I’ll think that tonight Toad was just a little high-spirited but I suggest we should not have another reunion too soon. You must come to my flat next time.”

  “I think you are right. He probably won’t waken until late tomorrow morning - perhaps then I’ll find out how much of what he said was pure invention. I’ll leave him here to sleep off his excess. If you walk past Toad’s car sitting in the creek, the first house on the right belongs to a taxi-driver who has promised to take you home. And should you meet Toad’s chauffeur, tell him to go home and await instructions.”

  The three sober friends shook hands and parted on the bank. Ratty waved goodbye, sighed, and walked back across the gangplank. In the saloon he looked at Toad’s gross slumbering form and went through to the galley to start the washing up, humming quietly “Should old acquaintance be forgot, ……?”

  THE FROME BRIDGE

  Bridget and I sat one still June evening on the simple parapet-less brick bridge which spans the Frome and links Dormington with Weston Beggard. The water runs more than eight feet below the arch and between steep overgrown banks, so the edge of the bridge provides an excellent view point for observing life on the river banks.