Free Levkas Man by Hammond; Innes Page A

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 workbench. 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 Florrie.’ 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.
    â€˜Does your wife go with you on all your trips?’ I asked.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜We’ll be going to the west coast of Greece first,’ I said.
    â€˜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 366 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