Flying Dutch

hated—Dutchman yes, perfectly true, but why “Flying”, for pity’s sake?—and the fact that she used his proper name was somehow rather touching.

“And you’ve been looking for me?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“I see.” His face seemed to relax, as he said. “Will you just bear with me while I go and see about my ship? Then we can go and have a drink and talk about it.”

“Fine,” Jane said. Very matter-of-fact. Very civilised. Noel Coward saying it’s a fair cop, but do let’s be adult about it. “Mind if I come too?”

“Be my guest,” Vanderdecker said. “You can watch a master liar at work, if you don’t mind being an accomplice.”

“Doesn’t worry me,” Jane replied. “I’m an accountant.”

¦

Very slowly and cautiously, Danny Bennett peeled back the blanket from over his head and looked about him. He was not one of those shallow people who judge by first impressions; he needed more data before he could responsibly start to scream.

A man in a threadbare woollen doublet, patched hose and a baseball cap walked past him and gave him a friendly smile, which Danny did his best to return. The curiously-dressed one started to climb the rigging of the ship. After a long climb he reached the unrailed wooden platform (was that the crow’s nest, or was that the little thing like a bran-tub at the very top? Briefly, Danny regretted not reading the Hornblower book his grandmother had given him when he was twelve); then he waved, took a deep breath, and jumped.

Danny’s eyes instinctively closed; the tiny muscles of his eyelids were perfectly capable to taking that sort of decision without referring back to the central authority between his ears. As soon as his conscious mind had reasserted its authority he looked for a broken mush of flesh and bone-splinters. Instead, he saw the badly-dressed man picking himself up off the deck, apparently unharmed, and shouting to someone else. Someone else was also dressed like one of those comic relief characters in The Merchant of Venice whose names Danny could never remember, except that he had a Dire Straits tee-shirt instead of a doublet, and a baselard and dusack hung from his broad leather belt. A production of The Merchant of Venice at the Barbican, he decided.

“Hey!” shouted the sky-diver, “I want a word with you.”

The heavily-armed man turned his head. “You talking to me?” he said.

“Too right I’m talking to you.” The sky-diver pointed to one of the many tears in his doublet. “Look at that.”

“I’m looking,” replied the other man. “What about it?”

“That’s your fault,” said the sky-diver angrily.

“Really?” The other man didn’t seem impressed. “How do you make that out?”

“Look,” said the sky-diver, “you’re meant to be the carpenter on this ship, it’s down to you to make sure there’s no nails sticking up where people can tear their clothes on them every time they take a jump.”

The other man laughed scornfully. “Listen,” he said, “if you didn’t keep on jumping, I wouldn’t have to keep on fixing the damned planking, so there wouldn’t be any nails. Would there?” And he thrust his head at the sky- diver, until their noses were almost touching. For some reason Danny was reminded of the Sistine Chapel, except that that had been fingers, not noses.

“Don’t give me any of that crap,” said the sky-diver. “I’ve had it up to here with your shoddy workmanship, and…”

“Are you,” said the armed man quietly and furiously, “calling me a bad carpenter?”

“Yes.”

With a movement of the arm so swift that Danny only saw the arc it described in the air, the carpenter whipped out his dusack and brought it down with sickening force on the skydiver’s head. This time, Danny’s eyelids stayed where they were. So, incredibly, did the sky-diver’s brains. Just then, another of these peculiar people came hurrying up. He too was dressed in a thought-provoking manner, but Danny didn’t even bother to analyse it.

“Cut it out, you two,” said the third party. “Can’t you see we’ve got visitors?”

The two combatants turned round and smiled sheepishly at Danny, who reciprocated. “It’s all right,” the third party called out, “they’re just kidding about, same as usual.”

It was the “as usual” that really worried Danny. He could feel his mouth open and his chin melt into his neck; always a bad sign.

“That’s fine,” he said. “Don’t mind me.”

The three of them looked at him for a moment. Then they walked over to him. He tried to shrink back, but he was already tight up against a large coil of rope and there was no scope for further withdrawals.

“I’m Danny Bennett,” he said, “I’m with BBC sports.” This remark had slightly less effect than an air rifle in an artillery duel, and Danny wished he hadn’t said anything. The three peculiar people looked at each other. Then one of them extended a large hairy-backed hand, which Danny took. The skin on its palm felt like coarse-grain sandpaper.

“Pleased to meet you,” said the third party, the one who had broken up the fight. “I’m Antonius, this”— indicating the sky-diver—“is Sebastian, and this”—the homicidal maniac with the big sword—“is Jan.”

Danny smiled, a sort of railway-buffet-tea smile. He felt he would be able to remember the names.

“So,” said Antonius. He was leaning forward, with his hands on his knees. “Sorry about your little boat.”

“My boat?” Danny asked.

“Your little boat,” said Antonius. “We sank it, remember?”

“Oh,” said Danny, “that boat. Yes. No hard feelings.” Antonius smiled warmly. He was obviously a man who gave due credit for magnanimity when it came to sunk boats. “Television,” he said.

Danny nodded, and then said, “What?”

“You’re with television,” Antonius said, “aren’t you?”

Danny nodded again, deeply relieved. For a while he had thought he was among pagans.

“Television,” Antonius went on, “is a wonderful invention. We all watch it when we’re on shore leave. “Coronation Street”.”

“I beg your pardon?” Danny said.

“‘Coronation Street’,” repeated Antonius. “That’s television. We like that.”

“Really?” Danny narrowed his eyes, as if trying to see a single cell without bothering with a microscope. He felt that the conversation was drifting away from him again.

“Of course,” Antonius went on, “we find it hard following the plot.”

“I know what you mean,” Danny started to say, but Antonius carried on over him, like a steamroller over a shrivelled apple. “You see, we only get to see it once every seven years, and a lot changes.”

“Oh I don’t know,” Danny said. “Why every seven years?”

“We spend a lot of time at sea,” said Sebastian, “don’t we, Antonius?”

“That’s right,” Antonius confirmed, “because of the smell.”

Danny saw Sebastian kick Antonius on the shin, and for a moment he expected swords to start flying. But instead Antonius looked sheepish and said, “Of the sea. We love the smell of the sea, we Dutch. It’s in our blood.”

Whatever’s in your blood at this precise moment, Danny thought, it’s sure as hell not seawater. However, he kept this comment to himself.

“No,” said Antonius, “I dunno what we used to do before there was television. We played the flute a lot more than we do now, of course, and danced galliards and went to bear-baiting, but you can get sick of that sort of thing, can’t you?”

“Yes,” Danny said. It was a good, non-committal thing to say, in the circumstances.

“The skipper, of course,” Antonius went on, “he’s got his alchemy. Apple?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Would you like an apple?”

“No thanks.”

“Please yourself. The skipper, he’s never happier than when he’s got his nose in some alchemy book or other. Can’t see what he sees in it. Tried to read one myself once. No pictures. Just funny little line drawings. But he