This chapter was full of red ink to start with, most of the ink due to silly mistakes overlooked in my panic to get things going. I was getting frustrated at the legnth of time it was taking to move to the next chapter each time. On this work I sent and resent four times before the editor was REASONABLY satisfied, but even then, she wasn't entirely pleased by my not getting a particular scene quite as she wanted it. In the end she left me to clear things up but I know when we finish the edit and go for the polish, she will dab this one with a big brush. See what you think about the scene where Anthony rescues Barbara's lover from drowning. It's very short but took forever to get finished where it is. It's not just a question of showing action or description, it's getting that invisible thing called atmosphere and feeling through to you, the reader. Let me know if it worked. Its still not quite right. Notice all the (he)'s during the rescue.
CHAPTER FOUR
A mass of screeching seagulls circled, swooped, and dived around the Enchantele as she entered the outer harbor at Villefranche-Sur-Mer draw. Her nets were n up on either side and hung from the side booms. A pile of orange buoys attached to the net line lay behind the hatch cover at the stern of the boat. As she made her way around departing vessels, she left a thin trail of diesel smoke hanging in the air and seagulls bobbing up and down on her white effervescent wake.
Several fishing smacks painted in faded colors lay at anchor in the outer harbor or tied up to the quayside wall, rising and falling on the swell. The quay ran for a hundred yards until it joined with a steep bank of grass running alongside the coastal road. Across the road, scarlet geraniums overflowed from flower boxes beneath the upstairs windows of a row of houses bathed in bright sunlight.
Anthony stood in the bow, his bare feet feeling the heat from the wooden deck. His weather beaten face belied his age as did his calloused hands. A few years at sea had transformed him from a youth to a muscular seaman. His hair was thick and black, comprising of a mass of ringlets cut just below the top of his ears and across the nape of his neck. Hidden beneath were several small scars. Shielding his eyes from the glaring noon sun, he looked across the bay at the Golden Daffodil, an eighty foot white luxury yacht moored alongside several other smaller cruisers some two hundred yards away. On the foredeck, under an awning, he could just make out Mrs. Fitzgerald lying on a lounger.
The Golden Daffodil lay berthed in the quieter waters of Villefranche-Sur-Mer away from the public eye. Barbara Fitzgerald, a tall, slender and attractive American in her fifties was a woman with influential friends in politics and the art world. She was a careful woman who shunned the press. Across the bay and beyond Mount Albon lay Nice, a short six kilometer drive to all the expensive shops, boutiques and restaurants she loved.
Barbara met Anthony through Baris, one of the stewards from the Golden Daffodil. Anthony worked in a local bar after leaving his last ship when Baris, a regular, struck up a conversation with him and they became friends.
Baris worked most of his life at sea. Greek police on Crete had slaughtered his family of migrant workers during the 70’s. The two men hit it off and it wasn’t long before Anthony gathered a lot of information about Barbara Fitzgerald and her collection of priceless paintings.
He made sure his new friend was aware he was looking for another berth and when a crew member left the Golden Daffodil, Baris told his captain about Anthony. Barbara attended the interview without getting involved as the captain went through Anthony’s seamen’s log. A nod from her at the end of the interview and he was signed on to the crew.
For Anthony it was the first time he’d been so close to real money and he began to hope his dream to acquire a small fortune might become reality. He needed money in order to keep a pledge made to the memory of his dead mother.
Barbara Fitzgerald spent June and July at Villefranche every year, hosting parties or flying off to see friends in other parts of Europe. Anthony made a point of remembering her likes and dislikes. He learned to make her favorite cocktail, Tequila Sunrise, the way she liked it and kept her stateroom in the shade to keep the sun from damaging paintings. The curtains were drawn and opened throughout the day according to the position of the sun. He was careful to be courteous and called her ma’am with a slight incline of the head. In front of guests she was Mrs. Fitzgerald. He needed her trust to achieve his goal.
That opportunity presented itself at an evening birthday party for Barbara. The yacht was filled with influential art dealers and artists. Baris, always on the lookout to make money, pointed out one particular dealer to Anthony as a possible contact, should he come into any kind of questionable art or jewelry to be sold. Another guest, a Greek by the name of Ioannis Koskotas, spent most of the evening at Barabar’s side. At one point he moved away from her, holding a kerchief to his mouth as though he was about to be ill, and staggered out onto the foredeck.
Anthony was returning from the bar with their drinks when he saw Barbara join Ioannis, who was leaning over the rail being sick. She grabbed at the Greek’s jacket as he slipped further over. At the same moment, the yacht crested a large wave. Ioannis swayed and lost his balance. He made a grab for the rail but missed. In a split second, despite Barbara’s frantic effort to hold on to him, he plunged over the side into the boiling black water. Light streaming from portholes illuminated the Greek’s head and arms amongst the white wave tops as he broke the surface before disappearing back into the darkness.
Barbara screamed and turned, panic stricken. She clutched at Anthony’s arm. “Please do something,” she pleaded. “Oh, my God, help him!” Sinking to her knees, she gripped the rail and screamed out to Ioannis.
Anthony dropped the tray. The glasses shattered at his feet. He ripped his jacket off, climbed over the rail, and jumped into the water. His lungs burnt. He surfaced, gulped more air and dived under again.
A strong current pushed him toward the yacht. He kicked against the yacht’s hull. A flailing arm struck him across the back. He twisted in the swirling water and grabbed it. He wrapped an arm around the Greek’s neck. A few seconds later his hand closed over the companionway.
A steward and some guests pulled Anthony and Ioannis from the water, coughing and choking. Ioannis couldn’t walk. Two men carried him up to the deck.
Sobbing, Barbara followed Ioannis down to the staterooms below. As she disappeared she called, “thank you.”
Anthony sat for a moment on the bottom step, gasping for air and coughing. Salt water stung the back of his throat. He reached for the rope rail and hauled himself upright. Leaning on one of the stewards, and shaking, he managed to stagger back to the deck. He paused by the rail to catch his breath. Guests gathered around him, all congratulating him. Some were applauding. Baris wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. He patted Anthony on the back.
“Well done my friend.”
“Here, young man, you’ve earned this and another for good measure.” A guest offered a glass of brandy and shook his hand. Anthony gulped the brandy in one mouthful, and then coughed as the alcohol warmed his throat and stomach.
Feigning embarrassment, Anthony excused himself amid all the celebrations and made his way to the stateroom stairs. Water dripped from his clothes and his soft deck sandals squelched as he walked. Several guests followed him, patting him across the shoulders while Baris helped him down the stairs.
The following morning Barbara thanked him again and asked him to drive her to Nice on a shopping trip.
Parking in the city center, Barbara asked Anthony to stay with the Bentley. With nothing better to do, he settled down to read a newspaper. From time to time he glanced out of the window at young women strolling by, remembering the last time he shared a bed with Adrienne.
Full of life, Adrienne was a free spirited girl who loved to dance and party, and compared to most prostitutes in Marseille, her beauty set her apart. They met every now and again, whenever Anthony got back to port. It wasn’t just sex. He wanted female company; someone to dance and laugh with. He missed her. Two hundred kilometers away from Nice might just as well have been a million.
After sitting for two hours, he decided to stretch his legs. His white shirt and trousers were damp against the leather upholstery. He stepped out of the Bentley and stood under a nearby eucalyptus tree, enjoying a cool breeze that played over his back and through his hair.
A short while later he heard Barbara calling him from across the road. Her bright yellow dress, contrasting sharply with a candy striped canopy behind her, billowed about her legs. A row of shopping bags leaned against each other and a small box sat next to them on the sidewalk beside her. She dabbed her face with a tissue and then gave him a quick little wave as he crossed the road. He picked up the shopping and accompanied her back to the Bentley.
“Thank you, Anthony,” she said.
He flashed a smile. “Pleasure, ma’am.”
On reaching the Bentley, he opened the trunk and lined the shopping up across the floor. Barbara climbed in to the rear seat.
As they drove home Barbara said, “Anthony, I’m in town next weekend. I have several errands to run. I hope you’ll be available.”
Nodding, he said, “Of course, ma’am.”
That trip started badly. Barbara’s hair stylist was off sick and for over two hours Anthony sat at the back of the salon reading magazines while Barbara fussed at the stand-in stylist. Nothing seemed good enough. She adjusted the ties on the bib around her neck, complaining they were too tight and she brushed the girl aside when she tried to help.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing,” she said, irritably. “I can’t wait for Denise to return. She knows just how I like things. You young girls have no idea about personal service.”
The worst moment came when the girl rinsed her hair.
“Stop, you’re burning my scalp! What do you think you’re doing? How dare you treat me like this,” she shouted. She pushed the rinse tube out of the girl’s hands and glared at her. “I’m going to complain about this and if you think you’re getting a gratuity you can think again.”
Later she made the girl go hunt for more sugar. Her coffee needed sweetening. Anthony felt sorry for the girl and grinned broadly whenever she looked his way. She smiled back but as he opened the door for Barbara he noticed the girl walking quickly to the restrooms with a hand over her mouth.
The bad day continued at the Rolls Royce dealer’s service department. The Bentley was due for a service and Barbara found her business manager had not booked it in. Anthony listened as she insisted the garage made a mistake and should take the limousine in for a service.
“This is ridiculous!” she shouted, banging a fist on the counter. “My Bentley has been serviced here for the last ten years. The standards of customer care here are falling. Now, find me a slot today. I’ll leave the Bentley outside.”
When they refused, Barbara asked to see the manager.
Anthony sat on a nearby couch, hoping the manager might deal with the problem before Barbara’s mood set in for the day.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” he said, “but we are fully booked for today.”
He asked her to book the Bentley in for the following week.
“If I ran my business like you I’d have nothing done. Attention to detail, careful planning and looking after clients are the corner stones of any successful business. Yours is going downhill,” she snapped.
Furious, she left the limousine parked at the rear of the dealership and stormed off to the stores.
One or two errands turned into more than a dozen. Barbara flitted from one store to another and by the time she finished, Anthony was laden with bags and sweating. Back at the Bentley, he swung the bags into the trunk, lining them up neatly as before. He closed the trunk and stood for as moment with both hands on the lid. Sighing under his breath, he closed his eyes. When he opened them he caught Barbara’s eye.
Barbara’s stern expression turned briefly into a knowing smile. She touched his arm then said, “I guess today hasn’t gone to well for both of us. I’ve got such a lot on my mind. I may have to fly to a meeting in Athens tomorrow.”
Anthony looked away at a gleaming Rolls Royce standing nearby, then back again, a fixed polite expression on his face.
She breathed deeply. “Let’s have lunch. That’s the least I can do.”
“Oh, no that’s alright, Mrs. Fitzgerald.”
Barbara shook her head. “I appreciate your help, Anthony. Why don’t you drive us to the Negresco Hotel on the Promenade des Anglais?”
Ten minutes later they walked into the Negresco restaurant and a waiter showed them to a window seat overlooking the promenade.
Traffic glided along the road in a procession of gleaming limousines and sports cars mixed here and there with noisy scooters. Little pockets of pedestrians walked leisurely along the promenade, some with cardigans draped around their shoulders, the arms knotted around their necks. Others dressed in shorts and T shirts walking a poodle or shiatsu on a long colorful leash. Behind all the activity the sea looked choppy, small green-gray waves cresting white.
“So tell me, Anthony, what was the first ship you signed on to?” Barbara peered over the top of her reading glasses, normally hanging from a gold chain about her neck. “Did you suffer with sea sickness?” She continued browsing through the menu.
Anthony looked away from the scene outside and picked up the menu. “The Caledonian Princess,” he replied, “carrying containers of general cargo between Seattle and Tokyo.” He opened the menu and looked down the list of entrée’s, his right heel tapping the carpet.
The conversation carried on through lunch with Barbara showing interest in where he traveled and the cargos’ he worked with. He recounted the worst storm he’d sailed through off Cape Horn in a refrigerated ship carrying mutton from New Zealand. Sea sickness claimed nearly half the crew. The most exciting trips, he enthused, were working on banana boats between South America and Liverpool. Bananas were loaded shortly after they were picked and in England before they turned yellow.
“Are your parents still alive, Anthony?”
Anthony’s eyes flickered. The question caught him off guard. “No,” he replied, swallowing hard. His fingers played with his cup, turning it in the saucer. “My father left my mother six months before I was born. She…. she died giving birth to me.”
Barbara lowered her cup and leaned forward, gently placing a hand on his forearm. “I’m so sorry, Anthony.”
“Well I didn’t know either of them so….” He sipped his coffee.
“I don’t know what it feels like to have no parents but I have found out living on your own isn’t much fun either. I suppose the men you worked with were your family.”
Anthony nodded.
“I don’t miss Geoffrey,” she said, flatly.
Anthony took his cue. “You were married a long time then, Mrs. Fitzgerald? Was he already in business when you met?”
“Just about.” Barbara gazed out of the window. “It was tough at first but the hard work began to pay off. Mind you,” she said, removing the napkin from her lap, “I sometimes wondered if the long hours were worth it.”
Anthony sat, silent. She paused, a faraway look in her eyes. She turned back to him, the hint of a smile on her lips that disappeared as fast as it formed. “There were a lot of bad moments when things didn’t go our way but we overcame them.” She sighed and folded the napkin into a square before putting it down. “There were quite a few good times too.” A warm smile returned, remaining long enough for Anthony to feel uncomfortable.
He lowered his eyes and nodded. When he looked up he could see she wasn’t finished.
Geoffrey was Anthony’s age when they’d met at some party, and shortly after got married. A whirlwind romance, she said. Geoffrey started a small freight business, financed with the aid of an inheritance.
“The hotel chain came later. Geoffrey turned into a bit of a playboy.” The smile disappeared and the voice rose, each word edged with a little bitterness. She studied Anthony’s hair, and then looked into his eyes. “He was a real looker and you know what they say….money and men? Irresistible.” The head shook as though she were shaking bad memories loose. “Rather funny that, Geoffrey at fifty…. a playboy.”
She shrugged.
After his death she sold Geoffrey’s businesses off but kept the Trafalgar Art Trust they started together. It was all she wanted.
A pause followed her recollection. She brushed a jacket sleeve with the back of her hand then picked up her purse.
“Well, I suppose we’d better get back.”
“Thank you for the lunch, Mrs. Fitzgerald.”
Barbara clicked a finger at the waiter for the check. “That’s something else….” She sounded almost absentminded as she handed the waiter a credit card. After he left she leaned forward and said in a low voice, “You can call me Barbara when no-one’s around.”
They drove back to the yacht in silence, Barbara sitting in the back seat.
From that moment on a respectful friendship developed and over the next few weeks Anthony became her favorite steward.
The Enchantele turned into her berth alongside the quay and bumped against the row of tires, her engine throbbing quietly. Anthony jumped onto the quay, balancing his rod in one hand and a small basket containing cod in the other, then made his way to the promenade. He turned onto the road leading to where the Golden Daffodil was docked
Near the marina he stopped to look at a small but powerful fishing smack with a ‘For Sale’ sign stuck to the wheelhouse. It was all he’d ever wanted, a dream since his teen years. She was a sea going fishing smack with twin outboards and room for a good catch. Beads of sweat glistened on his broad forehead and trickled down the side of his nose. Flicking back strands of hair, he frowned. He pulled the end of his T shirt up and wiped the sweat from his eyes and face.
A large Mercedes interrupted his thoughts as it roared past, kicking up gravel and a cloud of dust. In the second it took for the large car to pass, he caught a glimpse of the driver. It was the Greek who’d visited Barbara several times, including attending the cocktail party when he’d fallen overboard and ended up sharing breakfast with Barbara the next day. Anthony spat on the ground and shook a fist at the disappearing car. He ran forward through the cloud of dust, an arm across his face, and spotted Barbara waving to him from the deck of the ‘Golden Daffodil’. He waved back and quickened his pace.
When he reached the top of the companionway she was waiting for him. Dressed in a red sarong over a white bathing suit, she smiled broadly. Her deep red lips parted slightly revealing an even row of white teeth. Wearing a gold chain necklace and a pair of pendulum drop diamond earrings; she was Anthony’s idea of how a film star looked at the film festival in Cannes.
“How was the fishing?” Her hazel eyes settled on the basket and a broad smile spread across her face. “Excellent, what did you catch?”
“Cod,” replied Anthony, stepping aboard. He held up the basket.
Barbara took the basket from him. “Thank you, Anthony. I’ll fix some salad to go with it.”
A breeze coming off the water snapped one side of the awning in a staccato beat.
Barbara brushed a fly away from the table. “We’ll eat out here.”
Anthony went below to his cabin. Small but comfortable, it held little furniture save a cupboard, dresser, mirror, hand basin, and a walk in shower and toilet. Above his bed there was a wooden cross affixed to the wall and on top of the dresser there was a small black and white photo of his mother in a silver frame.
Anthony tossed his fishing rod onto the bed and undressed. His tanned body showed scars from several fights over the years. Life at sea had kept him fit. He glanced at the photo of his mother. Barbara represented the life his mother never enjoyed. Not the money; but rather the freedom she never had.
He showered and changed into jeans, a T shirt sporting the Greenpeace logo and a pair of open sandals.
Barbara was laying the table when he returned to the foredeck. The late afternoon sun threw a soft pink haze across the deck and tinged her white trouser suit
“Let me do that, Mrs. Fitz….Sorry, Barbara. I’ll fetch the salad.”
Raising her eyebrows, Barbara pointed Anthony to a chair. “It may surprise you but sometimes I like doing things for myself.” Her chin jutted out slightly as she raised her head. She rolled her eyes in the direction of the galley and continued, “When Geoffrey was alive I couldn’t find time to do anything. Life was chaotic to say the least. Of course, that all stopped the day Geoffrey died. Nowadays I like to fuss around the kitchen when the chef is off duty.” As an afterthought she added.
“Maybe if there were children …..” She sighed, finished laying the table, and left to fetch the salad.
Anthony watched her disappear inside, a shock of red hair cascading over her shoulders and across the back of her suit.
Barbara’s red hair and good looks had always attracted admirers from an early age. Her parents, cattle ranchers from Texas, put her through college and on graduation, rewarded her with a trip to Europe. A friend in London invited her to share an apartment with her in Knightsbridge. Barbara loved the idea and moved in. Shortly after the move they attended a cocktail party where she met Geoffrey, introduced to her as a ‘man most likely to succeed’ by her friend. She thought him a handsome man with his shoulder length black hair. Just over six feet tall and muscular, his blue eyes sparkled within a tanned face painted with a permanent smile. By the end of the party they were inseparable and a short four month romantic affair ended in marriage.
The early days of the business were full of stress. It was a period of mental anguish and a nonexistent home life. They spent most of their time apart, snatching quick conversations on the phone or finding rare weekends when they could spend time together at their home in London
Geoffrey attacked business problems with a zeal she admired. Tenacious, outspoken, and larger than life, he always wanted her opinion yet rarely agreed with her. As the business began to take off the financial issues began to recede. Geoffrey showered her with gifts, the result of a guilty conscience he told her, for all the things she went without. On her birthday the first year after floating the business on the stock exchange, he bought her the Golden Daffodil. For the next three years they were the ‘must have’ couple society wanted at dinner parties and charity events.
Then Geoffrey bought out a large chain of hotels. It didn’t take long for the rumors to start about his affairs. She wasn’t too surprised.
Her love for him dissolved leaving a hollow marriage devoid of trust. Whilst she ignored his girlfriends he accepted the lover in her life. She learnt to be more assertive and organized her life with schedules that kept her busy most of the year. After his death she spent a comfortable life entertaining her friends and being more involved with her art foundation.
It came as a pleasant surprise to find Anthony was so like the young Geoffrey in more ways than just looks. He was a man with an even temperament, good manners, trustworthy and a hard worker. She liked him.
The corner of a copy of the La Monde newspaper lying on the table fluttered in the breeze. Anthony picked it up and absently turned the pages with interest. He stopped when a picture caught his attention. His eyes narrowed. Greek billionaire Hrisacopolis was going to transport the Elgin marbles back to Athens on one of his luxury liners. As he read the article, Anthony’s breathing became shallow. He gripped the paper and by the time he’d read it through twice his heart was racing. Taking deep measured breathes he folded the paper carefully and placed it back on the table. He uncorked a bottle of wine, poured two glasses, and then stood looking out across the bay. Holding a glass with trembling fingers he gulped the wine.
Barbara appeared from the stateroom pushing a small serving trolley. “Well now, that breeze is very welcome, don’t you think?” She brushed strands of hair from her eyes.
Anthony nodded. The freshly baked cod made his mouth water.
Placing the cod and salad on the table, Barbara served Anthony with some salad before helping herself from the bowl. Replacing the serving spoons, she sat down and looked across at Anthony. Resting her elbows on the table, she interlaced her fingers and twiddled her thumbs back and forth. She said, “Anthony….I need to speak to you about something important.”
Without replying, Anthony continued removing bones from the cod with the fish knife and placed them, one at a time, onto a side plate. He paused, his knife mid air. His eyes focused on a bunch of jangling keys as Barbara removed them from her purse.
“I will have to fly to Athens tomorrow.”
Anthony continued to eat without saying a word.
She placed the keys in front of him and picked up the glass of wine. “Have you heard of a man by the name of Hrisacopolis?”
He appeared to think. “No….I don’t think I have.” he said.
She tapped the table with her knife and pointed to the newspaper. “Well, you can read all about Hrisacopolis there. I’ve known him for a long time.”
She needed to sort out problems at the Trafalgar Trust right away. There was an early morning flight and she wanted him to drive her to the airport.
“I need someone to look after the yacht. The crew has gone on leave for a month as you know.”
“I’ll be happy to look after the yacht, Barbara. I could get the limousine serviced too, if you wish?”
Barbara smiled. “Good, and perhaps you would check the bilge pumps every….” She gave up competing against the roar of a passing helicopter, tapping her plate with a fork. She waited for the whine of the engine to fade before continuing. “Could you check the bilge pumps every now and again? She placed her knife and fork on the side of the plate and reached into her purse. Taking a key from it, she attached it to the bunch of keys. “You’ll need the office key as well.”
Anthony’s stomach knotted. The office contained several paintings. These included two Picasso’s and a Renoir.
“Good, we’re all settled then.”
That night, Anthony sat on the end of his bed. He took an envelope from the bedside table and drew a faded letter from it. He’d read it many times. The feeling of loss was overwhelming, mixed with a sense of injustice. Anger turned to hatred. He replaced the letter and sat with both hands gripping his knees. “Damn you to hell, Hrisacopolis!” His hands balled into fists.
