He rummaged around in his map-chest and dug out a chart he hadn’t tried yet. Unfortunately it showed Jerusalem as being at the centre of the world, and he put it back with a sigh. The next one he found was extremely non-committal on the topic of Australia, and that too was discarded. As it happened, Vanderdecker had been the first European to set foot on Australian soil. He had taken one look at it, said “No, thank you very much” and gone to New Guinea instead. Subsequent visits had not made him review his opinion.
There was, he said to himself, only one thing for it. He would have to ask the First Mate. Not that Antonius would know the answer; but it would at least put his own ignorance in some sort of respectable context.
Antonius was playing chess with the cook on the quarterdeck. Vanderdecker saw that of Antonius’ once proud black army, only the King remained. This was by no means unusual. Antonius had been playing chess for three or four hours a day for four centuries and he still hadn’t won a game.
“Antonius,” he said, “do you happen to know where Dounreay is?”
Antonius looked up irritably. His expression suggested that he had been on the point of perfecting a sequence of manoeuvres which would have resulted in victory in four moves, and that his captain’s interruption had dispersed this coup to the four winds.
“No,” he said. “Is it in Italy?”
“Thanks anyway,” said Vanderdecker.
“I know where Dounreay is,” said the cook.
Vanderdecker stared. It was remarkable that anything should surprise him any more, but this was very much out of the ordinary. The last time the cook had been deliberately helpful was when Sebastian van Dooming had gone through a brief wrist slashing phase and the cook had lent him one of his knives.
“Do you?” Vanderdecker asked.
“Yes,” replied the cook, affronted. “It’s on the north coast of Scotland.”
Vanderdecker frowned. “How do you know that?” he asked.
“I was born there,” said the only non-Dutch member of the crew. “They’ve built a power station over it now. Typical.”
Well yes, Vanderdecker said to himself, it is rather. Miserable things tended to happen to the cook, probably because they were sure of an appreciative welcome.
“So you could tell me how to get there?” he asked. The cook shook his head.
“No way,” he said. “I’m a cook, not a pilot. I couldn’t navigate this thing if you paid me.” The cook frowned. “That reminds me…” he said.
“All right, all right,” said Vanderdecker. “But you’d recognise it if you saw it again?”
“Maybe,” said the cook, “maybe not, how the hell should I know? Uke I said, they’ve built a bloody fast-breeder whatsisname on top of my poor granny’s wee croft, so there’s probably not a lot of the old place left to see.”
“Thanks anyway,” Vanderdecker repeated, and wandered off to have a stare at the sea. It was his equivalent to beating his head repeatedly against a war.
On the other hand, he said to himself, as he let his eye roam across the grey waves, the number of nuclear power stations on the north coast of Scotland is probably fairly small. All one would have to do in order to locate it is to cruise along keeping one’s eyes open for three-headed fish and luminous oysters. And God knows, we’re not in any hurry. We never are.
He walked back along the deck, feeling that he had earned this month’s can of Heineken. As he passed by the cook (who had finally and irretrievably checkmated the first mate, who seemed very surprised) he stopped and said thank you.
“Forget it,” growled the cook, in the tone of one who firmly believes that his request will be acted on.
“Just one more thing,” said Vanderdecker. “How did you know they’d built a nuclear power station on your granny’s wee croft?”
“I saw it last time we were there,” said the cook. “Last February, I think it was. I seem to remember it rained.”
Vanderdecker didn’t say, Then why the bloody hell didn’t you say so earlier. He said thank you. Then he went to have another good look at the sea.
♦
Jane was feeling pleased with herself. Just when she had begun to think that her career was going nowhere and that she might soon be looking for another job, here she was with an important new file to look after.
Not that she was particularly fond of her career, but it did help pay the rent, and she was enough of a realist to know that it was probably the only one she was likely to have, what with the vacancy of Princess of Wales having been filled and so many 0-Levels being needed for pearl-diving these days.
She knew for a fact that the RPQ Motor Factors file was something of a mixed blessing. Look at Jennifer Cartwright. Look at Stephen Parkinson. In fact, you would need binoculars if you wanted to do this, since both of them had left the firm and gone to work in Cornwall after a week or so with RPQ. A hot potato with the pin out, as Mr Peters would say.
