“Oh yes,” Jane said. “God, you’re efficient, aren’t you? I’d forgotten all about…”
“Habit,” Vanderdecker said. “I’ve got into the habit of looking after people, remember, making sure they don’t get into messes or start fighting each other. While I’m at it, I might as well use the Professor’s computer, since he’s obviously washed his hands of the whole affair.”
Just then the kitchen door opened, and there was Sebastian. He was looking pleased with himself.
“Hey, skip,” he said, “it’s all fixed.”
“I know,” Vanderdecker said.
“What?”
“Oh, sorry,” Vanderdecker said. “What’s fixed, Sebastian?”
“The ship.”
“What ship?”
“The supertanker,” Sebastian said. “We’ve booked one.”
Vanderdecker stared. “You’ve booked one?”
“That’s right, yes,” Sebastian said. “We tried Harland and Wolf first, but they thought we were playing silly buggers and put the phone down. So then we tried this Korean firm, Kamamoto-something, Pieter wrote the name down, and they said they had an ex-demo tanker going cheap, low mileage, taxed till April, metallic grey with headrests, and when would we like to take delivery? So we said, can you run it over to Bristol, and they said would Thursday be all right, so we said fine…”
Vanderdecker smiled. “Sebastian,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Ten out of ten for initiative,” said the Flying Dutchman, “but let’s say four out of ten for judgement. They were having you on.”
“You what?”
“Pulling your leg,” Vanderdecker said. “Playing games. Being funny. Laughing up their sleeves.”
“How do you know?”
Vanderdecker widened the smile slightly. “Trust me,” he said. “I know. Why don’t you just let me…”
Sebastian shrugged his shoulders. “Be like that,” he said, offended. “We were only trying…”
“Yes,” Vanderdecker said. “You always are. Very. Go away and count something, there’s a good lad.”
Sebastian drifted off, and Vanderdecker turned to Jane. “You see?” he said. Jane nodded.
“And you still want to come?”
“Yes please.”
♦
Fourteen months later, at half-past four in the morning, the biggest supertanker ever built slithered into the cold grey water of the North Sea and set off on its maiden voyage.
Curiously enough, there were no celebrations to mark the launching of this magnificent vessel (named, for sound fiscal reasons,
This desire for privacy was understandable, because the owners weren’t looking their best.
“I still say it suits you,” Vanderdecker said.
“People will think I’m seasick,” Jane replied.
“Let them,” Vanderdecker said. He glanced down at the instrument console before him; a cross between a huge computer keyboard, the flight deck of an airliner and a Yamaha organ. “I wonder how you drive this thing.”
“I lent Antonius the manual,” Jane said. “He asked me what gyroscopic means.”
“Oh well,” Vanderdecker said, and shrugged, “never mind. It beats hauling in all those ropes, at any rate. Where shall we go first?”
“Reykjavik.”
“Why Reykjavik?”
“Because we have all the time in the world,” Jane answered, “and I want to save the good bits till later.”
“Good thinking,” Vanderdecker said. “I can see you’re getting the hang of this.”
Through the tinted, double-glazed window they watched the coast receding into the distance. Just briefly, Jane felt her old life slipping away from her, and wondered if she ought to regret it. She was entering into a new timescale entirely now, and the next time she came back to England, perhaps everyone she knew there would be dead. But that was a very big thought, and there wasn’t enough room in her head for it; all the available space was taken up with a calm, deliberate pleasure.
“Another nice thing about this ship,” Vanderdecker said, “is not having to take it to Bridport to be fixed every time something goes wrong with it. God, I hate Bridport.”
“I gathered,” Jane said. “It can’t have been nice having to spend so many of your shore-leaves there.”
“True,” said the Flying Dutchman. “Mind you, if you go somewhere often enough, you’re bound to get sort of attached to it after a time. Even,” he added, “Bridport.”
“Is that true?”
“No.” Vanderdecker admitted. “Every time I went there, it had changed, ever so slightly, for the worse. A new car park here, a fish shop turned into an estate agent there. I really thought it had bottomed out in 1837, but they hadn’t built the bus station then.”
“So is it fun,” Jane queried, “watching history unfold itself? Being a witness to the long march of Everyman? I suppose it’s like being a God, really, except that usually you’re powerless to intervene.”
