the first stars were pricking the warm sky, while, beneath Wavebreaker’s bimini cover, half-moon ice cubes clinked in crystal glasses. “This is the life.” The proctologist stretched his sunburned legs on the cockpit cushions and rested his head so he could stare past the bimini cover at the stars. “You’re one hell of a lucky guy, Nick. You spend your life with Ellen, while I get to stare up assholes all day.” He grimaced, then rolled his head to look at me. “Why didn’t you become an actor like your dad?”
“I’m no good at it.”
“Ineptitude didn’t stop me becoming an asshole doctor!” The proctologist hooted at his own wit before asking which of my father’s famous wives was my mother. I told him and he shook his head in admiration. “She was some looker, Nick! Wow.”
“Wow,” I agreed. In her time Mother had been almost as famous as Father, but presently she was in a home for inebriates where, on good days, she could remember who she was, but the good days were very rare and getting scarcer. I thought what a snakepit my family was; a snakepit dominated by a genius who knew how to create any illusion—even love.
“It must be pretty great having Sir Thomas as a father.” The proctologist was fishing for gossip.
“It’s wonderful,” I said with suitable sanctimony. “He’s a great man.”
The doctor nodded agreement. “You can tell that just from looking at him.” He was entirely serious, and had adopted a portentous tone suitable for expressing admiration for the Greatest Living Englishman. “Know what I mean, Nick? You look at Sir Tom on the screen and it doesn’t matter what part he’s playing but you can tell he’s a great guy. What’s the word I’m looking for? Help me out here, Nick.” He snapped his fingers. “Integrity!” he said at last. “Your dad’s got integrity.”
Father would not know what integrity was if it sneaked up and bit his backside. “I know,” I said humbly.
The proctologist swirled the ice in his glass. “You’re a lucky fellow, Nick.”
“I know,” I said again, and I was too, but not for the reasons the proctologist believed. I was lucky because I had turned my back on illusion, pursuing instead common-sense reality. I had run away from Sir Tom because I needed to find a bedrock of truth on which to build a life. I had no time for my father’s illusions. Illusion could not fix a position from a sextant reading, nor fight two hundred square feet of heavy flogging wet canvas in a tumbling sea and a rough wind. People envied me my birth and my childhood, but my secret pride was that I had rejected both to make of myself a prosaic and common-sense fellow.
The proctologist was bored with talking about Sir Tom. “You reckon we can go bonefishing again tomorrow?” he asked me instead.
“It’s your charter, doctor. You can do whatever you like.”
“Hey, Ellen!” the doctor shouted down to the galley where Ellen was trying to disguise the fact that the frozen steaks were being thawed in a microwave. “Nick says I can do whatever I like! You want to come skinny-dipping with me tomorrow?”
“I don’t think I could take the excitement, doctor.”
By the week’s end the proctologist was saying that it had been the best goddamned vacation he had ever taken, and as we passed the bunkering moorings near McIllvanney’s yard I saw him take Ellen aside and I guessed he was offering her a job. In the year I had skippered Wavebreaker at least half of our married male charterers had either offered Ellen a job or pressed her to visit their offices the next time she passed through their city. It was almost tedious to watch it happen.
We docked ten minutes later, and Thessy and I carried the luggage out to the yard where the courtesy taxi shimmered in the heat. One of the lawyers’ wives wanted to know the secret of Ellen’s coffee, and Ellen modestly said she just followed the percolator instructions, while the truth was that she put a
“I’m no good at it.”
“Ineptitude didn’t stop me becoming an asshole doctor!” The proctologist hooted at his own wit before asking which of my father’s famous wives was my mother. I told him and he shook his head in admiration. “She was some looker, Nick! Wow.”
“Wow,” I agreed. In her time Mother had been almost as famous as Father, but presently she was in a home for inebriates where, on good days, she could remember who she was, but the good days were very rare and getting scarcer. I thought what a snakepit my family was; a snakepit dominated by a genius who knew how to create any illusion—even love.
“It must be pretty great having Sir Thomas as a father.” The proctologist was fishing for gossip.
“It’s wonderful,” I said with suitable sanctimony. “He’s a great man.”
The doctor nodded agreement. “You can tell that just from looking at him.” He was entirely serious, and had adopted a portentous tone suitable for expressing admiration for the Greatest Living Englishman. “Know what I mean, Nick? You look at Sir Tom on the screen and it doesn’t matter what part he’s playing but you can tell he’s a great guy. What’s the word I’m looking for? Help me out here, Nick.” He snapped his fingers. “Integrity!” he said at last. “Your dad’s got integrity.”
Father would not know what integrity was if it sneaked up and bit his backside. “I know,” I said humbly.
The proctologist swirled the ice in his glass. “You’re a lucky fellow, Nick.”
“I know,” I said again, and I was too, but not for the reasons the proctologist believed. I was lucky because I had turned my back on illusion, pursuing instead common-sense reality. I had run away from Sir Tom because I needed to find a bedrock of truth on which to build a life. I had no time for my father’s illusions. Illusion could not fix a position from a sextant reading, nor fight two hundred square feet of heavy flogging wet canvas in a tumbling sea and a rough wind. People envied me my birth and my childhood, but my secret pride was that I had rejected both to make of myself a prosaic and common-sense fellow.
The proctologist was bored with talking about Sir Tom. “You reckon we can go bonefishing again tomorrow?” he asked me instead.
“It’s your charter, doctor. You can do whatever you like.”
“Hey, Ellen!” the doctor shouted down to the galley where Ellen was trying to disguise the fact that the frozen steaks were being thawed in a microwave. “Nick says I can do whatever I like! You want to come skinny-dipping with me tomorrow?”
“I don’t think I could take the excitement, doctor.”
By the week’s end the proctologist was saying that it had been the best goddamned vacation he had ever taken, and as we passed the bunkering moorings near McIllvanney’s yard I saw him take Ellen aside and I guessed he was offering her a job. In the year I had skippered Wavebreaker at least half of our married male charterers had either offered Ellen a job or pressed her to visit their offices the next time she passed through their city. It was almost tedious to watch it happen.
We docked ten minutes later, and Thessy and I carried the luggage out to the yard where the courtesy taxi shimmered in the heat. One of the lawyers’ wives wanted to know the secret of Ellen’s coffee, and Ellen modestly said she just followed the percolator instructions, while the truth was that she put a
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