The Voyage of the Golden Handshake by Terry Waite

and jumping onto the jetty. It was none other than Captain Sparda … and he presented a sorry sight. His white shorts, so carefully tailored by the good ladies of Southend, were streaked with grease and oil. His hair was dishevelled and it was clear that he had not shaved.
    ‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed the Admiral. ‘What on earth has Sparda been up to?’
    The unfortunate Captain eventually staggered into the tent and was immediately handed a cup of orange liquid by Duvet, which, after taking one gulp, he promptly spat out.
    It transpired that the worthy man had spent the whole night with the Chief Engineer, pouring gallon after gallon of oil into the engine and attempting to get the rudder to operate correctly. He assured the Admiral that everything now seemed well. As it was too far to go to the hotel to get cleaned up, he was escorted to a local Public Convenience where he did his best to make himself presentable for the first guests.
    At exactly eleven that morning, all was in place. The Scouts were lined up at the entrance to the tent, each lad with a wheelbarrow. Captain Sparda had been able to borrow a pair of clean tennis shorts from one of the Belles and, providing he stood behind one of the trestle tables, he looked presentable as only his top half was visible.
    Enzo, who guarded the entrance to the tent from unwelcome visitors, kept an anxious eye open for the first passengers to arrive. Suddenly he heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and a landau rolled into sight, pulled by two rather tired-looking carthorses. It stopped by the entrance and the coachman leaned over and addressed Enzo.
    ‘Hey, you mate. Is this where folks enlist?’
    Enzo looked shocked. ‘What do you mean, Sir?’ he replied haughtily. ‘This is where passengers embark for the WorldCruise on the Golden Handshake, if that is your meaning.’
    ‘Oh,’ said the coachman, glancing at the Scouts. ‘I thought it was Bob-A-Job week.’
    Enzo went to open the passenger door.
    ‘Watch out mate,’ said the driver. ‘It’s liable to come off its hinges if you ain’t careful.’
    Enzo cautiously opened the rickety door to none other than Mr and Mrs Albert Hardcastle. Mrs Hardcastle wore an enormous hat decorated with a selection of what appeared to be tropical fruit. Her husband sported a black overcoat and a flat cap. Since deciding to go on the cruise, Albert thought that he ought to do things in style for once in his life. He had visited a local gentleman’s outfitter and bought himself a new suit. Well, quite new. It had been returned the previous week and only required minor alteration to fit him, and of course it was a very reasonable price. His wife’s wardrobe was largely made up from items bought from a Grimsby departmental store when they went into liquidation, and from a Marks and Spencer’s sale, along with a variety of homemade summer dresses. She had fashioned the hat herself and was immensely proud of it.
    It was Albert’s idea to arrive in this fashion. He reasoned that, as they were miles away from Grimsby, he and Alice could get away with a little flamboyant behaviour, hence the coach and horses. Enzo assisted the first passengers down from their equine transport and Mrs Hardcastle, being kindly disposedtowards animals, went to pat one of the horses. Before the coachman could issue a warning, the animal took one large snap at the delicacies displayed on the hat and in a trice had munched through them all.
    ‘My God, Albert!’ she cried. ‘Me hat - me lovely hat. He’s bloody well eaten it all.’
    Quick to act in any crisis, Enzo took Mrs Hardcastle by the arm, and followed by Albert, the party were ushered into the tent where Radley was waiting to thrust a plastic beaker into their hands. One of the Belles, who had witnessed the whole unfortunate episode from a peephole in the canvas, ushered the distraught Alice Hardcastle to a chair.
    ‘Never mind, dear,’ she said soothingly. ‘There are plenty of fresh