The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (4 page)

H
ans
and Jessica went in search of Plymouth Hoe, the four-hundred-year-old esplanade
atop the city’s cliff front.

In reality “cliff front” proved somewhat misleading, since over
the years a number of now-decadent-looking oddities – belvederes, sunbathing plinths,
a high-diving platform, an art deco lido – as well as café bars and sailing
clubs had been built amongst the limestone’s craggy contours, giving the
impression of a hedonist’s playground. Interconnecting the eclectic mix of old
and new, and in synergy with the rock, an elaborate network of steps,
colonnades and walkways gave the impression of the interlinking staircases you
see in optical illusions – the ones angling up and down at the same time.

The Larssons hiked up a hilly backstreet lined with grand townhouses
to find themselves in the center of the Hoe’s mile-long stretch. A visual
banquet greeted them, the view rolling out over the oily blue water of the
English Channel, taking in the fairy-tale image of Drake’s Island, the colossal
stone breakwater and lush shades of forest sprouting from the headland guarding
the bay.

Hans bent down and kissed his daughter. “It’s so beautiful up
here, honey.”

“It’s a magic place, Papa.”

“And do you know what?”

She shook her head.

“I’m happy we’re exploring it together.”

Jessica wrapped her arms around her father and they hugged awhile
in silence.

Hans unfolded the tourist map and began pointing out
features of interest. At the far left of the plateau stood the Royal Citadel, a
sprawling fortress built in 1660 during the Anglo-Dutch Wars, now garrisoning an
elite artillery unit. Hans recalled serving on joint operations with the commandos
stationed behind the imposing Baroque gateway.

Strangely, a number of the citadel’s gun emplacements faced
the city as opposed to the ocean, apparently a warning to locals in days of old
not to rise against the Crown.

Hans began to chuckle.

“What, Papa?” Jessica tugged his shirt.

The idea of a fort facing backwards reminded Hans of
Monty
Python and the Holy Grail
in their DVD collection at home. To Jessica’s delight,
he began mimicking the Black Knight, hopping around on one leg with his arms
behind his back.

“
Just
a flesh wound!”

To the rear of the esplanade stood a row of stately hotels with
striking white façades, prominent chimney stacks and spectacular seaward vistas.
In front lay an undulating carpet of neatly mown grass stretching to the cliff edge,
at this time packed with picnickers relaxing on treat-laden blankets and office
workers taking a break to soak up the sun’s rays.

No one does lawns like the Brits
, thought Hans.

“What’s that, Papa?” Jessica spotted a tall, round tower painted
in red and white stripes like a barbershop pole.

“It’s a lighthouse, Jess. Wanna take a look?”

He needn’t have asked.

Walking toward the structure, they passed a number of monuments
honoring fallen military personnel and notable seafarers.

Hans paused. “Hey, Jess. Do you know who this is?”

Atop a granite plinth, a bronze casting depicted a portly
gent sporting a sea captain’s beard and wearing an ornate leather doublet and
breeches. Staring expectantly out over the sound, he carried a rapier in a
scabbard by his side and stood next to a world globe, the kind employed by
navigators and explorers.

“Sir Fran—”

“–cis . . .”

“Drake.”

“Well done, sweet pea. And can you read what the plaque says?”

As Jessica narrated the challenges Drake faced in his 1577 circumnavigation
of the planet – violent storms, mutiny, tropical disease and skirmishes with
tribesmen – Hans’ interest in the queen’s favorite sailor was piqued – although
in Spain’s estimation, El Draque
was nothing more than a pirate who
plundered their gold along the Main.

“. . . and he sailed back into Plymouth Sound with more
treasure than any captain before him, receiving a knighthood and—”

The unlikely ballad of “Greensleeves” interrupted Jessica as
a gaudy yellow-and-orange truck pulled up.

“I suppose you don’t like ice cream anymore, shipmate.” Hans
winked.

“Yay!”

Examining the dated advertising stickers splattered around
the vehicle’s serving hatch, Hans had no idea what Feast-ivals, ZaPPers or
Nize-Izes were, so he asked the vendor to suggest a local choice.

“Ninety-Nine, sir. Cornish ice cream served in a cone with a
flake.”

“A flake?”

“One of these.” The vendor held up a catering pack containing
four-inch-long chocolate logs separated into layers by corrugated paper sheets.

“We’ll take two please.”

Noting their accents, “Here’s a song you might know!” The
ice cream man chuckled and gave an impromptu blast of “Camptown Races
.
”

As they sat on the grass to eat their 99s before the sun
melted them, it occurred to Hans they were in the same spot the Beatles
occupied for a picture taken when the band were in the West Country filming
Magical
Mystery Tour
.
Hans had seen the photograph on postcards in the
souvenir stores, the Fab Four sitting in a row, gazing out to sea, wearing their
attire from the movie. He asked a passing French tourist to take a snap of him
and Jessica but, posing pointing to the ocean as Ringo Starr had done in 1967,
a pang of grief gripped him. There were two people missing from the shot.

When they reached the lighthouse, the attendant met them at
the entrance. A sprightly chap, he oozed enthusiasm for the city and looked to
be supplementing his pension.

“Welcome to Smeaton’s Tower, sir. I’m Jack, your captain,
and we will be climbing to an altitude of forty-six feet.” He grinned at his
own humor, his steel-blue eyes glinting under slicked-back white hair.

“
Smeaton’s
Tower?” said Hans.

“Designed by John Smeaton in 1756, sir.”

“Wow, some time ago.”

“Certainly is, sir. The old girl original sat on the—”

“Old girl?” Hans thought he’d missed something.

“The lighthouse, sir. Call her the old girl, see? ’Cause she’s
the only wife I’ve got!” He chuckled at another of his chestnuts and, turning
to Jessica, said, “But at least this one won’t be running off with the milkman!”

She smiled politely.

“Where was I?” Jack stared into nothing. “Yes, she originally
sat on the Eddystone Rocks, twelve miles offshore.”

“That must have been difficult – building her that far out in
the 1750s.”

“Revolutionary design, sir. A clever man, Mr. Smeaton.” He
led them back a few paces. “See how she’s shaped like the trunk of an oak tree?”

“Of course.” Hans lifted his sunglasses and gazed upwards.

“Her granite blocks are dovetailed to lock together for
strength.”

“And where was this done?”

“Millbay Docks, sir.” Jack pointed to the end of the Hoe. “One
thousand four hundred and ninety-three blocks in all, carved by local tin
miners and ferried out to the Rocks by boat. But they had to be careful, see?”

“It was a dangerous job?”

“
Press-gangs
, sir!” The old boy fixed a knowing eye
on Hans and threw in a wary nod. “If the miners were caught without their
identity papers, they were liable to be kidnapped and forced to join the Royal Navy.
But after standing out there protecting sailors for over a hundred years, the old
girl started rocking back and forward – frightened the life out of the keeper! So
they dismantled her block by block and reassembled her here for the tourists.”

Hans could see the lighthouse meant a lot to Jack, but Jessica
let out a second yawn, so he opened his wallet and paid the modest entrance fee.
They followed Jack up a sandstone staircase winding around inside the curved
walls, its steps worn into polished troughs by countless climbing feet. The first
two floors were storage areas, the third housing living quarters furnished with
a half-moon-shaped bench and a cast-iron stove that must have brewed many a warming
cocoa on a cold, stormy night. Finally, they emerged in the glass-enclosed lantern
room to find the original candelabra still suspended by its aging hemp rope.

“Phew, what a view!” Hans lifted Jessica up.

“Boats, Papa!”

Vessels of all shape and size plied the English Channel as
far as the eye could see.

To their rear the city’s concrete heartland nestled among neat
rows of terraced housing, broken up by tree-lined parks and industry, all linked
by snaking gray veins of asphalt.

“Look, Jess.” Hans pointed to the marina. “Guess who I can
see.”

“
Future
!”

“Ha-ha! She looks like a toy from up here.”

Before departing the States, Hans had doubts about the trip,
particularly when well-meaning friends and relatives questioned its timing and
suitability for Jessica. Now he felt excited and closer to his daughter than
ever. He looked forward to setting sail and continuing the adventure.

Jack drew their attention to Plymouth’s naval dockyard,
which sat at the mouth of the River Tamar estuary.

“Can we take a tour?” Hans asked.

“Pleasure boat from the Mayflower Steps, sir. Best way to
see the ships.”

Then, laying a hand on Hans’ shoulder, Jack giggled and added,
“Without being arrested!”

“Or press-ganged!” Hans joked, and they both laughed.

H
ans
found it hard to believe he and Jessica were embarking on a sea voyage from the
Mayflower Steps just as America’s early pioneers had done in 1620. Had anyone
suggested it to him a year ago, he probably would have laughed.

As they took up seats on the pleasure boat’s upper deck, a horde
of young people, many of whom looked to be Latino, streamed down the jetty. An
eager young man wearing a North Face jacket and Timberland boots herded the
excited group up the gangway and then sat down next to Hans and Jessica.

“Thank heavens I haven’t lost one this time!” He chuckled,
lifting his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry?” Hans replied.

“Oh, I’m Ben.” The chap smiled and shook hands. “These are
my exchange students. They come here to brush up on their English. I normally
lose at least one by now.”

“You’ve certainly got your hands full. I’m Hans, and this is
my daughter, Jess.”

“Hello, Jess. How are you enjoying Plymouth?” Ben crouched
down to meet her at eye level.

“We went up a lighthouse, and Papa bought a boat!”

“Wow! That sounds like fun. Americans? Canadi—?”

“Americans, from Maine,” said Hans.

“Brilliant. You’ll love this trip.”

“You’ve done it before?”

“Just a
few
times. But I never get bored. Problem is,
when the boat’s full of foreign students the skipper skips the commentary –
excuse the pun.”

“Why’s that?” Hans frowned, looking over to the wheelhouse
to see the captain with his back to them.

“He figures they don’t understand English and they’re not
interested anyway. But don’t worry. I know the spiel off by heart.”

The engine clanked into life, coughing out a cloud of sooty black
smoke, the deck vibrating as the boat chugged away from the dock. In his
element, Hans sucked in the salty air, the smell of rust, grease and diesel
fumes reminiscent of his time in the navy. They passed a group of wetsuited
teenagers taking it in turns to jump from high up on the cliff.

“Tombstoning,” said Ben. “A bit of a touchy subject in
Plymouth.”

“Right,” said Hans, picturing the health and safety cats having
a field day.

Drake’s Island came into view on the port side, the Hoe
above them to starboard. Fifty or so ultralight dinghies skimmed across the
sound, racing between two orange buoys half a mile apart, their two-person
crews leaning far back over the water and working the tiny triangular sails to harness
every knot from the wind. Sluggish in comparison, yachts departing the marina
cut across the busy course, but despite the illusion created at sea level,
there was little danger of collision.

“When Sir Francis Chichester became the first person to sail
around the world single-handed, over a million people packed the waterfront to
welcome him home,” said Ben.

“Another Sir Francis.” Hans laughed and stroked Jessica’s
cheek.

“You know about Sir Francis Drake, Jess?” Ben crouched down again.

“Hmm! He had a big ship, and he sailed to the jungle, and it
was bigger than
Future
.”

“Future?”

“Our yacht,” said Hans.

“Wow, you’re a clever girl. You must know everything!”

Jessica squeezed her shoulder blades and gave her trademark
toothy grin.

“Something tells me you’re a military man, Hans,” Ben
continued.

“I did a bit of time.”

“Well, right in there” – Ben pointed to a long concrete
wharf lined with used tractor tires – “is Millbay Docks. You know the Normandy
landings?”

“Of course.”

“General Bradley and the First US Army embarked here for the
assaults on Omaha and Utah Beaches.”

Hans let his jaw drop in a gesture of gratitude. So many
Americans would love to be here seeing this. He found himself thinking of his
late grandfather, who fought in the Far East Campaign.

“Ben, I can’t thank you enough.”

He shook hands again.

“My pleasure, Hans. I’ve traveled quite a bit, and all the
Americans I’ve met have been humble and generous . . .
Nearly
all of
them!” Ben chuckled.

“We get a bad press, huh?”

“Not with me you don’t. Besides, us Brits can’t say too much.”

“Right.” Hans nodded thoughtfully.

“Many of the survivors from the
Titanic
disaster
disembarked at Millbay. And Charles Darwin left here in 1831 on the
Beagle
for
his research in the Galápagos Islands.”

“And Plymouth thinks
tombstoning
is touchy subject!”
Hans chuckled.

“Nothing like the theory of evolution to put a biscuit in
the breadbin.” Ben smiled.

“You can say that again.”

“James Cook – he sailed from here on HMS
Endeavour
in
1768, the first European to reach Australia. And you’ve heard of the Mutiny on
the
Bounty
.”

“Admiral Bligh?”

“That’s him. Departed Plymouth to reach Tahiti, but the
Bounty
’s
crew set him and eighteen of his loyal followers adrift in a rowing boat.”

Hans shuddered.

“But Bligh was a nautical genius, made it thousands of miles
to the Dutch East Indies in only forty-seven days. He returned to Britain” – Ben
glanced at Jessica and lowered his voice – “to see the surviving mutineers hanged.”

“British seafarers. I’ve read all about them. They’re something
else.”

“On the subject of” – Ben broke into a whisper again – “hanging
.
You see the long building over there?”

“The old stone one?”

“It’s the rope house in the dockyard. They still make ships’
rigging there today.”

“Amazing.”

“But it’s also where they used to string people up.”

“Oh.”

“The gallows still stand. You can request a visit.”

“That’s irony for you!”

“Yeah.”

The dockyard fascinated Hans. He appreciated the way Ben
explained everything to Jessica in terms she could understand.

“See that submarine there, Jess? The one that’s falling apart?”

“Uh-huh.” She eyed the rusting black hulk.

“It’s a special one. Uses a dangerous fuel called nuclear energy.”

“Does it go under the water?”

“Not anymore. It has to stay here for years and years until the
fuel inside it cools down.”

“Amazing when you think they used to dump them at sea,” said
Hans.

“I reckon some countries still do.” Ben gave a suggestive
shrug.

“I think you’re right.”

Walking back to the marina, Hans and Jessica came across a
man standing on a street corner with a Jack Russell perched on his shoulders.

“Look, Papa!”

As Jessica ran over, the man bent down so she could stroke his
dog.

“
Big Issue
, sir?” He looked up at Hans.

“I’m sorry?”

“Newspaper, sir. Sold by us homeless. Helps put food in
Lucky’s bowel. Kna what I mean? S’only two quid, sir!”

“What’s a squid?” Jessica asked, getting as much attention
from Lucky as she was giving him.

“It’s a pound, my darlin’. Like what you guys call a dollar.”

“Oh, Daddy,
pleeeease
!”

“Okay, honey. Do you wanna pay out of your allowance?”

“
Yeeeeah
!” Her smile closed the deal.

Hans swapped a ten-pound note for a copy of the
Big Issue
,
signaling with a wink to keep the change.

“Aw,
thanks, guv! Thank you, princess.”

“Bye-bye, little doggy.” Jessica gave Lucky a farewell pet.

Walking away, she turned every few seconds to wave at the
man and his dog. The man waved back and grinned.

“He’s a nice man, Papa.”

“Yes, sweet pea. He is.”

That evening, Hans, Jessica and Penny sat down to eat in a
swanky Mexican restaurant on the Barbican, enjoying chicken and beef tacos
topped with guacamole, salsa and jalapenos to the sound of “La Cucaracha” and
other culturally themed instrumentals playing softly in the background. After
the meal they walked into the city to see
The Pirates of Penzance
playing at Plymouth’s modest theater.

Hans’ late wife, Kerry, had introduced him to opera back in Portland.

“Ha!”
the former navy man initially scoffed. “Guys in
pantyhose
?”

“That’s ballet, honey,” Kerry replied, raising an eyebrow
and dragging him out of the house to go and witness Carmen’s demise.

During the first act he chuckled to himself, thinking,
What
precocious nonsense!
In the second he started to make the connections. By
the final act he sat in awe, captivated by the immense range of the performers,
the imagery conjured up and the sensuous combination of libretto, score and
song.

Now, watching Gilbert and Sullivan’s comedy of errors, set
in the adjacent county of Cornwall, Hans smiled as the girls fell spellbound to
the opera’s magical allure. Ever attentive, Penny made sure Jessica understood
the unfolding farce.

Her discreet giggles indicated she did.