88: Talk of war

‘How long is this cost-of-living crises going to last?’

‘Good lord! Are you psychic, Sparkwell?’

‘I really couldn’t say, sir.’

‘The question is bothering Brinkley too. I’m currently reading his amended budget projections for twenty-two, twenty-three.’

‘And?’

‘He thinks, for what it’s worth, there should be no new projects and no further property sales this financial year.’

‘Will he get his way?’

‘Yes, I would think so. Just as well everything we wanted started, is started.’

‘But for how long is it going to last?’

‘Well, that’s unknown. The pressure on energy prices, which is pushing the inflation, will likely stay awhile. The war in eastern Europe following the pandemic following the disruption of Brexit. Mind you, there will be falls as well as rises, but you never know when it will level off.’

‘Why no property sales?’

‘Because, for reasons which are unclear, property prices continue to rise in a buoyant market, therefore also the valuation of the Trust’s assets, he hopes it will act as a hedge against inflation. Wisely, he also asserts, one should think twice about passing on rising costs in case they stifle demand, better to look for cost savings first.’

‘Not like you to accept a pep talk from Larry!’

‘I accept it, because he’s right. Don’t shoot the messenger.’

‘Does our happiness depend on riches?’

‘I beg your pardon! Is this the same Charlotte Sparkwell that we know and love speaking, the natural therapist, the fitness fanatic who can claim with some justification that joy is gravity defying behaviour, that love and happiness must be remade every day through exercise that takes us to our goal of human social connection, huh?’

‘I meant, have you sucked me into your world; of forever looking for the edge, of pecuniary advantage, financial power, have I become corrupted by association?’

‘Absolutely not. Quite the reverse. You have led me on a path of enlightenment. Just because you are no longer as poor as a church mouse, doesn’t make you a running dog of capitalism.’

Then she was pinged, and a moment later; ‘Oh my god! A message from Captain Bob. And a link, “see me on tv”, blimey!’

We sat and watched the five-minute clip on the big tv screen. It was some sort of ceremony in Port Stanley. Captain Bob, smartly dressed with medals, standing to attention. He seemed to be in charge of an elderly, but far from motley crew. They were clearly the guests of honour at some sort of anniversary celebration hosted by the town, or city as we must learn to call it; ‘Bob appears to be the star of the whole show!’

‘We need to share this with the rest of the world.’ Asserted Charlie. ‘We’re not doing anything for the rest of today are we?’

‘I’m due to check out the yacht again anyway.’ So said Charlie as we headed into town. ‘I’ll do that first, then meet you at the Harbour Cafe.’

At the cafe, the talk was all of the current war. Plucky underdogs fighting a clear and obvious enemy. That had been the way it seemed forty years ago as a child. Most of Captain Bob’s regular crowd were milling around. I kept my own council, setting up the laptop, until Charlie returned. ‘How’s the yacht?’

‘Fine, no problem.’ She started working the room as if she still worked there, then began rearranging a couple of the outside tables.

There were half a dozen souls who wanted to view the video in the end. Quite an involved discussion followed, with general agreement that the country would have been unlikely to get behind the government, if it had all happened today. Someone quoted Margaret Thatcher; ‘Our first duty to freedom, is to defend our own.’ People doubted anyone would regard the Falklands as our own anymore. Someone else, suggested Charlie take the video up to the shelter, on account of there always being ex-squaddies there, and that everyone there, knew Captain Bob.

‘You should take a picture Charlie, to send to Bob.’ I spoke. Then a thought suddenly occurred; ‘Did you ever go anywhere on the yacht?’

‘Oh, aye! She had no choice, living there!’ Chipped-in a third.

‘Smile, everyone! Only down the coast for a couple of hours, long enough to check out she was still seaworthy, as a sailing ship. But I got to learn a few of the ropes. Not that easy to organise a crew for sailing though. Sometimes we’d just go around the bay, if it was the engine that needed testing.’

On the walk to the shelter, I said to Charlie; ‘You might consider the potential of the yacht, as a training vessel, when looking to the future. That combination of a proper sea-going engine and sail only, if you see what I mean?’

‘Oh, right. Yes of course.’

We found the manager in the canteen. Someone had been doing some baking. Having shown her the clip, I then posted her the link. Charlie and she started talking shop, I sat and earwigged their chat. It seemed the manager thought it worth pursuing Captain Bob’s long held conviction that the local authority, the council and or harbour commissioners, had some sort of legal obligation to support the shelter because they had taken over from the old Seaman’s Mission. Apparently, there was some sort of historical precedent for providing temporary accommodation if the local community failed to do so. They then moved on to moaning about the perennial problem of the annual rough sleepers count, the one time in the year that the council really wanted their cooperation. The charities outreach staff were of course the best at finding and signposting the homeless to the shelter. It was in the council’s best interest to have full occupancy at the shelter at the very moment they did the count!

Someone offered me an iced bun. I hesitated, looking at Charlie. ‘Oh, go on.’ Said the manager; ‘After all, you paid for it.’

‘Thank you. Who was it who said it takes as much generosity to receive, as it does to give?’

‘Sounds like a definition of charity.’ She replied.

‘You two do realise you are talking about probably the worst council in the country, historically speaking?’ I asserted.

‘How do you mean?’ Asked Charlie.

‘Well, its been run by Buffy Trumpton’s party, almost continuously since the war. Once the country’s premier seaside resort, now dominated by the retired and disabled, the homeless and dispossessed from the rest of the country. They totally missed the rise of the heritage industry; practically destroying the work of Isambard Kingdom Brunel, our greatest engineer ever, and disregarded the legacy of Agatha Christie at one time the world’s best selling author.’

‘Whilst you’ve been living here over fifty years, and, you went to school with half the jokers who run the country now! What’s your excuse?’ Countered Charlie.

‘There’s only so much one man can do.’

‘At least you and the captain are keeping us afloat.’ The manager kindly offered.

‘Is it important to your punters, clients, or whatever you’re calling people this week, to be close to the harbour side?’

‘What are you thinking?’ Asked Charlie.

‘Well, you could pursue an alternative strategy of distancing yourself from the authorities altogether.’

‘Nothing we’d like better, but they own the building, the half-way house too. And come to that, the precinct where the shop is!’ So retorted the manager.

‘I know that look, Tony has spotted an opportunity, but I warn you whatever it is, it will profit him too.’

‘Well, it might occur to you too, young Sparkwell, if you paid as much attention to the Trust’s property portfolio as you should. I’ll say no more.’

‘Talking of youth, who’s this young lass you’re foisting on us in a few weeks time?’ Asked the manager.

‘Daughter of a family friend, smart as hell, curious about people. She asked Charlie if she could fix it, so as to prevent the school sending her somewhere they thought would be appropriate.’

‘You do realise I’m on leave next week?’

‘Of course.’

‘We’re meeting in the borders.’

‘Good lord!’

‘I’ll be driving the length and breadth of the country, at the invitation of a Duke.’

‘Blimey, as you might say. Now I may know nothing about fishing...’

‘True.’

‘But isn’t that stretch of the Tweed just about the most famous, the best and most difficult to get permission to...’

‘Correct.’

‘Don’t tell me, his grace is a reader of The Beacon?’

‘More likely his gillie!’