Against the Tide Read online

  AGAINST

  THE TIDE

  JOHN F. HANLEY

  Copyright © 2012 John F. Hanley

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  This is a work of fiction.

  Apart from well-known historical figures and events, the names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 9781780887425

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  In memory of Marjorie Evelyn Hanley (nee Renouf) 1920 - 2009.

  “Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.”

  Shakespeare: Venus and Adonis 799-804

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Author’s note

  About the Author

  Preface

  July 1939

  Jersey: Population 50,000. Largest of the Channel Islands at forty-five square miles (1,000 times smaller than New Jersey), lies ten miles from France and 100 miles from England. Extensively fortified to resist French invasion, it has been a British Crown Possession for over 800 years.

  Shaped like the hide of a cow pegged out on its four extremities it declines from 400 feet in the north to sea level in the south. Because of this sunny angle, it is ideal for agriculture and produces thousands of tons of early potatoes for the British market each year. Sheltered in the bay of St Malo, caressed by the Gulf Stream, it enjoys an even more benign tax regime. It has become a haven for the wealthy who love new potatoes almost as much as counting their money.

  1

  Sunday 9th July 1939

  He had me by the balls. Surprised, angry, I tried to twist away but the Dutchman laughed, gave another tweak then pulled me under. I thrashed back to the surface and snorted out seawater. It had amused a section of the crowd closest to us. Most of them didn’t understand water polo, but appreciated a good tussle.

  Miko stood up and shouted to Phillips, the referee, trying to draw his attention to the fouling at this end of the pitch. He was wasting his time but it distracted my marker enough for me to wriggle free and shout for the ball. Nelson spotted me and lobbed it so high it crossed the sun, blinding me as I followed its arc. I fumbled the catch and was jerked underwater again. Surely Phillips had seen that blatant foul. I surfaced and reached for the ball to take the penalty but he had raised the blue flag. He tapped his sandal with the flagstick, indicating that I had pushed off my marker and committed the foul. So now, Phillips, honorary policeman, dishonest butcher and pompous fart, believed he could see underwater.

  The Dutchman took the free shot, paddled back behind me, rubbed his unshaven chin into my neck and scratched my ribs with his nails. ‘You are quick, my friend, but you must play fair.’

  Nelson swam the ball up and shouted at me to clear the goal area. I stretched to my left but the salaud grabbed my trunks and pulled me back. I threw up my arms theatrically, sucked in a good breath and ducked underwater. When I surfaced, the ref was pointing his white flag. I retrieved the ball and passed it for a quick return but the Dutchman was already on me. Nelson flipped the ball into the perfect position. As I grabbed it, pain seared through me. The bugger was crushing my testicles.

  Over the whistle’s screech, I heard the Dutchman calling out, ‘He has, how you say – cramp.’

  Phillips laughed. ‘Help him out but no substitution for the white team.’

  Cookie left his goal and towed me to the concrete wall that marked one side of the pitch. ‘Careful, Jack. He’s a tough nut. Want me to have a word?’

  Big-hearted Joe Buesnal, Cookie to his friends, was quite capable of knocking the tulips out of the Dutchman. Six foot four, eighteen stone, fists like shoulders of mutton, he was playing for the island’s defence. I had been given a chance to lead the attack on his goal in a warm-up match for our annual battle with Guernsey. I shook my head. I didn’t need his protection.

  He rolled me onto the warm, pitted surface. I slithered across to the side and dangled my legs in the sea, trying to fight off the spasms. The tide was receding, but wavelets still splattered against the granite retaining wall. A cormorant popped up yards away and twisted its long, oiled neck in my direction. With a wink of one liquid eye, it ducked under, in search of a late lunch. I vomited mine into the water, conscious of Phillips’ fat legs as he scurried up and down the wall policing the game. The Blues scored twice while my team was reduced to six men.

  Someone hissed at me. Miko had worked his way through the crowd on the concrete steps. Now for a lecture in broken English. I sighed and shuffled towards him.

  ‘Te idióta.’ He spread his hands in exasperation. ‘Why, you let him hold? You remember nothing? Spuma!’

  I knew the last part meant “make white water” in Hungarian but that was impossible against someone whose sprint was equal to mine. I shrugged. ‘It’s only a practice match.’

  He spat foreign words in his rusty voice. They sounded like broken tools in a metal bucket. Their meaning was clear but I still threw him the sort of dumb look I’d perfected on my Latin master.

  He shook his head and spoke slowly in English. ‘You clown. Is only practice match?’ he sneered. ‘How you make senior team if that your belief? Huh?’

  He was right. I was on trial and, so far, I hadn’t done very well. I knew the older players had their doubts about selecting someone just for their speed but Nelson had persuaded them. Perhaps they were right, I should stick to racing. I started to untie my cap.


  ‘No, Jerk.’ He couldn’t even pronounce my name. A couple of spectators laughed.

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  He pulled his right arm across his chest, slapped his elbow, dropped his shoulder, and rotated it backwards. ‘Nincs fék a kezemben.’

  I stared at him in disbelief but he nodded and slipped back into the crowd.

  Phillips’ whistle shrilled – half-time.

  I hobbled towards the rest of team. They were arguing but stopped as I reached them.

  Nelson turned to me. ‘How do you feel?’

  Just then, I heard my name and glanced up to catch Caroline’s wave. After her diving display, she had swapped her white Jantzen costume for a low-cut yellow dress that left even less to the imagination. I waved back. She must have seen the treatment I had been getting. Did she care, or was she just hoping for some blood in the water to relieve the tedium? Higher up in the wooden stand, Saul reclined in a white linen suit. He doffed his hat and raised two fingers before nudging Rachel. She smiled but didn’t wave.

  Caroline mouthed something to me then caressed her hair with her hand. The look and gesture were almost as effective as the Dutchman’s grip and I started to ache again.

  The timekeeper blew his whistle and Phillips waddled back to the halfway marker, his white plimsolls slapping through the puddles.

  Nelson tapped me harder. ‘Yes or no?’

  I looked from Caroline to Rachel and noticed that Miko had squeezed onto a seat below them. He glared with about as much sympathy as the cormorant, and mouthed “spumá”.

  ‘Jack, wake up. I need an answer.’

  I sucked in a calming breath and grunted, ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Fletcher, who fancied Caroline, snorted, ‘Fat lot of use that’ll be. Best place for you is in the stands with your Jew friend.’

  I lurched towards him but Nelson blocked me off. ‘That’s enough, you two. Save it for the opposition.’ He shoved me hard towards the water. I attempted a somersault, but landed on my back with a stinging splash and surfaced to ironic applause.

  Nelson swam up. ‘Forget Fletcher, he’s just jealous. Best way to shut him up is to score a goal.’

  Nelson’s misplaced faith did little to slow my heart rate.

  Phillips blew his whistle and tossed the ball into the centre of the pitch. I got there first, flipped it back to Nelson, surged on towards the goal and straight into the Dutchman’s fist. Again, the ref ignored the foul.

  ‘You have played this game much? It is good fun, no?’ He laughed and jabbed his knee into my backside. ‘In Holland it is only the men who play. Ya, only the men.’ As I turned, he pinched the skin under my armpit. I jerked my shoulders back in reflex pushing into his chest. ‘Ah, so, we are learning, no?’ He dug his knuckle into my spine.

  Play was getting closer. I squirmed and wriggled, trying to rise in the water for a flick-on shot. The whistle went. Fletcher had been fouled.

  Everyone froze in their positions like floating statues. Free throw to Whites. Fletcher looked around and, with a wicked grin, threw the ball straight at me. No chance to flick it on. I felt fingers reaching between my legs again as the ball flopped in front of me. It floated free, out of reach of the Dutchman, but his hand threatened to wring my balls if I stretched out.

  Caroline’s screech cut through the tableau. ‘Do it, Jack!’

  The Dutchman’s voice grated in my ear. ‘You don’t have the guts, boy.’

  Fire shot through my body and into my brain; the blood roared in my head. I exploded forward, rolled my shoulder and flung my elbow back into his face. Released from his iron grip, I scooped up the ball and hurled it into the net. Goal!

  The crowd roared. The goal judge waved his flags and I turned back to face the team in triumph. The whistle shrieked – not the congratulatory looping blast for a goal – but the long sharp screech of disapproval. I looked at Phillips.

  He jabbed his white flag at me, spat out his whistle and bellowed, ‘White seven. Permanent exclusion for brutality – leave the pitch and this area immediately.’

  I grabbed the ball, pulled it back and aimed at him. ‘You bast–’

  Cookie snatched it from me and pushed his nose into my face, cutting off my words, ‘Don’t make it worse. Just get out and get changed.’ He shoved me to the side then helped Nelson to drag the Dutchman to the wall. Blood streamed from his nose. The crowd was silent.

  I levered myself out. My arms were trembling and I scraped my thigh on the rough concrete. Brewster, the club manager, studied his hands as I stumbled to my feet. My face was burning. I untied my cap, crumpled it in my fist and dropped it onto the table. One of its long wet laces whipped onto the match sheet. I turned and marched towards the granite steps, up and away from the silence of the arena.

  ‘Jack, wait.’ Saul bustled through the crowd. I stopped, praying he wouldn’t add to my embarrassment. He spat his cigarette into the sea. ‘“O, vengeance, vengeance! A very excellent piece of villainy,” Jack. If you were a kaffir, I’d have to cut your balls off.’ He roared something in Afrikaans and slapped me on the shoulder.

  Everyone could hear him. I remembered a line from our play where Bassanio curses Gratiano for his noisy friendship. I blurted it out now. ‘“Thou art too rude, too wild, too bold of voice.”’ If I pushed him into the water, I might regain some credibility with the crowd.

  He must have sensed my thought as panic flickered in his golden eyes. He edged towards the steps. I moved closer, feinted with my right hand and flicked his hat off with my left. This drew an appreciative laugh from the gallery as it spun into a puddle, but his freckled cheeks flushed with anger. Perhaps he did deserve a swim. I reached out, but he scooped up his hat and darted off towards the diving boards, chased by the laughter from above. I shrugged and moved away.

  ‘Jack.’ Rachel’s voice.

  I paused and looked back. Saul was showing her his soggy hat. She grinned at me over his shoulder. Behind her, I saw the Dutchman sprawled on the concrete while Brewster administered first aid. Caroline was standing in the group surrounding him. Well, she’d got her blood. I willed her to look in my direction but she seemed focused on the casualty.

  Rachel beckoned me towards her. I couldn’t. I was in enough trouble already. Exclusion meant that I had to leave the pool area without delay. A cold shower wouldn’t do any harm.

  2

  I was still shivering as I entered the men’s open-air changing room. Saul never came into this high-walled arena even though he was now eighteen and entitled to a privilege all the juniors craved. From our experience at school, I suspected that he found the casual nakedness uncomfortable. Unlike Saul, I’d never been teased or even asked about my circumcision. During our brief and embarrassing conversation about the facts of life, Father had explained that it had been for medical reasons. Ironically, with his bright copper hair, Saul looked far less Jewish than I did with my dark curls and prominent nose.

  I wasn’t surprised to find Nutty prostrate on the central wooden platform, barbecuing himself in the sun. I crept in, wrinkling my nose at the smell of olive oil and vinegar, with which he had smeared his old body. Fortunately, he was toasting his back this afternoon. As I reached my clothes, I heard him stir.

  ‘Ah, young Jack, I thought you were playing that infernal game.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Where are the other savages then?’

  ‘It’s just me. I was thrown out for brutality.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you’ll stick to swimming now.’

  I didn’t answer, just sat on the bench in the sun and contemplated his prone figure.

  ‘You want to tell me what happened? A balanced view, mind, and don’t blame the ref, even though it was our beloved centenier.’

  ‘I thought you hadn’t watched the game.’

  ‘I slipped in here after the diving, as soon as I saw him sucking on his whistle. I say, young Rachel has improved, hasn’t she?’ His eyes were shaded under his arm but there was conspir
atorial twinkle in his voice.

  ‘Yes, she’s got more rotation now, sharper entries.’ I didn’t bite on his bait.

  ‘It would seem your mutual trainer, Miko Pavas, has been more successful with her than he has with you then.’ He laughed.

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  He tapped his nose. ‘It’s a small island, Jack. A foreigner; is he Hungarian or Romanian?’

  I shrugged. ‘Romanian, I think, though he says he used to coach the Hungarian team.’

  ‘Well his methods are working.’ He grinned. ‘She’ll soon be up to Miss Hayden-Brown’s standard.’

  Another little dig. Caroline’s father had paid almost as much in coaching fees for her diving as he had for her piano lessons. His money hadn’t been wasted on either.

  Of course, Miko had not been accorded the privilege of entry to the open-air; his membership application had been “awaiting processing” since the beginning of the season, so he paid a daily rate each time he walked down the bridge that separated the pool from the promenade.

  I kept quiet.

  ‘Come on, tell me what happened.’

  ‘Nothing. I was being fouled by that guest player, you know, the Dutchman?’

  Nutty had been there when we changed before the match and I was sure that introductions had been made. I was also sure that my opponent had given me an odd look as I changed into my trunks.

  He nodded. ‘And?’

  ‘I retaliated.’

  ‘Jack, getting a story out of you is like milking a bull. What happened?’

  ‘Okay, I lost my temper, used my elbow. Miko calls the move nincs fék, or something.’

  ‘That sounds painful.’

  ‘It’s meant to be a rotation and follow through. It’s just that his nose got in the way.’

  ‘I suggest that you don’t use that phrase when you explain yourself to the committee.’

  ‘Oh shit. You think it’ll be taken that seriously?’

  ‘Of course it will, if Centenier Phillips has anything to do with it.’

  ‘I don’t understand him at all. He used to be so friendly. I was in his swimming class when I was eleven or so. He even gave me extra lessons, got in the water with me, showed me how to get the right shape for front crawl.’