Boatman's dream 14

The wharf is a grassy triangle of waste-ground bordering the muddy bed of the Pill.  Every available space is taken by mongrel cast-offs from the boating world – some with an even chance of going back in the water, others with none.

The wharf’s other boundaries comprise the lane leading into the boatyard and the yard’s mesh fence.  Rusting boat trailers are stacked along one edge – some wait for their boats to come ashore, others for oblivion.

James Bellingham-Smythe kicked a tyre out of his path.  “It’s such a waste, all this.  We could really make something of it.  Look at these wrecks.  It’s a scrapyard, not a wharf.”

Merlin smiled wryly.  “It is what it is, James.  What it’s always been.  And why not?  The blokes have a clear-out once in a while.”

The stature of the two differed significantly.  Bellingham-Smythe was compact, grey and wiry – an athlete, his face tanned and lined from the years spent yachting.  Merlin, too, had a sea-going complexion, but his frame was heavy, his silver hair thick and tousled – he displayed the accretions of his sociable demeanour.

Bellingham-Smythe stopped and faced Merlin.   “Why not? Because it’s an asset, that this lot monopolize and under-utilize.  Look at it.”

He picked the tyre up and threw it into a corner.   “All it takes is a bit of imagination to see what this could be.”

“Who’s complaining, James?  Nobody here.  Nobody in the village and no one in town as far as I know.”

“Well it’s come up at County Hall.  The amenities committee wants to see the wharf tidied-up and put to better use for everyone, not just a dozen local vagrants.”

“Is that what you’ve told them, James?  That these men are vagrants?”

“Well look at it.  This new bloke you’ve allowed in that boat of yours.  What do you know about him?  What’s he going to contribute?  This place is a home for derelicts – boats and men alike.”

Merlin’s blood quietly boiled, but he maintained his composure and chose his words carefully.

“First off, this is common land, and has been since before records began.  It’s an asset, alright – by tradition, one for local boatmen.  I’m a local boatman.   Arthur is in my boat with my permission.  Anyone can use this wharf for free.  There are plenty in this village and in the town that can’t pay your prices.”

“They can go elsewhere.  There’s a club in Burnham.  I challenge anyone’s right to reside on this land if it’s supposed to be a wharf.  Look around you.  It’s a complete dump.  The slipway is blocked.  What if I wanted to bring my boat up it?”

“You’d have the same rights as the rest of us.  We’d clear the slip so you could get in.”

“What’s going on over there?  There’s a fire.”

“Someone burning rubbish, I expect.”

“God’s truth!”

Bellingham-Smythe strode down the slope towards the slots in the mud bank that provide berths on a dead-men’s shoes basis.  A small group was seated around the fire.  Arthur was among them.  Rhys was sitting opposite.

“Morning Merlin, James.”

Bellingham-Smythe weighed straight in.  “Don’t you think it’s a bit irresponsible having an open fire?  There’s paint and fuel and God-knows what else all over this site.”

“Never been a problem yet.” one of the men looked up.  “Not in all the years I can remember.”

“Not in all the years I’ve heard tell.” Dennis lit a cigarette and fixed his gaze on Bellingham-Smythe.  “Not what you’re used to on the Solent, maybe.  But this isn’t the Solent.”

“That’s not the point.”  Bellingham-Smythe retorted.  “A fire on here would spread to the yard in no time.  There’s upwards of forty yachts in there.  People’s valuable property.”

One of the others held out a can of beer.  “Either of you chaps care to join us?”

Bellingham-Smythe’s hands were firmly on his hips.  “Thank you, no.  Ten in the morning is a little early for me.”

“Might have to take the missus shopping.”  A chuckle went around the men. 

Merlin couldn’t hide his smile.  Most of the wharf rats were bachelors.  “What’s going off, fellahs?”

“English lessons.”  Rhys answered.  “And Arthur, here’s, enrichening the tongue of my fathers.”

Merlin spoke to Arthur in his dialect.

Arthur smiled back.  He seemed to be in good spirits.

“Not staying, then?” Dennis asked. 

“No.” Merlin answered.  “We’d love to, but we’re walking the bank this morning.  We’re waiting for Kev to come down with the moorings plan.”

“He’s up in the café.  He was having his breakfast when I came by.  Probably still in there gabbing.”

Bellingham-Smythe sucked his teeth noisily.

“Come on, Merlin.  I haven’t got all day.”

“The missus’ll be waiting.” one of the rats sniggered.

Bellingham-Smythe turned on his heels and walked back up the slope towards the café.

“Go easy, fellahs.” Merlin cautioned.  “He could cause us all a lot of trouble.  Keep an eye on that fire, won’t you?”

“Course we will.  He comes on this wharf as though he owns it.”

“I think that’s his plan.  See you later.”