“So, old boy,” said Sydney settling his ample backside into the tattered, multi-coloured deck chair. “Tell me more about this job of yours.”

“Well,” replied Roland, “it’s not exactly a job yet. Mr Rowmore said if I do well, he might take me on permanent, like.”

“I’m all ears.”
Roland and Sydney were sat on the short pier that jutted into the boating lake. On both sides were a number of rowing boats bobbing gently at their moorings.

“I have to collect the money when people come to hire a boat and put it in that tin,” said Roland proudly.

“Well, it’ll keep you off the streets,” said Sydney. “That hut looks fairly comfortable,” he observed thoughtfully. “Are you going to sleep in it?”

“No, I can’t doss down in there. Mr Rowmore said it’s not allowed by the council. Apparently there’s lot of expensive tools in it.”

“I expect that’s just an excuse to keep you out,” said Sydney. “He probably doesn’t want gentlemen-of-the-road like us in there; probably thinks we’ll contaminate the place. I’m surprised that he took you on dressed like that.”

“Well I must admit he looked at me a little suspicious, like. But when I told him of my great experience, he said I seemed like just the man for the job. An’ you’re sitting on my chair.”

“What great experience?” queried Sydney. “You don’t know anything about boats and the sea.”

“Oh, I know that, silly. I told him about my experience as an accountant. I told him I can keep ‘is books in order.”

“I seem to recall, Rolo old chap, that the only experience you have with finances is the purloining of the Boy Scouts’ camping fund. Two hundred pounds disappeared into thin air,” he clicked his fingers, “just like that. In fact, if memory serves, that little escapade was the reason we find you as we do today?”

“I didn’t nick the boys’ money!” replied Roland. “That was just a misunderstanding. Anyway, I wasn’t the only one there that day. The caretaker kept popping in and out - and the vicar! They blamed me ‘cos I don’t look posh like you; that’s all.”

“You should wash more often, you know. Anyway,” interrupted Sydney looking over Roland’s shoulder, “it’s time to put your financial skills to the test. You have a couple of customers.”

With difficulty, Roland heaved himself from his seat on the deck boards of the pier, brushed his hair back with his hands, and went to welcome his first customers - a young couple looking very much in love.

“I know what they’re after,” he said, returning to Sydney as the pair rowed unsteadily away from the pier. “They’re going to row out to the island and have their wicked way.”

“It’s their money. Make sure you put it in the tin,” replied Sydney. “That lad’s doing it all wrong,” he observed watching the youngsters pull away.

“‘Ow do you know? You’re no admiral of the fleet!”

“Did I never tell you of my time in the navy?” drawled Sydney pompously, settling himself back comfortably in the chair. “I was the gunnery officer on the Royal Yacht Britannia.”

“They ain’t got no guns on that ship! Even I knows that” said Roland. “I seen it on the telly, and it ain’t got no guns.”

“Well that’s all you know. When Her Majesty was on board we had to protect her, you know. It was a well kept secret. In fact I became quite friendly with that lady and the princes and princess. The family looked upon me as an uncle I suppose. They knew that they were all totally safe when I was onboard.”

“It’s the first I ‘eard of it,” said Roland growing bored already with Sydney’s self-important musings. “Anyway, Admiral, what’s the boy doing wrong? It looks alright to me.”

“Well it would do to the layman,” replied Sydney. But what you’ve got to realise, old chap, is that there’s a technique to it. The boy’s back is not into it - he should keep his arms in the boat. Look at him, showing off already; waving his arms about.”

“The girl’s doing it too,” noted Roland.

“Very foolish,” said Sydney knowledgeably. “They’ll both end up in the water behaving like that.”

“They’re shouting as well. I hope nobody complains to Mr Rowmore about the noise, I don’t want to lose this job ‘cos of two randy teenagers. Shut up, you two,” Roland shouted through the megaphone.

“Don’t encourage them. Look, the girl’s standing up now. Oh my goodness, I do believe they’re sinking. That’s what you get when you let inexperience on to the water.”

“Come on, Syd, don’t just sit there. Get in a boat and go and get them before they drowns.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you, Admiral. I can’t swim!” Roland was hopping from foot to foot chewing the nails on one hand and waving at no-one in particular with the other.

“My name is Sydney, not Syd,” came the pedantic reply. “And as I am not an employee of this organisation I will not be covered in case of accident. And …”

“… and what? Sod the rules, Syd. Get in a boat and save those kids.”

“I’m sorry, old bean. The navigation of such a craft is beyond me.”

“What d’ya mean, ‘beyond you’?”

“I mean, I can’t row, I’m afraid, Rolo dear chum."

“I should ‘ave known,” cried an exasperated Roland, “‘ere ‘old me coat, and don’t get it wet,” he threw his scrappy, worn overcoat at Sydney and ran along the pier to leap clumsily into the nearest boat. Untangling himself from the oars he untied the bow rope and, using one oar, he inelegantly punted himself away from the moorings towards the pair in the rapidly sinking skiff.

“You’re doing fine, Rolo,” shouted Sydney having hijacked the megaphone. “Try to get the other oar in use.”

Roland’s reply was, fortunately, lost in the noise of the splashing.

“What the bloody ‘ells going on ‘ere? What’s that fool up to out there?”

Sydney turned, surprised to see a tall red-faced man in paint-stained overalls stumbling down the path from the promenade, his arms full of long planks of wood. “Ah, you’ll be Mr Growmore,” he greeted the newcomer. “Your brave employee is on his way to rescue that unfortunate pair of mariners.”

“Rowmore,” the newcomer corrected him. “Not in that boat he won’t, mate. Those on that side are waiting for this wood; they’re all leaking.”

[THE END]

© scrapyardsummer 2018