Authors: Maryrose Wood
“What are you looking at? Is there a fly buzzing about?” Simon glanced around, puzzled. “I don't see one. Anyway, now I've read your letter from start to finish. So what's this about pirate costumes and boyhood adventures?”
Relieved to slip into their familiar roles as co-conspirators, Penelope explained her scheme about having Simon impersonate Admiral Percival Racine Ashton in order to get Pudge to tell his tale. “But you will need a costume,” she said. “What a pity you did not get my letter before leaving London!”
“It wouldn't have mattered.
Pirates on Holiday
sank faster than an anchor hitched to another anchor. The producers sold everything but the actors to make back some of the money they'd lost. Those costumes are scattered to the four winds by now. But there's no shortage of old sailor outfits at the HAM. I know where the storage lockers are. I'm sure we could find something suitable.”
Penelope's optimism swelled like a wave, and for the first time she grinned at her friend in her old, easy way. “Will you do it, then?”
He stroked his chin. “Me as the long-dead admiral, eh? Pudge knows the cut of my jib very well, but with plenty of stagecraft and a bit of inspired acting, it just might work.” He paused. “But is it right to try to trick old Pudge into breaking his oath, even if it is for a worthy cause? It feels like an ethical dilemma to me.”
(Ethical dilemmas are like the sevens and eights of the multiplication tables, which is to say, they are a particularly tricky kind of problem. They occur when the difference between right and wrong is shrouded in mist. For example: Is it wrong to steal a loaf of bread to save the life of a starving child? Is telling a friend that his appalling new haircut looks fantastic a dreadful lie, or simply good manners? Is it ever right to throw one person to the wolves so that others might escape harm? Such questions keep philosophers in business, and the rest of us scratching our heads.)
Penelope and Simon talked it over. They decided that Pudge's loyalty to the admiral was praiseworthy, but the admiral's true intentions ought to be considered as well. “No doubt he swore Pudge to secrecy to protect his family, but surely his purpose would be
better served by undoing the curse itself. We must think of the Barking Baby Ashton,” Penelope observed, and Simon agreed.
But would their scheme work? Together they stared at the cracks in the wall plaster and considered the odds. “How is your great-uncle's eyesight?” Penelope asked, thoughtfully swirling the last sip of tea 'round the bottom of her teacup.
Simon leaned back in his chair. “Not bad for an old bird who spent his boyhood staring into the sun from the crow's nest. This will be the greatest acting challenge of my career so far!”
A
FTER THAT THEY PARTED, FOR
Penelope had the children to attend to, and Simon wanted to practice swaggering and speaking like an admiral. They agreed to arrive at the HAM at one o'clock, when Pudge would be fresh from his after-lunch nap. Simon felt his great-uncle would be in good spirits then, and as likely to tell tales of his boyhood adventures to long-dead admirals as they could reasonably expect. How likely that was remained to be seen, of course.
Penelope found the Incorrigibles already up and planning their own lesson for the morning. They were fascinated by the “panorama” mentioned by
Dr. Martell, and had decided to draw one called
The Secret World of Hermit Crabs
, which they hoped would give the viewer the experience of actually living inside a shell.
Penelope thought it was a fine idea, and arranged to have their breakfast brought in so they could get straight to work. Privately she hoped it would keep them occupied while she put her mind to the vexing problem of how to find a ship for Lady Constance to board. A ship! Perhaps a local fisherman might be willing to lend her one. “But even Lady Constance is likely to notice the difference between a fishing skiff and a square-rigger of the type that might reasonably sail across the sea,” she thought. “I could ask Simon for advice, for he is well versed in all things nautical. . . .”
In a flash her mind scampered in his direction, like a spaniel helplessly bounding after a squirrel. “Simon, and nothing but Simon!” she inwardly lamented, as a lovelorn sigh escaped her. “This business of being in love is terribly inconvenient. In the first place, it is distracting beyond reason, and in the second placeâwell, so far it is comically one-sided! How on earth is one person supposed to have any notion of how another person feels? Though I
suppose that is what poetry is for.”
Unfortunately, the poems Penelope knew and liked best were about shipwrecks, tygers, gloomy supernatural birds, and similar topics that were of little help to her now. “If only I had read a love poem or two along the way,” she thought with regret. “Then I might have some idea about how to proceed.”
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. The children were so absorbed in creating their panorama that they did not even hear the knock, so Penelope rose and answered the door herself.
It was one of the hotel stewards. “A package arrived for you, Miss Lumley,” he said, and handed her a small parcel. This puzzled her, for Simon had been the only person from whom she had expected to receive mail in Brighton. Who else knew she was here?
“Is this from the post office?” she inquired.
“I don't know, miss. Someone left it at the front desk for you,” he replied. He clicked his heels sharply before leaving, a gesture doubtless picked up from Captain Babushkinov.
Mystified, Penelope took the parcel and let the door close behind her. It was wrapped in brown paper, with some words scrawled upon it. “âDelivered to the Wrong
Shore by Mistake: Please Forward to Miss Lumley, Right Foot Inn, Brighton,'” she read.
She held the parcel to her face and sniffed, for the whiff of rum was unmistakable. Her heart raced as she tore it open. Inside, flattened and tied in a neat bundle with a piece of twine, were the letters (no longer in bottles) from Simon, along with a note:
I believe these belong to you. Regards, Martell,
it read.
The letters! She grabbed the bottle of smelling salts, just in case, and decamped to the chair by the window. “First I shall put them in order,” she thought, shuffling the letters according to the date, “for a story is best told from beginning to end, and not the other way 'round. I am sure Simon would agree.” Finally, after taking a deep, calming breath, she began to read.
The first letters described what it was like being locked up belowdecks, the rudeness of his captors, and the poor quality of the food. Later he told of how he slowly befriended the pirates, and learned of their despair at having lost their navigator (the poor fellow had taken dramatically ill during a raid on a beautiful tropical island, and insisted on being left behind to meet his gruesome end among the palm trees and coconuts and kindly native peoples there).
Then came a clearly difficult letter, filled with blotches and crossed-out words, in which Simon confessed that he had been sworn in as part of the crew. “I don't mind it so much myself,” he wrote. “Call it an adventure! But I worry that you might not think well of me being a pirate. Perhaps you've forgotten about me anyway, but I have to be honest, my dear Miss L, and say your opinion weighs on my mind.”
Penelope began to read more slowly after that. A few letters later, she found this:
I do think of you every day, Penelope (may I call you that?). It helps keep my spirits up, although sometimes I wonder if I'll ever get back to England and see you and those dear Incorrigible children again.
And, later, this:
Nobody but our old friend Madame Ionesco knows the future, of course! Life with a playwright would be scandalous enough, but a playwright pirate? Surely you could do better. Still, I like to think we're cut of the same sailcloth, you and I. . . .
And this:
I know it's my business to be good with words, but I seem to be sailing in circles trying to say what's really on my mind. Perhaps, Penny dear (if I may be so familiar!), if this letter ever finds you, you'll be able to figure it out.
Penelope put down the letters and sat quite still.
She was shocked. Shaken. Overjoyed! Dismayed! And above all, thoroughly confused.
“Perhaps he was just lonely at sea,” she thought, not daring to hope. Even so, he had felt that way about her, once. Might he still?
It was possible, she decided. Yet if he did, why on earth had he not said anything? “Yet I have not said anything either,” she thought, and drummed her fingers on the table. “Blast! If only I might get him to the Oddities Museum to lay hands on the Seashell of Love! Then it would all come tumbling out. But there is no time for that today.” Indeed, the clock showed that it was already quarter past twelve. Soon it would be time to make their way to the HAM.
“To discover Simon's true feelings, I will have to use my powers of deduction and stay on the lookout
for clues,” she decided. Carefully she put away the letters. “But these letters are surely cause for optimism, if anything ever was!”
T
HE
I
NCORRIGIBLES WANTED TO MEET
Simon's great-uncle, about whom they had heard so much, but the HAM had limited visiting hours for children. Apparently, the ancient mariners were prone to using salty language, and found it tiring to stop when young people were present.
It was just as well, for even in costume Penelope did not think the children would make plausible sailors, given their small size and childlike voices. She arranged for them to stay behind at the Right Foot Inn, studying hermit crabs with the Babushkawoos under the supervision of Master Gogolev. This idea was met with enthusiasm, for a variety of reasons: Veronika was glad to spend time with “her brilliant Sasha,” the twins liked the idea of pinching Baby Max with imaginary crab claws, while Master Gogolev felt that the forced migration of the hermit crab from its borrowed shell was a tragic commentary on the relationship between the serfs and the land they worked but did not own.
With the children's afternoon accounted for, Penelope and Simon headed off. His fortune-teller costume
slowed their progress, since his gait was hampered by all the long skirts. Still, they agreed it was best for him to travel in disguise, as his many visits to his great-uncle over the years had made him a familiar face at the HAM.
Penelope was glad of the costume for another reason, too. With his handsome head wrapped in scarves, his physique concealed by shawls, and that charming hint of a sailor's swagger hidden beneath the skirts, it was, if not easy, at least easier to put the question of romantic feelings aside temporarily.
They walked in silence, for the wind was too blustery for easy conversation. “There it is,” Simon said at last. The Home for Ancient Mariners was a long, low structure, with rows of windows facing the sea. From the rooftop widow's walk, a proud flagpole stretched skyward, and the Union Jack and the flag of the Royal Navy tautly fluttered and snapped in the wind. A stone path, neatly swept, led them from the street to the main gate.
Simon lifted a hand to ring the bell, then paused and turned to her. “Say, I wanted to ask you something. Dr. Martell said you and I would have a matter of importance to discuss today. What do you suppose he meant?”
“Dinosaurs, I expect,” Penelope replied, not missing a beat. “Giant lizards, long extinct. You might write an interesting play about them, although it would be a challenge to depict such creatures on the stage, as they were shockingly large, here, let me.” She leaned across him and rang the bell. Then she made a great show of waiting, tapping her fingertips together and listening at the lock.
“Giant lizards! Really?” Simon scratched his veiled head.
“Enormous! The size of an omnibus! Shh, someone is coming.”
Simon hunched over and drew the scarves close 'round his face. The gate swung open to reveal a man in a nautically styled uniform with the initials
HAM
embroidered on the chest pocket. Below it was the image of a sunset at the ocean's horizon.
Penelope stood straight as a bowling pin and spoke in her most confident, Swanburnian tone. “Good afternoon, sir. My dear grandmamma and I are here to visit Captain Ahab. May we enter?”
“Captain Ahab?” The man frowned. “We don't have a resident by that name.” Penelope had plucked the name from a long American novel she had heard of, having to do with a whale. She had not read the book,
but a great stack of them had once nearly fallen on her in a bookshop window display. Naturally, the experience made an impression.
“Captain Ahab is an old family friend,” she said with brisk authority. “Perhaps you have him listed under an alternate spelling. Do not trouble yourself! We shall simply go inside and see for ourselves.”
Smiling and nodding, she and Simon swept past the poor fellow, who was left puzzling over how else one might spell Ahab. Once they were inside and unobserved, Simon steered them to a stairwell that led downstairs to the residents' storage lockers.
“What did I tell you?” he said, opening the trunks. “Old uniforms everywhere. Sailors are a sentimental lot, indeed.” As an expert on stagecraft, he was able to quickly assemble costumes out of these treasures. Penelope dressed as a cabin boy, with her hair tucked up beneath a cap. For himself, Simon fashioned an admiral's uniform out of dark trousers, a brass-buttoned jacket with fringed epaulettes, and a jaunty two-cornered hat. (Such a hat is often called a “bicorne,” which means it has two corners, just as a bicycle has two wheels and a bivalve molluskâsuch as a clam or an oysterâhas two shells.)
“Now for the face.” Simon had brought his kit of
stage makeup. Expertly he applied spirit gum and fake whiskers, nose putty, a bit of greasepaint and pencil, and some loose powder to blend it all together. When he was done, he turned to Penelope.