“Sweden you say?” said the man in the
tanker.
“No, I’m sorry, I can’t help you.
“This is Tilbury.” Underwood
Fought his rising fury like the old
Trooper he was, swallowed his sandwich,
Pocketed his pride and looked
Directly at the fellow.
“Tilbury?”
There are ways of saying “Tilbury” –
but even the
Totality of interrogative nuances
available
To sentient beings the world over
Had not so far accommodated the manner
in which
Underwood said, “Tilbury?”
The man in the tanker merely said,
“Yeah.”
“But I have a valid ticket!” Underwood
protested, profferring
The creased document.
“Says here,” remarked the man,
“That you’re good to go. But this
“Is Tilbury. You can’t sail from
here.”
Underwood patiently explained that,
Far from wishing to sail from Tilbury, he was under
The impression that he had already done
All the sailing that was required
And fondly imagined
He had arrived. Sarcasm
Was lost on the man in the tanker,
Who shrugged and suggested that Underwood
Consider the further options offered
By the A13. Harwich was
mentioned.
As was Esbjerg in Denmark.
Underwood pointed to a vessel bearing
the sign,
“We’re off to Sweden!” and challenged
the man
To explain the discrepancy between his
statement
And the empirical evidence before them.
“That was spoze to sail yesterday,” the
man said,
Rubbing his chin. “No boats
today.”
Underwood spoke very slowly, at pains
To make his meaning clearly understood:
“I want to speak
“To the Swedish ambassador.”
The man in the tanker yawned.
“Don’t they all,
“Mate?” he said, with the
weary resignation of one
Who has been asked on numerous
occasions
To arrange
A tête-à-tête with diplomats, whomsoever
They purported to represent. “This way, sir.”
Underwood
was taken, by a circuitous route,
To the
outskirts of Tilbury, whereupon
Bugger
my old boots if it wasn’t Darcy Entwistle
Emerging
from the local pub with his Swedish wife,
Rigmor!
Underwood
Hadn’t
seen Darcy since he was expelled
In the
Lower Fourth for something which Matron
Remained
tight-lipped about. “Darcy!”
Exclaimed
Underwood. “How the blazes
“Do I
get to Sweden from here?” Which is where
Rigmor
came in handy. “Just so happens,”
Entwistle
confided, “That Riggers here
“Could
use your help. Her Uncle Edvard,
“A vicious
brute of a man, won’t stop playing
“The
accordion, and it’s driving her batty. Fact is,
“It’s
put her right off her conjugals, if you get
“My
drift, so you’d be doing us both a great favour.
“The
oaf’s got the flat upstairs but he won’t
“Stop
playing that fucking accordion.” Underwood
Braced
himself, said: “Take me to him” and within minutes
Had
wrestled the man to the ground, thrown his accordion
Out of
the window and was sitting on the avuncular pest when
Rigmor
cautiously opened the door.
“You
brave man, whoever you are!” she cried. “How
“Can I
repay you?” “A first-class return
“From
Heathrow to Stockholm wouldn’t go amiss,
“With
the price of a taxi to the airport
“Thrown
in,” said Underwood. “And” – for he was
A
sporting chap – “resumption of relations with Darcy,
“If
you can see your way clear.” Rigmor
Smiled
seductively, her tongue hovering over
Her
upper lip. “You want conjugals too?”
She
cooed, studying Underwood’s
Trousers.
“Me? No, that won’t be
“Necessary,”
ejaculated Underwood. “I’m
“Off
to Sweden!”
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