A frantic search on a fretful voyage
WordSmith
Gerard Smith
The pen was in a gift shop in Cobh, County Cork; in its barrel was the Titanic. I held the pen upside down and watched the ship sail towards the iceberg at the top end. Then put it down to stop the Titanic from a second collision in a souvenir pen.
For me the pen was a powerful memory trigger; it brought me back to my childhood encounter with the Pen-man. Let me tell you about him.
When young, my siblings and I travelled from Manchester to spend summer in Cavan, a journey we made by ourselves. Our parents briefed us to: Stick together, don’t go on deck, and don’t talk to strangers. We were city-streetwise; well aware of what we called perverts, how to spot a potential one and steer clear of their proclivities.
Safely on board the B+I Line’s flagship: Munster, we headed straight for the gift shop, where my brother rummaged through a display, “I want one of those pens with the ship in it,” he shouted. A strange man approached holding up the pen, “I’ll buy that for-ya, young fella.”
A stranger buying something for a kid wasn’t right, my alarm bell rang. Dermot’s didn’t, he wanted the pen, and got it. I stared at Pen-man, trying to read him: Was he a monster on the Munster?
Stress
Maria was the eldest, our guardian, a position that came with considerable stress when travelling with our wayward brother. Settled into our seats, Maria relaxed; until the ship shuddered – “WE’RE MOVING!” hollered Dermot, drawing unwanted attention.
Dermot stood up, “We’re near the deck door!” he said. “What does that mean?” I asked. “If the ship sinks, we’ll be first for the lifeboats.”
I turned to him, “Dad said we don’t have icebergs, so we can’t do a Titanic.” Dermot stared ahead, blankly, “It’s bombs that’s the worry!” He dashed for the door, “I have to go bomb searching on deck.”
The deck – the place we’d been told never to venture.
We knew all about bombs. As the kids of Irish parents, we were accustomed to the playground taunts our parentage engendered whenever there was a bombing in the news.
But the moment I saw Dermot fly out the door into the deck-danger-zone, it wasn’t bombs that bothered me.
No, the stranger man who bought him the pen mired my mind.
Kidnapped
Maria and I raced out the door after our brother.
A fierce sea wind hit us and we fell onto the diesel smeared deck, “Bloody-hell, oil on our new clothes, I’m gonna kill Dermot when I get him,” she said. Her words smacked me with fear-inducing force, “Don’t say that, what if that man who bought him the pen’s got him?”
I said, spilling my worry. Maria wiped me down, “Don’t be daft,” she said, her dismissal not allaying my fears.
Back inside, Maria spilled her fear, “Oh God Gerard, I hope he’s alright out there?” While Maria fretted about the elements harming Dermot, I worried about him coming to harm by human – from the potential pervert, Pen-man.
We scoured the ship; and while Maria peered outside, I searched inside for Pen-man. All I wanted was a glance of him to reassure me he hadn’t kidnapped my brother. The café: he wasn’t there. The toilets, I checked every cubicle: all empty. I popped my head inside the pub: no drinking Pen-man. The posh restaurant: no sign of a fine-dining Pen-man.
As my frantic search arrived back at the gift shop, I broke a sweat. Maria felt my clammy hand and stopped, “Gerard, don’t fret, he’ll turn up soon.”
My lips wobbled, “I’m so scared that man’s got him?” Her embrace smothered me in care; her words soothed me, “You know Dermot, he’d kick the shins off anyone who tried to snatch him.”
Misread
Dermot arrived back in the seating lounge, rainwater puddling at his feet.
“I’ve checked all decks and found no sign of bombing devices,” he said, addressing me while resolutely avoiding Maria’s furious eye.
The following morning whilst waiting to disembark, I finally saw Pen-man again.
He was sleepy but smiley, hopeful and happy. He handed Maria a booklet of postcards with pictures of the Munster on them, “Enjoy your summer, kids,” he said, his Irish accent diluted with a slight English-twang.
From my adult vantage point, I realise how much I’d misread Pen-man.
He wasn’t a monster on the Munster, he was a kind man returning home – a Kindred-Spirit.