The Holiday continued

It always amused him, go to any naval port, in any country and there was always at least one reunion in town. Sailors were the same the world over he mused. They might wear different uniforms but the characters were universal.
Danae’s crew were from all over the British Isles, and as it had been for decades, the station at Portsmouth Harbour, jutting out over that grey water on creaking wooden timbers would reverberate to the varied accents as the people dispersed to all four points of the compass. The locals would be straight home, a quick change of clothes and probably off to the Pickwick or the Devonshire for a quick pint or seven before heading down to Fratton Park. Pompey were playing at home tonight and Kimberley who had spent many years in the city, knew its ways and just what it meant to them. He almost envied them, that closeness, that camaraderie.
Barry Swanley mentally went through his checklist for seeing the boss over the side. He would need a side party and the boatswain to pipe the old man ashore.
‘Thank you everybody,’ said Kimberley, smiling at the bridge crew around him and making his way to his cabin aft.

Danae, a type 45 destroyer and one of the first of the Royal Navy’s so called stealth warships. She had advanced ‘over the horizon’ radar and had been designed as a guard ship for the Queen Elizabeth class carriers that were still some years away. Danae herself was the eighth in the class, the most powerful and modern warships in the Royal Navy. As well as her air defence role, she also carried the Storm Shadow cruise missile, the new Anglo-French independent strike weapon, in which the Admiralty had rejoiced for the simple reason that they no longer needed the Americans permission to open fire. In fact there was a rumour doing the rounds that the first computer mapped test was to try to sink an American carrier. Just because they could.
Mike Kimberley was a trusted officer both by his masters and his crew. Privy to the operational secrets of his ship, any leave on his part required him to be authorised to go and to remain subject to recall at any time.
On reaching his cabin, Mike Kimberley found his cases packed and ready. His steward Paul Jameson had a steaming coffee waiting for him on his desk, Kimberley marvelled at the bush telegraph that always reliably told Paul when he left the bridge. Kimberley slumped down into his armchair and reached for the black coffee. Five minutes later, despite the caffeine, he was sound asleep.
‘Come on Sir.’ The gentle voice of Paul Jameson urged Kimberley back from the void, from his dreams of the cold and the snow. He roused himself.
‘Sorry Paul, I didn’t even get to finish the coffee.’ He touched his steward on the shoulder ‘but it was a very welcome gesture.’ He paused. ‘Right then, you look after our Mr Swanley while I am away?’
‘Aye aye sir.’
‘And you make sure to tell me what he makes a balls up of, won’t you?’ The steward’s face cracked into a smile.
‘You can count on it Sir. Here, I’ll take your bags.’
‘Only as far as the deck Paul, it wouldn’t do for the lads and ladies to think I was crocked would it?’
‘Guess not sir, guess not.’
‘Right then, time for the off. Thanks for everything on this trip Paul.’ Kimberley held out his hand, and the steward shook it.
‘My pleasure sir.’ And he found himself meaning it too.

Having seen the ‘old man’ safely over the side, Barry Swanley had time to reflect on the character of his skipper. A married man himself, he could not begin to understand the loneliness he believed the devoutly single Mike Kimberley suffered. Thoughts of home crowded into his mind. Later he would call his wife and just enjoy the sheer normality of the domestic tittle tattle. Swanley smiled to himself, Megan, his wife was always saying that she could fix Mike Kimberley up with a veritable harem of suitable prospective wives. No go there, thought Swanley. Kimberley was married to the job. Reaching for the works manifest, Swanley knew he had his work cut out over the next few weeks and that he would be judged accordingly.

Kimberley made his way to the old dock gates where the white stone shone no matter what time of year. And in the steady drizzle that had begun to fall over the past few minutes, they positively glistened. Walking through the gates and on to the Hard, Kimberley could not but help feel a sense of history. It was funny how it struck you, those gates had seen some characters, not all of them known to history. The yards of Nelsons flagship, the Victory still dominated the city skyline despite the new Spinnaker tower. A constant reminder of what had gone before.
Just as history seeped into the very stones of this place, some things never changed. One of those was the ability of the citizens of Portsmouth to earn money out of the Navy. The Hard was packed with taxis spilling out from the rank. The drivers would know that the Danae was due, and with it would come good fares and even better tips. Kimberley approached the first car in the line, a nondescript blue Mondeo and the driver, eagerly clambered out of his seat and placed Kimberleys bags in the boot as the navy officer climbed into the back seat.
The car sank on its springs as the driver landed rather than sat in his seat.
‘Where to Skipper?’ That accent. Unique to Pompey. It was as subtle as a cheese grater. Some people compared it to cockney but it was not. It was harsh, the consonants stamping all over the vowels. It was an accent as strong as black American coffee. It was an accent that was unused to feeling sorry for itself and had been heard on quarterdecks and in gun turrets for centuries. Mostly when the light fingered dockers were stealing bits of ships thought Kimberely with a mental smile.
‘Bosham, please. I’ll direct you when we get there.’