Kicking the Bucket

By David Chadwick

Kicking the Bucket has two definitions. It’s a vulgar euphemism for dropping dead, or a literal description of your life support system being involuntarily dispensed with on the gallows, i.e., by kicking away the bucket you may be standing on with the rope around your neck, or by voluntarily removing yourself from the felicitations and care of your family, the NHS, ‘and Social Services. Charles Fenemore, faced with his inevitable decline into senility like most of his friends, chose the latter with unforeseen outcomes.

Leaving his ultimate fate to chance and circumstance, he buys an old boat and sails into ‘the setting sun’, informing no-one of his intentions except his son who reluctantly aids his plans, and arousing the interest of a washed-up journalist who senses an ulterior motive behind his escapade. Subsequent events cause him to query his own feelings and those of his family left behind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035841974

David Chadwick

David Chadwick is an acclaimed author, historian and award-winning journalist whose work includes Tin Soldiers (the first book in the Nixon’s America Trilogy), Liberty Bazaar, set in Liverpool during the American Civil War, and High Seas to Home, a historical account of the Battle of the Atlantic. David uses his experiences reporting politics, crime and business to inform his creative work. He divides his time between homes in Greater Manchester, England, and Almeria, Spain.

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About the Author

David spent his formative years as a Subaltern on the Hohne Artillery ranges in Germany and the back streets of the Bogside. He had his first brush with computers on FACE in the back of a Land Rover, entering the profession on leaving the army, and skilfully avoiding stepping on any passing bandwagon. At the end of the millennium, he was diagnosed with cancer and bought a derelict barn, simultaneously. His remission period was spent labouring whilst his wife, Jan, adeptly managed the rebuild, subsequently running it for 20 years as a B&B. As a freelancer he now writes and edits a computer magazine for the construction industry, covering subjects like AI, augmented reality in the industrial Metaverse, drone technology, and the industry’s challenges with climate change, sustainability and Net Zero carbon processes.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my father – a very private man – who, during his only two-week stay in a care home on respite descended into his own particular hell when asked to join in with the community ‘singalong’. Dedications are also due to the dwindling number of close friends and relatives who are suffering from the agonies from which Charles is hoping to escape.

Copyright Information ©

David Chadwick 2024

The right of David Chadwick to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035841967 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035841974 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Chapter 1

The iridescent gleam of engine oil glazed the lifeless flanks of the mackerel like the lurid attention of a third rate embalmer. Charles leant heavily on the pontoon railings as he peered into the rivulets filtering down from the muddy banks into the shallow river.

The stretch upstream from Bursledon Bridge towards Botley had always been his favourite spot on the River Hamble. Now intersected by the clean-lined motorway bridge at Swanwick, the jumble of decrepit ex-naval launches, inexpertly converted into some forms of habitable dwelling, the twisted shells of sunken vessels, discarded foc’sles and other marine detritus that surfaced amid the slime of reed-lined river banks on a receding tide, imbued the reach with an aura of decay.

It was also an entirely appropriate location for ‘Barnacle’ Bill’s chandlery. Bill was an unfortunate name for any beached mariner who chose to purvey a stinking pile of boat bits and bobs from a half-submerged hulk moored firmly against a rickety jetty that stretched no more than 10 yards onto an equally decrepit junkyard cluttered with the upturned hulls of a dozen or more decaying boats.

It was bound to attract the honorary title, helped somewhat by the retention of the ‘full set’ he had grown on active duty some years past. Charles shook his head and ambled over to the chandlery ‘office’, focusing in on the drama of the aforementioned chandler, remonstrating on his Bakelite telephone with some unseen contact about the non-appearance of an obscure piece of maritime equipment that he had sworn blind to a customer would be ‘on his boat by Friday’!

He frequently visited the cluster of boats looking for spare bits for his elderly wooden-hulled ketch and was always delighted to note that it changed so very little over the passage of time. It was still the slag-end of the river he remembered—a world apart from the gleaming hulls, clinking rigging and bustling cuddies of the lower reaches of the river, and really, the furthest point of navigation with the approach to Botley impassable at low tide even to flat-bottomed canoes.

As a youth, it had been the pinnacle of his ambitions to buy and convert an old MTB and jam it into the muddy canyons at the river’s edge—to follow some vague water dominated existence. He had become a civil servant, instead. Now, he was back with a firmer intent.

He needed some obscure component for his own boat, and failing to find it in the larger and vastly more expensive chandleries at Hamble, Southampton and Lymington, had recalled the boatyard at Swanwick Reach as a last resort for both boats and equipment and as such, the most likely place to find what he was looking for.

Besides that, he had always been a bit parsimonious, and had built up a ‘head of resentment’ over the high prices charged by the smarter chandleries for their bits and bobs. Picking around among the piles of stained and rusty boat fittings, he was always able to pick out a patinated brass porthole or rusty binnacle, giving him pause to imagine the boats they had been salvaged from and the adventures they had been part of.

Barnacle Bill’s interminable harangue continued, giving Charles time to reflect on his fascination with the stretch of river. With the tide halfway out to the Solent, he was perched above the water line, and looking down through the missing decking, he watched the rainbowed oil rivulets as they coursed down from the leaking tanks on the shore to mingle with the mud-steeped waters of the outgoing river, and the detritus of two miles of dirty riverbanks.

It was his choice of description—the ‘aura’ of decay. Far from being a dank, dull and decrepit environment, Charles revelled in the squalor of the place, which he felt defined it with a vibrant life of its own.

Nearly sixty years had elapsed between his youthful dreams and their eventual fulfilment, but Charles felt the gap shrinking rapidly as he recalled the repartee he had shared with his son just a couple of days before.

Need a starboard light fitting for my boat. What have you got? he asked.

What boat, and what year?

Laurent Giles, 42 foot Bermudan, Sixties. Shorthand seemed entirely appropriate in the circumstances as Barnacle Bill wound down from the complex call he was obviously engaged upon with one of his exasperated customers.

A long time since I have seen one of those. Still seaworthy, he asked, or is it just a floating man cave?

That was a fair question. The previous owner might have kept it properly caulked and spent some time on it, but Charles calculated he hadn’t taken it off its mooring in the last twenty years.

It’s in good condition, Charles replied. It’s been well looked after, but probably not sailed much before I bought it. The last owner got sick but spent a good deal of money on it. Now, he hasn’t the strength to climb on board, so I got it at a good price.

And you’re gonna give it a good workout, he suggested, looking pointedly at Charles’ lean frame, honed in the polished offices of one of the older civil service establishments in Central London.

Got some plans, obviously, said Charles, disregarding Barnacle Bill’s contemptuous looks. Wherever I go, I will need to replace some of the bits on it. Lights, remember, port and starboard. It’s the starboard one that’s missing.

Might not be able to find an exact replacement, was the reply, but the style was pretty common on lots of boats from that era. Does it have to be exact?

No, but it has to work.

Sure, I can help. Can you come back tomorrow? Got a lot of rummaging to do.

Charles wasn’t surprised. He looked around the cabin which served as Barnacle Bill’s office. It was a wealth of nautical knickknacks, but he could discern no particular order in the haphazard piles of boat gear that spilled over every surface. An extra day or so wasn’t a problem either, as he had been building up to his trip for some time.

I’ll give you a call in a day or so, he said. Be delighted if you find something. More than delighted, as he knew the chances of finding anything suitable in one of the classier chandlers was remote. He walked back down the short jetty. It was just a short walk to Bursledon Bridge where he had left his car.

He hadn’t wanted to drive into the boatyard, as that would have deprived him of the pleasure of savouring the rotting hulks, rusting cubbies and musty smells that seemed to blend the saltwater marches with the dripping diesel from half-dismantled boat engines that used to enthral him so much in his youth.

Chapter 2

You’ve got a lot of baked beans! Jonathan exclaimed as he dumped the second of two boxes of tins on the deck of Charles’ boat, in the bowels of which Charles himself was stowing his supplies.

Uh-huh! grunted Charles in reply.

I mean, that’s a lot of beans—why do you need two whole cases of baked beans? Jonathan went on.

They’re good for you. Ultimate comfort food. His answers were as short as you would expect from an old man doubled up and mostly upside down, his right arm deep in an otherwise inaccessible locker.

I mean, aren’t you worried about the side-effects?

What side-effects? Charles queried. Oh, those—not really. Anyway, would you take any chances at my age? Charles responded, his breathing returning to normal as he unfolded his 83-year-old frame from under the chart table, where he was trying to pack away a couple of bottles of single malt whiskey in one of the few places where there appeared to be any left-over space. Going to have enough on my plate without worrying about constipation.

Did you know, he added, straightening up, that it’s one of the biggest killers of old folk? You wouldn’t believe how many heart attack victims are found sitting on the loo.

What’s your intention, then—to fart your way across the Atlantic?

"Would if I could. Remember Thunderpants, the movie?" Charles memory might have been on the wane, but he could remember most of the numerous films he had sat through with his grandchildren—Jonathan’s daughters—who were now on the verge of leaving home to go to university.

The one about the kid who had a slight flatulence problem?

That’s the one—got a physics problem for you. If I had his stupendous talent, what would give me more propulsion—sitting on the stern of the boat and farting like a jet engine—or bending over the stern and farting into the mainsail?

Jonathan chuckled. Playing word games with his father was like old times—something he remembered fondly from when he was a small child—more than 60 or so years ago!

You could steer better if you farted over the stern, I suppose, replied Jonathan, and the pong would have been left behind.

Now, in the grand panoply of rude words, ‘fart’ doesn’t figure very highly. In fact, you could hardly call it cussing as it is one of those words that concisely describe a natural process. Interesting, therefore, that Jonathan’s utterance of the word should cause a minor hiatus in their casual banter.

Only a couple of months previously, neither of them would ever utter such a word in front of the other. Their relationship had been warm enough on the occasions when they had been able to get together, but it had been marked by the reserve and deference that you often find between fathers and sons.

That reserve had been shattered by his father’s recent and startling announcements. Initially appalled, Jonathan had gradually come round to the logic of his father’s intentions and had gradually become as embroiled as Charles was with his plans.

It had loosened the barriers between them, with Charles, fired both by the trivia and the magnitude of his undertaking, taking Jonathan completely into his confidence. He had subsequently been rewarded by seeing his son emerging from his low-level depression as he became more and more involved in his father’s upcoming adventure.

Fart, therefore, was but a mild expletive, diminished even further in status by the frank and cheerful exchanges that now passed between them. It still caused an occasional momentary stillness in Charles’ thought processes as he considered the effect that his escapade was having on both their lives.

Right! Enough chat. There’s more to put away yet, if we can find any more space in this floating cubby hole and we’ve got to be at The Florence arms by seven.

Despite calling for an increase in tempo, Charles picked out one of the tins and looked at it. Why baked beans, indeed? Why should beans—which he didn’t really like—constitute an infallible method of loosening the bowels when other remedies fail? What do they have that other pulses don’t?

The ultimate comfort food that could be eaten hot or cold—although he grimaced at the thought of plunging a fork into a stone-cold mess of beans with all that it implied in terms of actual discomfort—a temporary lack of a heat source, temporal inconvenience and abject squalor—descriptive of the lower moments he was bound to encounter during the coming journey, he supposed were.

And why tins? As a reliable and efficient way of transporting and maintaining the nutritional values of foodstuffs since the days of Captain Scott’s adventures in the Antarctic, and probably even before that, they had proved their worth many times over—but what do you do with the empty cans when you have consumed the contents.

Having spent a lifetime conducting a one-man war against litter in his local park, with his natural instincts towards cleanliness and order reinforced by the recent recycling edicts of the Parish, it went against all of Charles’ instincts to throw non-degradable junk into the sea—but, he had to reason with himself, what’s a couple of dozen cans compared to the vast tonnage of shipping that had lain rotting on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean since the Second World War—seeping diesel engine oil, instead of tomato juice?

Tins were a sensible option compared to the alternatives, and the tiny denizens of the deep following his progress may enjoy a brief change in their diets as they cleaned out the empty cans.

The alternatives were far worse, of course, the ubiquitous rafts of plastic in all of its forms that were polluting the oceans and killing a fragile ecosystem, depicted graphically on television, showing how they broke down to micro particles and were subsequently ingested by the myriads of lifeforms in the sea and thereafter, by humans.

He had resolved, therefore, to stock just those supplies that could be packaged in bio-degradable or inert containers, instead of plastic or that could be stashed away loose.

His provisions, which included some entirely fancy, unnecessary but essential luxuries, amounted to boxes of dried fruit and other comestibles—prunes, figs, ‘a secondary bit of ammo in his armoury to keep the bowels loose’, he thought, although he had considered that he could easily become a bit of a boring fanatic in this respect, and a variety of pasta shapes, which are easily transformed into substantial meals as long as you have a plentiful supply of water.

He had even checked out whether you could cook pasta in sea water, and was delighted to find that in spite of the fact that it contains about 35 grams of salt per litre of water—higher than you would normally use to salt your pasta, it was perfectly normal, and is even used by some nationalities to cook lobster, and other seafood.

Pasta, therefore, got the thumbs up followed ‘as a natural matter of course by a couple of large chunks of parmesan cheese’. No matter how careful you are though, constant plundering of your stock in damp and cold environments soon rendered any watertight containment useless.

He reckoned that much of it would become waterlogged and spoiled long before he finished his voyage but he still eschewed plastic packaging, not wishing to be complicit in the formidable slaughter of marine wildlife, upon whose domain he was trespassing.

It was a quid pro quo, he explained to himself, thinking logically, death by starvation or dehydration were just a couple of the numerous possibilities that would determine the finale of his voyage.

His aversion to artificial materials were not a sudden manifestation. He bought an old wooden boat for his trip instead of going for one of the sleeker and more efficient fibreglass hulls that might have saved him a fair amount of money and considerable effort in its manhandling, and in spite of the fact that they were generally cheap and easy to maintain with plenty of examples still going strong from the 1960s.

Opting for wood, he also privately admitted to himself, was an indulgence for his stubborn and quaintly old-fashioned attitudes, despite the discomfort and inconveniences it would pile on his ageing frame.

He sat back on his haunches and looked at the variety and purposefulness of his provisions, poking out of the nether reaches of his craft. Loading a yacht with the gear and provisions that you need for a long sea voyage of indeterminate duration, he thought, required a lot of detailed planning.

He was going to add experience, as well, but you couldn’t really call Charles Fenemore an experienced and accomplished sailor. What he knew about life at sea on a small boat and the food, water and clothing that he would need for an extended voyage was largely academic, the result of cerebral calculations on dry land and that probably didn’t amount to much at all, in spite of the fact that he had been planning this particular journey for three years.

He had taken his boat out on numerous overnight trips, attended seamanship and navigation courses at the local college, and spent some time with weather-beaten ‘salts of the sea’ he had bumped into in the small bars surrounding the inner harbours at Portsmouth and Gosport, but he still remained an amateur in matters maritime.

But age was against him, and he had had to move things along a bit. What had started out as a pleasurable diversion during the long winter evenings had now become days of feverish activity as he approached his departure date. Retired from the civil service for the last 18 years, he had welcomed the chance to work on a project and to develop it to its’ satisfactory conclusion’, after the aimlessness of the first few years of his retirement.

The boat, as was mentioned earlier, was a Laurent Giles 40-foot Bermuda rigged craft, produced in small numbers in the 1960s. Not one of the most recent designs, but one that enjoyed some popularity around that time as it was solid and well fitted out, ideal for extended cruising, and perfectly suited for short-handed sailing.

Its previous owner had added self-steering gear, and a radar navigation system, and had been wise enough to keep it out of the water and under cover, following thorough overhauls by the boatyard staff after each extended cruise—an expensive way of looking after a boat, but paying dividends in the long term.

Charles had bought the boat from the owner’s wife—the owner himself having no further use for it after his incarceration in a home with advanced Parkinson’s disease. Charles thought the acquisition particularly apt when he considered his own reasons