The Shipping Forecast

Plymouth Part 1, the Second

0800, Off Ushant

"What," asked Captain Brindley, "the buggering hell is going on?"

Captain Brindley was sat in his captain's chair, in his captain's cabin, wearing captain's epaulets and a captain's hat (askew) and his whole manner and bearing would have told anyone looking in through the captain's door that morning that the captain was 'in a mood'. And quite possibly drunk. Being possibly drunk was in actual fact a distinct possibility, as in general Captain Brindley was either slightly inebriated or most definitely blotto, with various stages of drunkenness in between, all of the time. That it didn't seem to make any difference to his competency as a ship's captain, nor his ability to amass huge stores of anger like an electrical capacitor - stored and ready for discharge at any moment - wasn't lost on the crew.

Around passengers, Captain Brindley was the model of polite affability; smiling and engaging in trivial chit-chat about the weather without ever seeming to tire of the repetitious banality of it all. Instead, he saved all his rage and ire for the moment it could be discharged, away from the eyes and ears of paying clientele.

Like now, with third officer Killin, sat opposite his captain dressed in freshly starched and pressed white uniform, telling himself he'd done nothing wrong apart from being present when one of those ungrateful paying clientele had carked it. Killin's face was arranged to display polite attention and just the right amount of contriteness, he hoped, to deflect the captain's coming tirade, but within, Killin was fighting a battle between feeling hard done-to by life in general, and a secretly held elation at the fact of Mrs Scribb's passing away. It made his bruised left eye twitch and his lips tremble on the verge of a smile. Captain Brindley's red face was frowning at him mightily. "Are we talking about Mrs Scribb, sir?" asked Killin.

"Of course we're not talking about sodding Mrs Scribb!"

"Oh."

Well, this was unexpected. He'd come prepared with the report in his hand, and a whole raft of platitudes and graceful lines about how he was desolated at the passing of such a long standing repeat customer. After all, Mr and Mrs Scribb had been regular guests for more than a decade on Purple Star cruises. That meant, in the captain's eyes at least, they deserved unwavering respect, no matter how obnoxious and rude they had been to the crew all those years. But if the captain had called him in for something other than Mrs Scribb, what could it be? He suddenly felt woefully unprepared.

"I'm talking about the weather. It's utter rubbish!" roared Brindley.

"But sir! Surely you can't hold me responsible for the weather?"

Brindley's eyes narrowed and he sat forward threateningly in his chair. "Oh, but I can, third officer Killin. I can. You see, I have this," Brindley held up a sheet of paper and waved it around in front of his face as he spoke, "...and it tells me that you are an incompetent fool."

Killin peered at the flimsy sheet held in his Captain's hand and tried to make out what it was. "I cannot make it out sir."

"Cannot make it out! Cannot make it out! It is the weather forecast you placed on the bridge at the change of watch telling everyone what we should expect for the next twenty-four hours. Your report!" Brindley held the paper out towards Killin. "This report says we should be experiencing light airs and calm seas. Calm. Seas."

As if to underline the captain's point, the Zeeland shuddered into a deep trough and rolled alarmingly. There was the faint sound of breaking china from a nearby cabin, followed by muffled swearing. Captain Brindley remained silent, staring at Killin with wide eyes and spittle on his lips, letting the obvious underline his point.

"Oh, fair's fair sir, I just copied down the shipping forecast as it came though on the radio! You can't blame me for that, surely?" As soon as the words had left his mouth, Killin knew it was no good. For one, Brindley had already blamed him and judging by the smile now growing into a rictus grin, Brindley had kept the best for last.

Captain Brindley's voice lowered almost to a whisper, but his manic stare never changed. Killin wished his captain would blink. It was most disconcerting. "But you never listened to the shipping forecast, did you Killin. Because you weren't in the radio room. You were seen, you see. Leaving Ms Saffron-Lee's cabin. At half-past five in the morning." Brindley's voice was rising in volume, heading inexorably towards the triumphant shout that would underline his next words. "So you couldn't have been writing down the shipping forecast, COULD YOU, YOU LECHEROUS TURD?"

Killin sat there, shocked and reeling from Brindley's totally unjustified attack. Because he hadn't been in Ms Saffron-Lee's cabin. He really had been at the radio, writing down the forecast. So... who had been in her cabin if not him? "Oh my God," he said, realising what this meant.

"Oh my God, indeed," said Brindley. "Except, on board this ship, I am God. And I have your number, third officer Killin. Now, get out of my sight, go back to the bridge, and GET ME A PROPER FORECAST!"