Page 125 - Michael Frost-Voyages to Maturity-23531.indd

The journey back to Hampshire, however, was a very sorry affair. A major
problem with The Tank was the water pump; when the engine was running, it
operated satisfactorily. But if the car was left standing, the water would drain
away down to the level of the pump itself, so on any journey, if one stopped, one
had to have a container of water to return the water level up to the pump. I had
forgotten this important fact (it was a minor repair actually, costing about fifteen
pounds, but funds were always tight) and had brought no water. The Tank gave
its last sigh on the Chichester By-Pass. We had to abandon it and I never saw
it again; periodically, the lesson about ‘false economy’ has to be relearned. We
returned to Warsash at about 2 am after a succession of short hitches, and, sad
to report, we were contacted by the police shortly thereafter because of “a car
registered in your name on the Chichester By-Pass that has to be removed”. Two
days later, a scrap merchant paid us three pounds to take it away; I am sure that
he made a bit of money out of it. (Despite this tragedy, we actually did quite well
with that car. One had to go to the lowest gear to get it up even the slightest hill,
but as I have said, it was very comfortable and built to last.)

Don and I decided to commiserate with a visit to the Warsash Pub, a cheery
place that prospered with all the local students. After my first rum and blackcurrant
(a sweetness that quickly palls!) I found myself sitting next to a young lady of very
considerable personal attractions, two in particular. By the second drink, we were
in good shape; she (Eleanor/Elly) invited me to her home, a two-minute walk
away. There I met her sister, a similar magnificence who ignored us completely
and left the couch to us. I liked the fact that no parents were apparent!

Apart from a little such sordid behaviour as that with this pneumatic young
lady, with whom I was, however, notably unsuccessful, our ‘education’ had to go
on. One of Captain Stewart’s friends had instituted a series of lunches which were
to teach us manners (again!) and some social graces and enjoy an afternoon of
recorded music; it was made quite clear that it would not be of the Mick Jagger
variety. Equally, it was made clear to us (four cadets comprised a suitably-sized
group) that the food would be excellent. (The food at the school was actually
good, if repetitive, so a change of this sort boded well.) Now, however, we had to
go there (part way to Portsmouth) by bus; one quickly misses the convenience of
a car once it is lost.

I am pleased to say that the afternoon was very enjoyable. Our host was
obviously an ex-Merchant Navy Captain, one who had plainly seen over sixty-
five summers but was only superficially a gruff old martinet; once he realised
that we would be happy to hear about his seagoing tales, he opened up as if in his
ship’s wardroom. Lunch was preceded by a good local beer, and the main course
(it was coming up to Easter) was an excellent baked ham. Thereafter, we sat down
for music, and he selected the First Act of ‘Cosi Fan Tutte’, a Mozart opera that to
me was rather boring, conversational rather than dramatic. However, and here

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