Short Stories

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In July of 1974, the long-suffering father of pampered bad boy Shane Patrick Halligan decided that a week-long yachting course in the little village of Lymington on the south coast of England might help him develop some sorely needed moral fibre.
He was to reside for this period in a guest house owned by one Mrs Edith Drummond-Smith, whom Shane came to see as belonging to a type of quintessentially English upper class widow native to the sailing-besotted villages and hamlets of England’s south coast. To him, they were all charming if slightly aloof, immaculately spoken, kind, calm and considerate, and blessed with the most beautiful manners imaginable; although for the little Shane knew about them, she may have been the only one.
For he knew little of the arcane secrets of heartland or rural England, his father and mother having originated from the commonwealth nations of Australia and Canada respectively, while his earliest years were spent in relative poverty in a tiny little workman’s cottage in London’s Notting Hill. His veins could boast English, Scottish and Scots Irish, and possibly also Danish and Irish blood. Yet, he dressed as a perfect English gentleman, or rather how such an individual would have dressed several decades theretofore, which rendered him a singularly bizarre figure in a Britain still dominated by long hair and flared trousers.
Also resident with Mrs Drummond-Smith were Gilles, a Belgian boy of about twenty, and Mr Watts and his teenage son Dylan, and while all were on the same course as Shane, they had different sailing instructors. For example, Shane had been allotted the course director, Captain Peter St Aubyn, which was a propitious eventuality, as he was an alumnus of his own alma mater of Welbourne College, a private school of military stripe situated in the wealthy county of Berkshire near London.
All four became firm friends, Shane and Gilles becoming especially close. As to Dylan, he liked to listen to Shane’s theories on music and fashion, and was fascinated by his use of brilliantine, even going so far as to dab some in his own hair on one occasion. He did so in the hope it would make him resemble the man who was for him, an icon of “smoothness”, a synonym for cool in those days, this being British singer-songwriter Bryan Ferry who was also a favourite of Shane’s. In fact, Shane’s twenties-inspired wardrobe was remarkably similar to Ferry’s.
On the first day of the course, Shane discovered who would be sailing with him for the duration of the week; these being Corin, a cool, tall, dark, somewhat laconic young man of 28 who sported a fashionable moustache and spectacles combo, Tom, a genial old boy of about sixty or seventy, and Simon and Peg, a deeply pleasant young married couple. To say nothing of the skipper, a charismatic man whose wryly solemn countenance concealed a warm heart and “pythonesque” sense of humour.
That evening, Shane dined in what may have been the clubhouse of that bastion of Englishness and English privilege and English exclusivity, the Yacht Club…perhaps even the Royal Lymington Yacht Club itself.

He did so in the company of Corin, who informed him of his humble origins and the fact that through natural resourcefulness and sheer hard graft, he’d ascended to a managerial position within his chosen profession. They’d become good friends, but it would remain an uneasy liaison nonetheless on account of Shane’s bizarre affectations, and Corin’s suspicion thereof…but the kid had chutzpah to spare, and Corin couldn’t help but warm to him despite himself.
But uncompromisingly masculine men such as Corin were always a little perturbed by Shane, as Hemingway had been of his great friend F. Scott Fitzgerald, because his shapely mouth was that of a great beauty, albeit not an Irish one as in the case of the author of “This Side of Paradise”, whose ’74 edition was such a precious possession of Shane’s.
The same could have been said of his entire physiognomy…yet, his raging hormones propelled him in no direction other than towards the opposite sex…not that he had the faintest inclination of what to do once they’d gotten him there.
Shane loved to play the clown for those who both liked and despaired of him; and Corin certainly came into this category, but then so did Captain Peter St Aubyn, as he was to discover once they’d finally set sail.
“Take the helm, Shane, steer 350,” he ordered, and Shane duly did as he was told, before settling himself comfortably at the helm as the yacht meandered peacefully through Hampshire waters under a balmy midsummer sun.
"Mmm, “ he cooed, perhaps a little like the youthful Kenneth Williams, “this is nice…”
"Oooh, you thing," said the skipper, to the amazement of Shane, who swung a sneaker-shod foot in his direction for his pains, causing the good captain to let out an incredulous involuntary titter.
And then there was the time Corin goaded him for having wrongly plotted a course, and he snapped like a petulant schoolboy.
"Oh shut up,” he hissed, “let's see you do better!"
And once again, the skipper came up with his catchphrase, but this time with even more glee than the first time:
“Ooh, you thing!”

On the second or perhaps third evening of the course, there was a large informal get-together at the clubhouse which included Shane, Corin, Gilles, Dylan and four or five other yachtsmen, the course’s acknowledged wunderkind Daryl among them.
"He comes alive in the evening, this boy," Corin told the assembled yachtsmen, clearly referring to Shane’s propensity for getting tight each night, and the shenanigans that inevitably ensued.
"I'm not an alcoholic,” said Shane.
"You drink three pints to my one," Corin countered, "so you've certainly got potential."
At this point, Shane decided for reasons best known to himself to have a dig at easy-going course whiz-kid Daryl:
"Daryl,” he said, “how long have you had long hair?"
"What...long hair?” said Daryl disgustedly, “what's that got to do with anything...is my hair long...I don't know anything about that."
"Do you realise that twenty years ago with your hair as it is, even though it's only a little below your ears, you would have been hounded, persecuted, beaten, for being a deviant, a freak, are you trying to ignore that?
"And you would have been accepted?" said Daryl.
"Oh yes, " Shane replied, looking over his attire, "knife edge pressed flannels, blue blazer, white V neck pullover, open neck shirt and cravat, a bit sporty, I suppose, but utterly acceptable."
"How safe!" scoffed Daryl.
"Safe?”said Shane incredulously, “that's something I never am, safe."
"Well, quite frankly, I think you look ridiculous!"
Following this last statement of Daryl’s, Shane could no longer contain his hilarity…but his laughter was like no other his new friends had ever heard, nor would hear again. Hideously shrill, it assaulted the soft-carpeted clubhouse’s quiet and respectable clientele as if it had proceeded from the depths of Hell themselves. Daryl, struggling gamely to control his own mirth, had gone a redder shade of tomato, while Corin, quivering with glee, hid his face in an attitude of mock-mortification.
"I disown him," he gibbered, "he's insane, insane."
Gradually the hysteria subsided, and Corin decided that it was time Shane had a taste of his own medicine.
"How do you get those bracelets on your wrist?" he queried, referring to the four or five bangles Shane liked to wear on one wrist in those days:
“Easily”, Shane languorously replied, displaying his remarkably slender wrists, “I have very graceful wrists.”
“Let me see,” said Corin, almost in a whisper, and Shane duly passed him one of his bracelets. Soon that selfsame bracelet was being passed around the entire group, each member attempting, often with great difficulty to put the bracelet on their own wrist. Presently, it was back in Shane’s possession, whereupon with horror, he discovered it had been slightly mutilated.
"My bracelet," he cried, "how could you all! I entrusted it to you and you've twisted and bent it."
The group stared as one at Shane, not knowing whether to look sincerely sorry for what they’d done, or merely laugh at his distress, and so settled for a nervous cross between the two. After several uncomfortable moments, Gilles broke the silence by requesting to see the injured bracelet.
"Let me see eet," he said, "I weel try to feex eet."
Shane handed him the bracelet. Everyone was hushed as the Belgian contemplated it, touched it, turned it round and rattled it, and finally, with considerable calm, placed it on the floor. He scratched his head, as if trying to settle on a decision, and ended up extricating one of his shoes. Shane looked a little concerned at this turn of events, but in a desperate attempt to preserve his cool, lit a cigarette, which fell from his slim white hand when a terrible crack like a tree hit by a sudden flash of lightning echoed throughout the clubhouse.
Gilles was attempting to persuade the bracelet to revert to its original shape and to this end, was raising his shoe, profuse with studs, with his right hand, before repeatedly bringing it down on the bracelet with all the strength he could muster, much to the disbelieving hilarity of his fellow yachtsmen.
"Oh come on, it's not funny," Shane protested, reaching out to take the bracelet which a grinning Gilles now held out for him, but which far from being shattered, was barely altered from its original slightly misshapen state
"Ees all right, Shane," Gilles chuckled, "I was eeteen’ zee floor wiz my shoe, not your brezlet."
Shane looked at Gilles, then he looked at his bracelet, then he looked at the other lads, then his eyes started to sparkle, his throat to gurgle, and then it all came out at once, that terrible laugh:
"Hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi..."
"I'm not with him!" cried Corin
"We'll get thrown out!" said Daryl.
"He's insane...in-sane!"
"Come on, drink up, lads,” said Shane, as he recovered from his latest attack of hilarity, “let's go where the action is, let's go and find a party or something!"
"No, it's not worth it," said Daryl, "we're having a good time here. You're a real laugh, Shane, just so long as you don't go too far. We might as well stay."
"Not me,” Shane announced, “I'm getting out of here. I need a change of atmosphere. Who's coming?"
"Yeah, might as well," Corin volunteered
"Yah, me too,”the boy from Belgium followed suit.

So, the trio left the clubhouse, and before long, they were heading along a main road, although to precisely where they weren’t certain. Shane performed his manic laugh to each passing car, sometimes even going so far as to stand in the road as he did so…before escaping at the last minute. After a while, though, he tired of this dangerous activity and set to talking to the gentle and easy-going Gilles, with whom he felt such a strong rapport
"That Belgian girl in your group is nice, isn't she?" he said
"Oh yes," said Gilles, "eef only 'er farzer wuren't weez 'er all zee time."
After a time alone, they found themselves being trailed by two pretty teenage blondes, and perhaps urged by Corin or Gilles, Shane turned around to confront them with an unlit cigarette in his hand.
"Can I have a light, please?" he said, looking intently at one, then the other of the two young women, one of whom was slim and petite, the other, far taller, and yet with the same long blonde hair; but he was equally terrified of both. After he’d succeeded in getting his cigarette lit, he made an effort at conversation
“So, what shall I do, stay here with you, or go back to my friends?”
"Stay ‘ere," one of the girls mumbled, almost inaudibly, in a strong London accent.
"Pardon?" said Carl teasingly, and both girls answered him by smiling coyly, which was followed by an awkward silence, born of Shane’s virginal shyness and discomfort in the company of women.
"Well, I'll see ya then," he finally said, before heading back to the security of his friends.
"Yeah..."
The trio then continued on their way, with the two girls in hot pursuit.
"Why don't you turn around?" Corin suddenly said.
"Why?" said Shane.
"They like you,” Corin announced.
"Really?"
"Course they do. If you can't see that, you're more short-sighted than I thought you were."
So Shane shakily returned to his admirers.
“What are your names?” he asked them.
"My name's Julie," said the petite one, "and this is Sue...what's yours, baby?"
"Why do you call me baby?" said Shane.
“Because you look like one," they replied in tandem.
"I happen to be all of eighteen years old,”said Shane, feigning indignation.
“We thought you was abaht twen'y,” one of them replied.
"Really? Well I'm eighteen and my name's Shane.”
"Wha's your name?" said Sue, indicating Gilles.
"My nem eez Gilles,” he replied.
"Where are you from?" Sue asked Shane.
"London. Why?"
"You sahnd Ameri'an or somefing."
"Well, I am half-Canadian."
"Oh, that would explain it," Julie resolved.
"Why," Shane went on, "where do you girls come from?"
"We come from London an’ all, sarf."
"What are you doing down here?"
"We're spendin' a few days on 'er dad's boat," Sue said, pointing at Julie.
"Has your dad got a boat?" Shane asked, as if amazed that these two cockney sparrows should be associated with the decidedly posh world of yachting.
"A yacht! Not just any old boat. Don' come from any old family, I don'."
For some reason, the three young men set on their way once more, and once more, they were followed by the girls, who took to kicking a stray tin can around to make their point, and who could blame them? They’d just stumbled upon the most inept suitors in human history
"I weesh Coreen were not 'ere," Gilles whispered into Shane's ear.
"Why?" said Shane.
"Eez prezence is disconcerting zem."
As if to confirm what Gilles had just said, the girls suddenly turned a corner and left them to their own devices.
"See ya, then!" they cried.
"Bye, girls!" said Shane.
"Bye, Shane darling!"
And with that, they disappeared, feeling, quite reasonably that they’d given Shane and Gilles every opportunity to demonstrate their romantic interest in them, but Gilles had clearly been just as petrified of them as Shane, whose experience of the opposite sex was virtually nonexistent, and would remain so for several years thereafter.
"I wonder where zey went?" he said wistfully
"I shouldn't worry about it,” said Shane, “you've got your Belgian girl, haven’t you?"
"'Ave I?" said Gilles.

The penultimate day was marked by a trip by the entire course to the Isle of Wight, and Shane determined that he’d use it to get to know some of the girls on the course better.
Lunch was in a public house in the town of Yarmouth, where tall, slender English gentlemen of the old school, clad in double-breasted reefer jackets and flannels or white duck trousers, were apt to take a tincture or two between sails. Some sported bow ties, and others, magnificent handlebar moustaches which appeared to betoken a former membership of the Royal Air Force, while their wives favoured large navy-blue pullovers, silk scarves and slacks. Later on, they’d all be in full evening dress.
Back in Lymington for tea, Shane bumped into Sally, one of the girls he was most interested in. She was a fresh-faced sporty young English rose, possibly in her early 20s, who typically scorned the use of beautifying products, but was enchanting nonetheless.
"Hello," he said, “where are you going?"
"Back to my room,” she replied.
"Oh”, he went on, “hey, apparently there's a get-together of all the crews on the course tonight, you know, a few drinks, a bit of dancing, a lot of laughs, are you going?"
"I don't know, I..."
"Oh, go on,” he urged, “I’m going.”
"Well...okay," she said, "I suppose I'll go...uh...this is where I turn off."
"Oh. Well..."
"See you tonight then."
"Yes, bye...hey wait! Do you know my name?"
"Yes, of course I do, Shane, bye!"
"Bye, Sally!"
Back at the guest house, the clock struck five and Shane, dressed to the nines as was his wont, was taking tea with Mrs Drummond-Smith, who’d have been scandalised had anyone suggested he was anything other than a kind, courteous and deeply likable young man, albeit with a single, glaring fault: forgetfulness. She had a duty to charge her guests for their packed lunch, even if they forgot to take it, but never did in his case, even though he was the only one of her guests who routinely left his packed lunch behind. The truth is she had more than a soft spot for the anachronously elegant young man, who may have reminded her of the dandies of her youth.
A little later, Shane, Corin and Gilles set out together for the dance. On the way, they stopped off at a pub to stock up on some much needed Dutch courage, although Shane’s was the greatest need by a hectare or three.
"Half of bitter, please," Corin ordered.
"Half a shandy, pleez,” came Gilles’ request.
"Double scotch for me please,” said Shane…and a mere ten minutes later, he was ordering a second one, while Corin passed…and Gilles ordered another half of shandy. Ten minutes after this, Shane started up on the pints.
"Come on Shane,” said an exasperated Corin, “let's go”.
"We mus' go," Gilles agreed.
"Drink up!" Corin went on, "we don't want you in a disordered state before the dance, now, do we?"
Shane swallowed his pint and the three departed the pub, and shortly afterwards, arrived at the site of the evening’s festivities which was a large hall filled with tables and chairs, presumably with a space left for dancing. But Shane’s first concern was locating Sally. He found her sitting next to a slim, smart, casually dressed young man with light blond collar length hair and beard, and he promptly walked over to where they were sitting, perhaps half-expecting she’d quit her date just to be with him.
"Hello, Sally," he said.
"Hello," she replied.
"Do you want a drink?" he asked.
"Er, no thanks," she said, "but I will have one later on."
"Okay then," he agreed, before making his way to the bar, feeling decidedly rejected.
"Double scotch!" he ordered…and then ten minutes later, he ordered a second one, soon after which, things went a bit hazy for him, and he had no
further recollection of the remainder of the evening. However, one thing is certain…it ended with his jumping fully-clothed into the filthy waters of Lymington harbour.
What happened is that Corin and Gilles had spent some time wrestling with him, pretending that they were about to throw him in, and then relented as if exhausted by their efforts, at which point, to their amazement, the deranged Shane launched himself in by his own volition, before spending some time in his soaking wet clothes discussing music with a coterie of hippies encamped nearby listening to “The End” by the Doors.

The final day of the course was a melancholy one for Shane. Someone had told him it was possible to catch some deadly disease from swimming in the waters of Lymington harbour, and he was worried sick about it.
Around lunchtime, Dylan’s father Mr Watts found him gazing anxiously into the very part of the harbour where the previous evening he’d elected to project himself, and, genuinely nice man that he was, set about reassuring him that in all probability he’d escape from his injudicious dip unscathed.
Soon afterwards, Shane set off for the final time for Mrs Drummond-Smith’s elegant domicile in order to pack in preparation for his father’s arrival later in the day. On the way, he bumped into Captain St Aubyn, who was very sweet to him, urging him to mend his ways in an attitude of fatherly concern:
“Shane, stop the drinking and the chasing of the birds…it’s a hard world out there…”
It was kind of the skipper, who’d become quite a friend, but he might as well have told him to stop breathing. He was only 18 after all. That’s not to say, however, that the greater majority of young people at any given time aren’t equipped for succeeding in life, because they are. It’s just that people like Sean Patrick Halligan are never among them. They’re just not made that way.
Soon after reaching Mr Drummond-Smith’s, he found his long-suffering father waiting for him.
“He is a little eccentric,” he told the gracious lady, who couldn’t have agreed less, and almost cried out in protest at this description, as if it had been a mortal insult.
“Eccentric?” she exclaimed, “oh, anything but; but he does have one fault, I’m afraid to say….he is rather forgetful.”
She then went on to tell Sean that Gilles had been looking for him earlier on in the day, and was sorry to have missed him. Of course, were this today, rather than ‘74, the two young men would have exchanged e-mail addresses or cell phone numbers. But in those days, precious friendships and romances forged over extended periods of time were all too often discarded overnight to be lost forever. The reason being that the only way to stay in contact in was via telephone or snail mail, which required a certain amount of dedication, and not everyone had the patience for it.
What singer-songwriter Carole King sang in that beautiful song of hers from the “Tapestry” album, ‘…so far away, doesn’t anyone stay in one place anymore?’ was to some extent a depiction of social life in the ‘70s, which was an infinitely more isolated era than today. You could say goodbye to someone you loved on any day of any week of the year, and never see them again as long as you lived.
Indeed, after the summer of ’74, Sean never saw Gilles, or Corin, or Dylan, or Daryl, or Sally, or Captain St Aubyn, or Mrs Drummond-Smith, or the two blonde teenagers who’d tried so hard to elicit his romantic interest ever again. But he never forget them, thanks in no small part to an account he wrote about them a few years after the events depicted in this mini-novella had taken place.
As to his future, it transpired that words spoken to him by Corin proved tragically prophetic:
"I'm not an alcoholic…”
"You drink three pints to my one, so you've certainly got potential."
Indeed he did, for alcoholic is what he ultimately became, and the quantities he drank over the course of a typical night in ’74 he might already have consumed before lunch in the months leading up to his final alcohol-related crack-up, which took place in January 1993. Following this, he was forced to forswear serious drinking forever, which is what he did, notwithstanding a long series of relapses during which he drank less and less to the extent that by the late 2000s, a single sip of wine or beer would be sufficient to incapacitate him for days.
That’s what happens to those who tarry over strong drink long enough…they become locked inside a prison of sobriety, their choice of whether to drink or not to drink at any given time gone from them forever. Not that that was a bad thing in the case of Sean Patrick Halligan, who became a born again Christian following his drink-related crisis, given that the Bible makes a very strong case for total abstinence from intoxicating beverages.
Some decades earlier, possibly in 1977, he’d penned a first rough account of the events of the summer of ’74 in the little seaside town of Lymington which forms the basis of this mini-novella, although somehow or another, it was transformed into the similar town of Bosham.
There is no hard and fast way of guaranteeing its accuracy, but the probability exists that it was close to 100% accurate, although the dialogue would – needless to say – have been an approximation. Also, at least one name was changed, Sean having originally existed as Kris, although whether the names of all the other characters were also changed it’s impossible to say.
In 2006, an edited version of this was fashioned without altering any of the words of the ‘70s original, although this time, Kris became Carl. Then, in ‘10, this version was transformed into a mini-novella, and while it remained faithful in spirit to the former, it was an entirely different work, with many additions, and fresh dialogue.
It serves mainly to entertain, but also to illuminate the earliest onset of alcoholism in the case of the protagonist, who is of course, myself.
Alcohol in my case would go on to aid a person who while an extrovert was also paradoxically timid and self-conscious in realising the social life of his dreams. At the same time, it would ultimately wreck the very social life it once facilitated, as well as contribute to the destruction of an enormously promising career as an actor and musical performer, reducing me to the status of a semi-recluse in the process, such was its devastating effect on my psychological health.
If it weren’t for my faith, there’d not be a lot for me to live for, because the life of a recovering alcoholic is little more than one lived on the fringes of existence, a twilight existence as one of life’s passengers as opposed to participants…not for all ex-alcies of course…but it certainly has been for this one.
But there is much joy in knowing what I’ve been saved from where so many have been less fortunate, not in the sense of being self-satisfied, because there is so little for me to be self-satisfied about. I’m referring to the salvation of my soul. And if the joie-de-vivre which is so apparent in the exalted character of
Sean has never returned, then there only remains for me to say one thing, which is what God himself told Paul when he complained about his mysterious thorn in the flesh:
“My Grace is sufficient.”

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