The Castaway Hat: An Intrigue of Lure and Lucre

By Clark James

The Castaway Hat is an amusing intrigue of lure and lucre, spanning two generations. A mystery of a straw hat with a faded red ribbon washed among the rocks. The finder, Edgar, by co-incidence, not that he knows it, met the owner the previous night at a book launch. Daphne and the hat were parted when a launch capsized - she swimming to an island off New Zealand's Coromandel Peninsula, only to discover an old gold mining tunnel, a recently worked old mining tunnel. The author, Erica, locates the earlier, but not original diggers of that tunnel. An adventure that spans oceans and time to settle in the tiny carless town of Murren, Switzerland, during World War II.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781528942010

Clark James

Clark James has had a diverse working life coupled with art and writing, including the six-volume historical New Zealand novel Wind from the West and now the four-volume series beginning with Snowgirls. Recently published is his story of lure and lucre: The Castaway Hat. Other novels including Earth's Revenge and The Consequence are environmental/political. Clark is widely travelled and places characters into settings he is familiar with. He also has been involved in various organisations: scouting, politics, ratepayers, performing arts, painting and writing groups. Married twice, he has several adult children, step-children, grandchildren and a great-granddaughter.

Book preview

Fifteen

About the Author

Clark James has had a diverse working life coupled with art and writing, including the six-volume historical novel Wind from the West and more recently the four-volume apocalyptic series beginning with Snowgirls. The novel The Castaway Hat fits in between the two series along with Earth’s Revenge and The Consequence, two environmental/political novels. Clark is widely travelled and places characters into settings he is familiar with. Married twice, he has several adult children, step-children and grandchildren. He also has been involved in various organisations: scouting, ratepayers, performing arts, painting and writing groups.

Copyright Information

Copyright © Clark James (2019)

The right of Clark James to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 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.

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

ISBN 9781528914932 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528914949 (Kindle e-book)

ISBN 9781528942010 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Other Books by Author

Wind from the West series:

Book One – Moon over the Manukau

Book Two – Neap Tide

Book Three – Storm & Stress

Book Four – Waves on the Waitemata

Book Five – Spring Tide

Book Six – Setting of the Sun

Fish, Chips and Rachmaninoff

Plantation (Earth’s Revenge)

The Consequence

Snowgirls

Depraved

Restored: A Northern Sequel to Snowgirls

With Rewa Walia; Laxmi – Odyssey of a Dancer

Foreword

When artist Edgar Harvey discovers a woman’s hat with a faded red ribbon wedged among seashore rocks, he takes it home to his studio, to be eventually reproduced in a storm scene. What he doesn’t know, he, only the night before, had met the hat’s owner, Daphne, at his long-time friend Erica Watson’s book launch. How Daphne came to lose her hat, and almost her life with it, evolves into an intrigue of lure and lucre, dating back sixty-five years to the opening days of World War II, involving two nations, a series of missed or misfortunes, leaving dead, a missing presumed dead airman, numerous lovers and gold in its wake.

Characters

Edgar Artist

Erica Author and long-time friend of Edgar

Daphne Single friend of Erica’s

Cynthia and Horace Friends of Erica. Not a happy couple

June and Raul Friends of Erica. Raul is in financial trouble

Aaron A replacement lover for Cynthia

Robbie and Malcolm (Louis) 1939 mates exploring an old gold mine

Heather Malcom’s girlfriend (1939)

Margaret Heather’s obliging mother

Freya Heather’s daughter (b1940)

Analiese Swiss girl (c1940)

Alain Son of Analiese and Louis (Malcolm)

Sid A boatie

Chapter One

2004

Driven by a stiff nor’easterly, breaking waves chased one another across the shallow estuary. Patches of blue above were not reflected in the water; this being muddy grey with numerous white horses. Late autumn, with dusk closing, the shore abandoned except for a few hardy strollers.

Edgar Harvey—archaically named after his grandfather—was in a contemplative mood, having the previous night met a rather attractive woman at a book launch. Although their conversation consisted of no more than a few words about the book and its author, he contemplated how to get in touch with her, thinking of the word ‘touch’ he had in mind, verbally and physically. She had the visual qualities he admired in a woman.

More a redhead than brunette, with slight freckles, her face exuded both charm and intrigue, as indeed did her black finely woven bodice. Perhaps he was being fanciful when he imagined women wore such garments to be alluring rather than exposing. Even so, his physical attraction was in passing, while her concise words roused lasting interest.

Her opinion of the launched book was terse. I feel Erica has concentrated on scene setting, rather than her characters.

"So you don’t like The Silent Daughter?" he had questioned.

Oh yes, but I preferred her first novel. Of course, it may be due to the success of that one she has hurried this one.

That, the extent of their conversation, being interrupted by the publisher, who incidentally gushed over this woman, almost to her embarrassment, Edgar noted. Obviously she was not overcome by such effusiveness.

He had several feminine friends, one being the author, so was not particularly seeking to add to his collection. Nevertheless this woman, whoever she was, would be pleasant to have a meal with, one of those intimate occasions in a small but busy restaurant where they could talk of things other than what the media decreed to be topical.

A scurry of spent waves surged into the gap between a large rock and the remnants of a lava flow, diverting Edgar’s course, causing him to clamber on to the rocks further inshore than he had intended. There, wedged in a crevice was a straw hat: a rather sodden and ragged straw hat. He wrestled it from its snare, further damaging it and, having an inquisitive mind, did not immediately discard, instead analysed the object. Judging by its condition it had been blown from the wearer’s head two or three weeks earlier. So, why had it been cast ashore just that day?

The ribbon around the base of the crown was rusty brown, although the underside was redder, while the tattered label indicated that its owner was sized ‘M’. Was that ‘medium’ or ‘men’ Edgar determined? No, definitely ‘medium’, since he could not imagine a man wearing a hat with a red ribbon. Most people having discovered the hat and, knowing locating its owner would be impossible, would have—if they were opposed to littering—stuffed the relic into a rubbish bin. Edgar could not do this, because the beach had a year or two before been declared one of those beaches where you took your litter home with you, so there were no bins. Strange as it may seem, almost all beach users complied, and only flotsam and jetsam lay tangled among seaweed.

Nor did Edgar discard it on reaching his home; one of the last baches (small holiday houses) fronting this beach, the others having been demolished in preference to holiday homes or houses that were better suited to crowded suburbia than a coastal location. The amount Edgar had been offered for his patch of nostalgia would have made him rich. However, there was more to life, as far as he was concerned, than wealth, and his friends praised both the bach and his rejection of soulless developers. Many weekend afternoons, when he was trying to make something of a painting and his hands would not obey his vision, were interrupted by friends dropping in, usually with a good bottle of grape juice, so he could hardly tell them to go away, even politely go away.

He supposed he could always use the hat as a prop, and his artistic bent imagined a bedraggled woman stumbling from the surf with a grounded boat in the background. Fanciful as this idea was he was presently working on five paintings of three genres and two mediums, so he was not inclined to begin another. The hat was slung into a corner, and Edgar assessed the painting on the easel, removed it, and placed another reticent work in its place. Prior to discovering the hat he had an idea to perhaps improve this stylised scene of an art opening.

He picked up a tube of paint was about to layer a dollop on his palette when he decided to phone his author friend. Expecting her to answer the phone he was surprised when an unfamiliar voice said abruptly, as if interrupted by the caller, Hello.

Um–sorry–um, I think I…

Do you want Erica?

Now the concise voice sounded familiar.

Um–yes. In truth, it was not Erica that he wanted, rather the person who had answered the phone. He couldn’t just say that to her, could he? He did not even know her name.

Hi, Erica’s cheerful voice announced.

It’s me–um–Edgar.

Oh, hi. Thanks so much for coming yesterday. That man you introduced me to—Alistair—has been just so, so helpful.

I’m glad of that.

Do you know I’ve had two calls from independent bookshops today wanting me to have a signing.

Good.

And Alistair said there are a couple of good shops in Wellington…

Good.

But do you think it would be worth going down? I mean, the expense?

They may…

I suppose it would, if I sold a lot and got enough interest…

I suppose…

Anyway, what are you doing right now, right this instant? Erica insisted.

Edgar had the distinct impression she wanted him to go across, however, he really wished to add to the painting while the picture was in his mind. Then, it would only take ten–fifteen minutes to do that.

I have this amazing friend—I can’t imagine why I have never introduced her to you—here right this moment. While Edgar was assuming the friend was the very lady he desired to meet, Erica called aside, Daphne, you’re staying for tea? I’m just inviting a really, really wonderful friend of mine over.

The distinct cultured voice who had answered the phone was of the woman he had met, but the name did not match the voice. Then, whose did? Edgar did not hear her reply. His heart had won the argument over whether he would add the extra character to his painting now, or later. I’ll come across, he accepted, hoping Daphne would be there when he arrived, even if she was not staying for tea. That, of course, prompted Edgar to gather his wallet on the way out. Staying for tea could be a bit difficult, since Erica’s larder had a lot of empty space.

Something else of his grandfather’s Edgar had inherited, was his car, about as archaic as his name, and deuced difficult to get parts for. One thing for sure, he could leave it anywhere without the slightest concern it would be stolen. Known as a slant six Chrysler Valiant, because the engine was set at twenty or thirty degrees from upright, it had been a classy car in its day—about forty years ago—and powerful. Being a station wagon it did have ample space for Edgar’s paintings, which he used as an excuse for keeping it. He secretly feared his late grandfather might be looking down on him from above daring him to even think about selling the vehicle.

Edgar rolled—at least the car rolled—into Erica’s driveway, disappointed that only her car was in its port, indicating Daphne had gone. To mention Daphne the moment he entered Erica’s not so humble abode would have been a bit rude, so, after the customary kiss—both cheeks with appropriate sounds of posh-ness from Erica, who wasn’t at all posh in reality, he waited for her to remark on Daphne’s departure.

So what do you think, should I go to Wellington or not? Or as Shakespeare coined, ‘To be, or not to be’.

Edgar attempted to make a connection between her going to Wellington and Shakespeare.

I am inclined to defer such expense until my bank balance has recovered, she contemplated.

I think that is a good idea, Edgar agreed mundanely.

Nor will I throw in my day job just yet, she also decided.

No, I wouldn’t do that.

You have something on your mind. Did my invitation interrupt your work? I didn’t think. And rather than reject my offer, being such a gentleman, you accepted.

Something like that.

I’m sure the only reason you accepted, dear Edgar, is you thought Daphne would be here. I can see the disappointment on your face. You are not the least bit inscrutable. I’m sure you would be hopeless at cards, Erica babbled on, deliberately setting up Edgar, and not really disappointed it was Daphne he had hoped to see and not herself. Then, theirs was one of relationships that drifted along, year after year, as if they were siblings or perhaps cousins. I suppose I’d better set the table, she said as if reluctant, mischievously hoping he would suggest he take her out for tea, since he could see that there was no sign of any preparation, and certainly no aroma was wafting from the oven.

It did not waft, but put-putted as it was ridden along the driveway and spluttered to a stop outside the dining room window.

Teasingly, Erica suggested, I wonder who that could be?

The new arrival actually gave a single knock on the back door as she entered. I’m back. The she spied Edgar, and her eyes reflected her pleasant surprise. Oh, hello. Now I know who you are?

An aroma of food wafted in with Daphne.

You weren’t long? Erica said.

"No. It’s early so there was hardly anyone there. I got a Saag Lamb and a Chicken Balti, with rice, of course,"

Perfect. You always choose the most fabulous dishes, Erica complimented.

Neither Daphne nor Edgar considered the choice fabulous, rather regular Indian food.

Now you two sit yourself down and I’ll make tea to go with it.

No, that can wait, it’ll go cold.

The three sat round the table, spooned out a portion of their choice and made small talk.

***

Cynthia narrowed her eyes as she smiled vindictively. Yes, the invitation would suit her just fine. When? she accepted.

This weekend.

Time?

Early, about nine.

So, nine at your wharf thing?

Marina, June elucidated, thinking Cynthia’s lack of marine knowledge was so typical. She doubted, if she even knew anything other than the names of plants and what grew where. Nevertheless, Cynthia had a habit of planting crops out of season, and while gardeners were gathering pumpkins, hers were beginning their crawl across a weed patch, with unfertilised babies turning yellow and falling off, much to Cynthia’s annoyance.

What made Cynthia even more agitated was her husband of several years would say sarcastically, I told you so.

She had had enough of his criticism, more than enough. It didn’t matter what she attempted Horace ridiculed it. Perhaps he deliberately provoked her in the hope she would suggest a divorce. Then it occurred to her, he wanted a divorce because there was another woman in his life. That was it; he had another woman. Her answer: to rise above such criticism and act subservient; play the ignorant little wife. Actually, she wasn’t so little, having expanded from a mere fifty-six kilos at the time of their marriage to a healthy—in her opinion—seventy-four. And being barely one hundred and sixty centimetres she was rather squat.

Oh, do come, she insisted, on putting the proposal to her husband later that day.

And put up with June all day. No thank you.

Cynthia had a card up her sleeve. Having given it considerable thought during the day she concluded just maybe June was the other woman in Horace’s life. So, why was he reluctant? Obviously to put her off the scent. Oh well, I’m going, even if you aren’t.

Right.

Oh, so you don’t even want to come out on a ship with me.

It’s hardly a ship, he retorted.

Whatever.

He shook his head, rose from the table and tidied the sink bench in preparation for doing the dishes. It’ll probably be stormy, he predicted in an attempt to dissuade her.

Oh, don’t be such a misery guts, she responded, while thinking rough weather could be to her advantage.

Saturday was breezy but definitely not stormy, and at just on nine—after an argument that they were going to be late when Horace drove at a snail’s pace, Cynthia believing he was willing the green lights to turn amber—the couple stood at the marina gate; she carrying a small box of provisions and he a hold-all of spare clothes.

Dead on time, June greeted as she bounced up to the gate from the boat side and smiled gloriously at them.

Cynthia construed the greeting was for Horace alone, and after opening the gate she made a show of kissing her on the cheek and again smiling at Horace.

‘Go on, kiss him, like you want to,’ Cynthia almost blurted, but kept her knowledge to herself.

Isn’t it a wonderfully corker day, Cynthia gleefully announced, her theatrics showing. She had recently performed in a local version of The Great Gatsby.

Wearing a captain’s hat, June’s husband Raul enthusiastically shook Horace’s hand, while June offered him a cheek, none of this effusion for her. He probably knew what was going on between his wife and her husband, but gallantly turned a blind eye. He needn’t look in her direction as a payback.

Horace said, Where will I put this? indicating the carry-all.

Oh, just on the seat for the moment, June suggested. We’ll sort ourselves out later. She hurried up to the bow of the launch and unhitched the mooring rope, turned and called back to her husband, Boats away.

Cynthia’s opinion of the launch being a ship was not so far-fetched. It wasn’t its size that gave it ship-like qualities, rather its interior design and equipment: two bunks with squabs, a stove, fridge, a small TV, numerous cupboards, and a space for the radio. Compact and efficient was Horace’s opinion.

Hello, an aptly dressed lady said almost demurely, as she came out of the fore cabin carrying a straw hat with a red ribbon.

Horace swallowed.

I’m Daphne, and you must be Horace.

He swallowed again. Um–yes– um–Horace…

June scrambled down into the cabin. Oh, you two have met.

Just this moment, Daphne answered.

I’m sure we’re going to have a whale of a time, June promised, hoping to raise Daphne’s spirits because her friend had cancelled out at the last moment, and she had wished to do the same, since she believed she would be the odd one out.

Cynthia entered the cabin and frowned, unsure if she knew Daphne or not.

You know Daphne, don’t you Cynthia, at last year’s play. For the life of me, I can’t remember which one.

Oh yes, Cynthia recalled, although did not recall at all, but thought it might be rude not to remember the woman. So, two men and three women she calculated. Should be interesting? No doubt her husband would put on a show for the odd