by Nevil Shute
I went back to the hotel and asked for a Bradshaw, asking at the same time if they knew anything about the trains for Liverpool. They didn’t, so I settled myself down with the Bradshaw to map my route to Salcombe. There was a train to Kingsbridge, the station for Salcombe, at 3.30, changing at Newton Abbot. I traced it back; it left Taunton at 2.45. There was a train from Exeter to Taunton at 1.56, arriving at 2.33, and this went on to the Midlands. I could get to Taunton and catch the train back again through Exeter to Kingsbridge with twelve minutes to spare at Taunton. The only thing I should have to be careful about was that nobody recognised me as I passed through Exeter again on my way west.
I got hold of a copy of The Times then, tore out that part of the shipping intelligence that covered the sailings from Liverpool, took the rest of the paper upstairs and left it in my bedroom; I could imagine the delight with which it would be greeted by some amateur detective later in the day. Then I went out into the town again and bought a long green rain-coat and had it made up into a brown-paper parcel. In another shop I bought a deer-stalker hat; this I put in my pocket. Finally, I went back to the hotel and told them that I should be leaving after tea.
There was about a quarter of an hour before lunch. I went upstairs and opened my suitcase; there was the rucksack, the convict clothes, and one or two personal odds and ends of my own that I had stuffed into the pockets of my flying coat before leaving the aerodrome—a razor, shaving-brush, etc. I put these in my pockets. Then I took the convict underclothes, a rough grey shirt and vest with the initials of His Majesty splashed all over them with a stencil, and made them up into a parcel with the rain-coat. The rest of the clothes I put back into the suitcase and left there, a handsome present for the owner of the hotel.
I went downstairs and lunched heavily; I didn’t know exactly when my next meal would be. Then I took my parcel and walked out of the hotel without paying my bill, but leaving my suitcase in the bedroom. They would realise when I didn’t turn up in the evening that all was not as it should be, and presumably would look inside the suitcase to make sure there was security for the debt. I wished them joy of it.
I walked to the station; at the booking office I asked the price of a ticket to Liverpool. I retired without doing any business, came back again and asked the price of a ticket to Birmingham. The clerk looked at me askance this time, particularly when I questioned his information and asked if there was any way whereby I could get to Liverpool any cheaper. Having impressed myself sufficiently on his memory, I bought a ticket for Birmingham, asked the collector which was the train, and got in. From the train I was intensely gratified to see the clerk come out of his office and start gossiping with the ticket-collector, evidently about me.
Then we started. As soon as we were well under way I left the compartment I was in and walked along the corridor till I found an empty one. Here I unpacked my parcel and put on the rain-coat and hat, making up the convict underclothes into a smaller parcel. Then I tore up my ticket for Birmingham and threw it out of the window. Presently a ticket inspector came down the train; I explained that I had had no time to book at Exeter, and took a ticket to Taunton.
At Taunton I went out into the town, made a rapid circuit round the station, and reached the down platform in time to book a ticket for Plymouth and to catch the train. Remembering the geography of the platform at Exeter I got into a compartment in the front of the train that would pull up well clear of the booking office, my chief hazard. But all went well. At Exeter I remained snuggled up in the far corner of the compartment, and after a five-minute halt the train pulled out of the station without any untoward incident having occurred to mar the even tenor of the afternoon.
I had tea on the station at Newton Abbot, booked again for Kingsbridge, and got there at about half-past six. It was a clear warm evening and the air was sweet and fresh, with that indefinable salt tang that you only seem to get in the west. I had decided to sleep out. I still had the packet of ham sandwiches that Joan Stevenson had cut for me at Stokenchurch, and I had bought a bottle of Bass at Newton Abbot which protruded coyly from the pocket of my rain-coat. It seemed to me that it would be safer to sleep out; Exeter was barely fifty miles away and I was pretty sure that my red herring would be tainting the breeze there before the evening was far gone—if, indeed, it was not doing so already. I didn’t want to be haled from my bed in the middle of the night to spend the remainder of it in the local police station. That would have been very distressing.
I turned out of the station and began to walk up the hill towards Salcombe, some six miles away. It seemed to me that it would be best if I found somewhere to sleep among the fields, not very far from Salcombe. Then I could walk into the town in the morning, find the boatman, and make all ready for my departure. I could then come ashore, lay my final red herring, and get away to sea.
I walked on up over the hill and through a village. Presently I came in sight of the sea, blue and smeared with currents like snail tracks beyond a stretch of yellow, gorse-covered headland. I was frightfully glad to see the sea, I remember; I hadn’t been to sea for over a year. I needed a holiday and I wanted a cruise in a decent little boat almost more than anything. Moreover, I felt that it would mean an end to my responsibility for Compton—for the time at any rate. Once at sea I shouldn’t be able to do any more for him.
When I had been walking for about an hour I came to a cross-roads and a pub. I went in here and had a very satisfactory little meal of bread and cheese and beer; I explained that I had started to walk from Kingsbridge to my hotel at Salcombe, but found that I should arrive too late for dinner. I sat over the remains of the meal for a long time, smoking and pondering my last red herring. Abruptly, I made a change in my plans, paid my shot at the pub, and began to walk back towards Kingsbridge.
It was a perfect evening. The sun was setting brightly into the sea; there were no clouds about and hardly a breath of wind. I looked at the sun again and recalled the remnants of my weather lore; it seemed to me that everything spoke of calm weather and easterly winds. I thought that that would do me very well. I must confess that I didn’t relish the idea of eight days single-handed in the Channel if the weather were at all tough.
I walked back almost as far as Kingsbridge. I must have had a divination for haystacks in those days, for I found another one to extend me its hospitality for the night. It stood about two fields away from the road. It was nearly dark when I chanced on it. The stack was half cut away and there was a pile of loose hay at the foot of it; I rolled myself up in this and made myself comfortable for the night. I was still carrying the parcel of convict underclothes; I made this a foundation for my pillow.
I lay for a little worrying about the note that I had had at Exeter, and finally fell asleep.
I woke up early and lay for a long time trying to go to sleep again. The sun was too strong, however, and a little before six o’clock I was sitting up and taking notice, ready for the day’s play. First I got out the parcel of underclothes and examined the garments more closely. It seemed to be pretty obvious to whom they belonged; at the same time, it would be as well to take no chances. I got out my packet of ham sandwiches and ate all I could of them for breakfast; there were two and a half left when I had finished, the half being artistically munched at the edges. I got out the Exeter note, read it through carefully, put it with the underclothes and the remainder of the sandwiches, and made the lot up into an untidy parcel. My red herring was ready; it remained only to lay it.
They had told me at the inn that there was a bus from Kingsbridge to Salcombe at nine in the morning, connecting with the train arriving at 8.42. I hung about the outskirts of the town till I saw the smoke of the train, then strolled down the hill to the station and mingled with the little crowd in the station yard. The Salcombe bus was there and soon filled about half full with passengers. I noticed that the top of the bus was stacked high with supplies for the Salcombe shops; groceries, Tate sugar-boxes, sides of bacon, and all the rest of it.
The bus started, and we went trundling out over the road that I had walked the night before. In half an hour we were running down the hill into Salcombe; I pulled myself together for the last lap. A great deal now depended on whether Joan Stevenson had done her part of the business all right. I didn’t think that she would have let me down, but—a good deal depended on her.
We lumbered into sight of the harbour past the Yacht Club. Looking out over the low stone parapet of the road I saw the Irene lying at her summer moorings off the jetty, trim and smart, with the mainsail uncovered and the jib set and rolled. I remember registering a vow that one day I’d meet Joan Stevenson again to thank her. As things turned out, that vow wasn’t necessary.
The bus drew up in the narrow street outside the door of the railway agency, completely blocking the road. The conductor got out first and began to busy himself with the stores on the roof; the bus was soon surrounded by a little crowd of the local shopkeepers, all talking nineteen to the dozen. I waited till the last of the passengers had got out of the bus, left my parcel on one of the seats in a corner of the bus, got out into the road, and mingled with the crowd. My red herring was well and truly laid; it only remained for me to get away before the drag began to run the scent.
I guessed that it would be ten minutes before the parcel was discovered and at least another twenty before it became clear to whom it had belonged. That gave me half an hour—with any luck—in which to get to sea. It would be sufficient if everything was ready—not unless.
I dodged down a side street that led to Stevens’s yard. I found the yard without difficulty and a boy showed me which was Mr. Stevens. When I had been here before it was with his father that I had dealt; the son was a stranger to me. I walked towards him, steadying my pace and trying to make believe that there was no hurry.
‘Morning, Mr. Stevens,’ I said. ‘My name’s Stenning. You’ve heard about my charter of the Irene from Mr. Dorman?’
He laid down his awl and rubbed his hands together slowly. He was a pleasant-looking bronzed man of about fifty, already a little stout. I knew him by reputation as the crack sailer of small craft in the estuary—or on the coast for that matter.
‘Aye,’ he said slowly. ‘She’s all ready for you. We looked for you yesterday. The young lady was down puttin’ your stores aboard.’ He mused a little. ‘You’ll have them two stone o’ potatoes all sprouting in a week. I told the young lady, I said, “You don’t want to buy all them potatoes.” She would have it. She said you was to have two stone, and two stone you’ve got.’
He asked when I wanted to get away.
‘At once,’ I said. ‘As soon as possible.’
He looked at me. ‘Can’t go afore one o’clock,’ he said. ‘Flood’s still making.’
I nodded. ‘She’ll run out over the flood with the engine,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get to Torquay either to-day or early to-morrow to pick up a friend. If I get away at once I’ll take the last of the tide with me round the Start.’
He nodded sagaciously. ‘You want to stand well in to Start Bay,’ he said. ‘You’ll be on a foul tide all afternoon. Rackon you’ll not do much good before six.’
He entered on a long string of admonitions as to pilotage, and from that drifted into an account of the stores in the Irene. I didn’t dare to hurry him very much, but presently I gently cut him short and suggested that he should put me off to the vessel.
We got into his dinghy and he rowed me off to where she lay at her moorings. I explained to him as we rowed out that my friend in Torquay was bringing with him all my luggage, one reason why I was anxious to get there that day. He shook his head. ‘You’ll not do it without your motor,’ he said. ‘You’ll find the wind on the south-east outside, I rackon.’
The Irene was a little black cutter of about seven tons. She had the usual accommodation. Forward was the forecastle with a hatch to the deck. There was a folding berth in there, but mostly it was dedicated to cooking; one could sit upright to cook very comfortably. Aft of the mast there was the saloon with a folding berth on each side. Aft of the saloon one came on deck to the cockpit, and under the floor of the cockpit, accessible from the saloon, was her engine, a seven-horse power Kelvin. Aft of the cockpit was a sail locker, in the counter.
I went all over her with Stevens. Everything was aboard; Joan Stevenson had done her bit wonderfully well. Stevens said dryly that she had been very particular. It was evident that he was making a considerable effort to restrain his curiosity; he commented more than once on the futility of lumbering up the cockpit with six cans of petrol when I could buy a can every time I went ashore.
In half an hour I had gone over everything and was only anxious to be off. He helped me to get the anchor short; then he went off in his dinghy and got the kedge for me, while I uncast the tyers to the main. He came back presently with the kedge and we stowed it in the cockpit with its warp. Then we hoisted the main together. Finally, we got the Irene’s dinghy on deck and lashed her down over the skylight.
‘Anyone ’d say you were going to France,’ he remarked cheerfully.
Then we got the motor going and eased her up to her anchor. I went forward and broke it out; then while I stowed it he held on slowly down the river. Finally, I came aft and took the helm. Stevens wished me luck, got into his dinghy, cast off, and dropped astern. I gingered up the engine a bit and stood on down the river. I was off.
CHAPTER FOUR
I STOOD away down the river under engine alone, heading dead into the wind with the main flapping idly above my head. Salcombe is one of the prettiest rivers in the west; I never drop down it without mentally thanking God that I’m alive. I suppose I was doing that this time, but all I can remember is the bright, hot sun that made the teak of the little cockpit warm to the touch, the faint tarry smell of the vessel and her gear, the white surf on the beaches that line the river, and the dark firs above. We stood on slowly down the river, stemming the tide. Slowly we drew up to King Charles’s Castle; they used to stretch the chain from there in the old days. A little farther on a bit of a swell told me that I was crossing the Bar. Tennyson or somebody wrote a poem about that Bar; with the police hard on my heels I can only say that there was very little moaning at the Bar when I put out to sea.
I stood up to try and sniff the breeze. There was very little of it, but what there was seemed to be pretty well due south. I edged the vessel over to the west side of the entrance underneath Bolt Head, put her about, left the helm, and went forward and broke out the jib. It flapped lazily in the light airs; I decided to give her the balloon foresail and went aft to get it out of the sail locker. I busied myself in setting this for half an hour or so, the vessel ambling along gently through the water with an occasional touch on the helm from hand or foot.
I got the sail bent at last, ran it up the forestay, and had the satisfaction of seeing it fill and pull well. There may be a more satisfactory light sail to carry on a small vessel, but if there is I don’t know it. When that was drawing to my satisfaction I went back to the helm, shed some clothes, sat down in the cockpit, and considered the position. It seemed to me that my best plan was to stand away out to sea till I was eight or ten miles off shore and well clear of the three-mile limit. I didn’t really know if the police had the power to arrest me on the high seas, but I didn’t think they had. I stood on for the three-mile limit with the engine thumping pleasantly below, and the calm water eddying away slowly beneath the counter. Presently it struck me to put out a mackerel line.
For a long time
I let the vessel slip along on her course, still under engine. Then I lashed the helm and went below to get my lunch. I looked over the stores in the lockers and found everything ready for me, nothing forgotten. I put a kettle on the Primus for some coffee and opened a tin of bully. There were some tomatoes there that I hadn’t ordered; I suppose she had thought of those herself. I made my coffee and set it aside to cool while I looked for the brown sugar. I found the sugar in one of those blue packets in an old biscuit-tin; one end of the packet seemed to have been unwrapped. I opened it, and there was a bit of white paper on top of the sugar, folded up into a little square. I knew what it was as soon as I saw it.
I went and stood in the hatchway with my head and shoulders on deck while I unfolded and read the note. It was quite short.
‘DEAR MR. STENNING,
‘I do hope you’ll find everything all right and as you wanted it. I think I’ve got everything. I hope you’ll let me know how you got on when you get back, but I want to tell you now what a grand thing it’s been of you to have done all this for us. I wanted to let you know how I feel about that, and to wish you the very best of luck.
‘JOAN STEVENSON.’
After a time I went back to my lunch.
I washed up my plate and cup and came on deck. We were then some two miles off the Prawle and heading about south-east. The breeze was a little stronger than it had been before lunch and I stopped the engine; then, to my vast surprise, I found that I had caught a mackerel. I despatched him and put him in a bucket, and set to fishing in earnest. In half an hour I had caught six, and then, as if Providence realised that I had enough to be going on with, I caught no more for the rest of the day.