by Nevil Shute
I can’t say that I thought very much of either of these possibilities. The note that I had had in Exeter definitely connected Mattani with the business that Compton had on the 15th. That business was in England—or in the British Isles. Marazan was connected with Mattani; it seemed reasonable to suppose that Compton’s business was in some way connected with Marazan. It was too much to assume that there were two places in the British Isles with the same outlandish name.
I began to consider whether it was altogether wise of me to go to the Scillies. If this Marazan Sound was by any chance the place of Compton’s business—the day after to-morrow—I should probably do much better to keep clear. Then, quite suddenly, I realised that I was on the wrong track altogether. I knew this Marazan Sound. It was a broad pool of enclosed water, entirely isolated, of such a rocky bottom and uneven depth that no vessel drawing more than two feet of water could enter it or lie in it except at high tide. There were two cottages on the far side of Pendruan, but nothing that could by any possible stretch of imagination hold any business interest for Compton. No, it was clear that I had gone wrong somewhere in my chain of deductions. I decided to put the matter out of my head and to carry on with my plan of watering in White Sound.
The wind changed in the afternoon and began to draw into the south-west. I didn’t mind much about this; I had been very lucky to have held the wind for so long and I had plenty of time to get to the Scillies before dawn, even if it were to draw dead ahead. I sailed on all day, and suddenly at about six o’clock I saw the islands broad on my beam and at a distance of about ten miles. I can remember that they looked very beautiful in the evening light, very pink and hazy and low on the horizon of a deep blue sea. Clearly the tide had carried me off my course to the northward; I was too inexperienced in the navigation of these waters to have made allowance for that. I altered course more to the west and stood on towards the northern extremity of the islands, which I took to be White Island. I hove to presently and cooked some food in anticipation of an all-night watch, and when I came up on deck again, the lighthouses were winking all round. It was a beautifully clear night. I took my bearings carefully from the lights, in consultation with the chart. I decided that the right position for me to get into before dawn was with the Round Island light north-west by half-north, and the Seven Stones north-east.
I’d never done that sort of jiggering about by compass in the dark before, and I didn’t like it a bit. I got the wind right up as I drew closer to the islands, though I knew that the chart showed clean ground to within half a mile of Pendruan. As we closed the islands I had to force myself to stand inshore. Finally, at about two in the morning I got on my Seven Stones bearing and beat down it in very short tacks till I brought Round Island to west by south. Farther than that I could not bring myself to go, being afraid of an error in the compass that would bump me on to something sharp. Looking back on it, I’m only surprised that I had the nerve to stand in as far as that.
The day began to break at last after a most miserable night; as soon as I could see a couple of hundred yards I started up the engine and stood in towards the land. I saw as I drew close that I wasn’t lying badly for White Sound, though I was rather farther out than I had intended. I think I must have had a tide under me, for I drew up to the land remarkably quickly, and the dawn was hardly grey when I was passing between the twin rocks at the entrance to the Sound.
I dropped anchor, as quietly as possible, at about half-past four. The sun was not yet up; I made haste to roll the jib and lower down the mainsail. I shall always remember that anchorage as I saw it on that grey morning; I was hungry and very sleepy, I remember, and a little sick through working all night without proper food. There was a flat, grey calm over the anchorage; it was strange to me to feel the stillness of the vessel after so many days at sea. A few gulls were calling and wheeling about the rocks of White Island; I stood for a moment or two looking around the islands and the beaches. The place looked cold and ominous in the half-light.
It struck me that I might have to get away in a hurry in an hour or two; so I didn’t make much of a harbour furl of the main, but left it on the deck with only a tier on the gaff. Then I refilled the petrol tank of the engine in readiness for a quick get-away; finally, I got the dinghy over the side and put the canvas water-breaker in her.
By the time I had done this the sun was up. I was relieved to see that as I was lying now the hull of the vessel was hidden from the lighthouse, though I had no doubt that they could see her mast rising above the low-lying islands. They would probably report the presence of a vessel in White Sound to the harbour authorities during the day, but it was unlikely that they would connect the vessel with Compton, being unable to see the hull. That meant that I ought to be safe for several hours, and that I should be able to take my time over watering.
I went below and had breakfast, or as much of it as I could face. I must have been pretty confident that there was no need to hurry, because I remember that the cooking and eating of it took a long time. I was very sleepy. I must have been conscious of the necessity for getting water aboard without too much delay, though, for I went off to get the water and left my breakfast things unwashed all over the saloon. That was brought home to me later.
I had to make two journeys for the water. The spring was on top of the island; the water dripped from an overhanging rock on the south side and ran away in a little trickle to the sea. I had only one canvas water-breaker; that was a big one, too big for me to carry single-handed from the spring to the dinghy. I should only be able to fill it half-full—say seven or eight gallons on each journey.
I tumbled into the dinghy, cast off, and rowed in to the beach. The north shore of Pendruan is a long beach of sandhills petering out into the short turf and bracken of which the island is composed. This beach is only interrupted in the middle, where a rocky point juts out at the beginning of the shallow bridge of rocks that separates White and Marazan Sounds opposite to the little island that they call the Crab Pot. I rowed in to the beach, drew the dinghy up a little way on the sand, shouldered the water-breaker, and went ploughing up through the loose, dry sand till I got up on to the short turf above. Dozens of rabbits fled scurrying at my approach.
From the top of Pendruan I looked out southwards over all the islands of the group. The central lagoon, the Road, lay straight in front of me with the islands clustered round it on either side. There was a small sailing-dinghy crossing from Tresco to St. Mary’s three miles down the Road; apart from her I could see no vessels nor any signs of life upon the islands. There were houses, I knew, upon this island of Pendruan, but they were hidden from where I stood and I didn’t propose to go in search of them.
I found the spring easily enough; indeed, the labour of watering a vessel in White Sound is well calculated to impress the position of the spring upon one’s memory. I set my breaker down in the puddle and unlashed the mouth, and directed the stream into it with a bit of slate. It took an age to fill. It was well after half-past seven when I tied up the mouth again, heaved it up on to my back, and set off for the dinghy.
I rowed off and emptied the water into the tank. I noted that the sailing lights were still in the shrouds; I took them down and put them in the forecastle, and that started me on a round of odd jobs. I thought about washing up my breakfast things, and decided that I would get the other load of water first. After half an hour or so of tidying up I set off again for the shore. I didn’t hurry myself particularly, so that by the time I got to the top of the island again I suppose it was between nine and half-past. I strolled up over the skyline with the breaker on my shoulder, and there I got the shock of my life. There was a small motor-boat on the beach not a quarter of a mile away, with a man sitting in the stern baling out her bilge with a tin.
I looked at him for a minute, then set down the breaker and began to fill it. There was only one thing to be done, to go on filling up with water in the hope that I should be taken for a bona fide yachtsman, not an escaped con
vict. While the water trickled into the bag I studied the man in the boat. His baling finished, he produced a bit of waste, and began swabbing about in the boat polishing the seats and the gunwale. It was pretty evident that he had brought somebody to the island on a visit, who had left the boat and gone ashore while the boat waited for him.
By now the visitor might be sitting in the cabin of the Irene. The thought made me feel rotten.
There was nothing to be done, I decided, but to try and brazen it out. After all, I’d done nothing wrong—or nothing that anyone was likely to discover. I owed it to Compton to keep up the pretence for as long as possible, to gain all the time for him that I could. More than that I could not do; if they arrested me I should be powerless to help him any more, and there would be an end of my part in his fortunes.
I stayed by the well till the breaker was as full as I could carry, then tied it up, slung it over my shoulder, and staggered back with it over the hill. I set it down when I came in view of White Sound and took a long look round. I was reassured. There was nobody in sight; the dinghy lay undisturbed upon the beach and the vessel at her anchor. It struck me that it was possible that the visit of the motor-boat had nothing to do with me after all. I might have been exaggerating my own importance.
I ploughed down through the soft sand to the beach and lowered the breaker into the dinghy. There was nothing else for me to do ashore, and the sooner I got away to sea again the better. At the same time, I was very loath to go. The anchorage is a delightful one; I would willingly have stayed there for a couple of days instead of beating about in the open sea with the wind up half the time. There was the matter of the butter, too; I was out of butter and very nearly out of margarine. There remained only a greasy and disgusting mass of lard.…
It was no good repining; it would have been asking for trouble to visit St. Mary’s to buy stores. I had enough lard to see me through, and it was time I got away to sea. I turned towards the dinghy, and then I pulled up short. There was a girl standing on the little point of rocks along the beach, about a couple of hundred yards away. She was looking in my direction.
Instantly my mind flew back to the motor-boat. I was tremendously relieved at the sight of the girl. The Scillies in the summer are full of visitors; clearly the motor-boat had brought no more significant cargo to the island than a party of holiday-makers on a picnic. This girl would be a straggler or an advance guard; somewhere in the background would be father carrying the lunch and the bathing things.
My fears had been groundless. Instantly I began to consider whether I couldn’t afford a day on shore on this island—or half a day at any rate. I might walk round the island in the morning and get away to sea in the evening. It would be a change from sitting at the helm all day. I sat on the bow of the dinghy scrabbling the sand up into little heaps with my feet while I thought about it.
I kept an eye on the girl. She came down from the point after a little and began to walk along the beach towards me. I watched her as she came; I can remember noticing that she was very slim, and that she walked lightly.
I stared more intently at her as she drew closer … and then I knew that at all costs I should have kept clear of Marazan Sound.
She looked up as she came near. I didn’t go to meet her, but waited her coming, sitting on the bow of the dinghy on the sand.
‘Good-morning, Miss Stevenson,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m afraid I’ve made a muck of this.’
CHAPTER FIVE
SHE didn’t speak at once. I remember that I sat watching her and waiting for her to say something, wondering what she would say, feeling a most almighty fool. I remember that there were kittiwakes crying and wheeling above us, and coloured butterflies flitting in and out of the speargrass of the sandhills, and a hot sun that made the water blue and sparkling, the sand white. I remember that she was wearing an old grey felt hat crammed down over her short hair, and a brightly coloured scarf, and the same brown jersey that I had seen her in at Stokenchurch. It had a little hole on one shoulder. I remember all that as if it had been yesterday; if I had the touch for painting I could sit down and paint her now as I saw her then, with the blue and white water running up behind her. I say that I could paint her as I saw her then, but the portrait would be painted better now.
At last she spoke. ‘What are you doing here, Mr. Stenning?’ she inquired evenly. There was a note in her voice that stung me up a bit.
I raised my head and looked her straight in the eyes. ‘I’m getting water for my cruise,’ I said. ‘Now I’m going to be rude. What are you?’
I guessed that that might be something of a home-thrust; she looked at me narrowly for a moment, but didn’t speak. I got out my pipe and filled it slowly while I thought things over a bit; by the time I threw the match down on the sand I had made up my mind—more or less.
‘See here, Miss Stevenson,’ I said. ‘I’m going to speak pretty plainly. I’m getting mixed up in a lot of funny business that I don’t understand and that I don’t like. Don’t mistake me. Compton pulled me out of a damned unpleasant crash, and I’m out to help him all I can. I’ve already broken the law for him in every position. If the police got me now they could plant about five sentences on me for various things I’ve done since I shot off on this trip. I don’t care two hoots about those. What I do care about is that there’s a lot going on behind the scenes that you know all about and that Compton knows all about, and that I know damn-all about. I mean Mattani, and Marazan, and all that.’
She started. ‘Who told you about Mattani?’
‘You did,’ I said. ‘At Stokenchurch. You were talking about it so loud that evening while I was writing my report that I couldn’t help picking up bits of it. I told you then that I didn’t want to know what you were up to. Well, I’ve changed my mind. I want to know what I’m in for. That is, if I’m to carry on. If you like I’ll give up now and go home. I don’t want to do that; I’d very much rather carry on and see Compton through this thing and out of the country. I mean that. But if I do that, then I’ve got to know what’s going on. You see? You’ll forgive me speaking straight to you about this. It seems to me that you’ve got something fishy going on here, something that’s a thoroughly bad show. Something that’s dangerous. I ran up against it in Exeter. Now if I’m to carry on I want to know what I’m in for.’
She was evidently puzzled. ‘In Exeter?’ she said.
I told her about the note that I had found in my bed addressed to Compton. ‘That’s the sort of thing that shakes a man,’ I said. ‘It put the wind up me properly.’ Then I told her how I had been knocking about the Channel till I had run short of water. ‘I didn’t see how this particular Marazan Sound could possibly have any interest for you or Compton,’ I said. ‘I thought that there must be another one, or that I hadn’t heard right. It seems that I was wrong.’
She nodded. ‘This is the place,’ she said. ‘You know it well?’
‘Not well,’ I said. ‘I’ve anchored here once or twice.’
She turned, and looked out over the blue, rippling water to where the Irene was lying quietly at her anchor. ‘Will you take me on board?’ she said.
I pushed the dinghy down the sand, paddled out with her through the shallows till she floated, and rowed off to the vessel. The saloon was in a terrible state. I had used it as a lumber store during the days that I had been at sea; on the floor of the saloon was all the movable gear from the deck, the buckets, petrol-cans, boom crutch, companion, and all the hundred and one oddments that are invariably falling overboard unless they are below. The remains of my breakfast lent a sordid appearance to the scene. I got the bucket and chucked the plates into it, and passed it through into the forecastle. Then I came back to the saloon and cleared a space on one of the settees for her to sit down.
‘You won’t mind if I do the lamps,’ I said, and began to swab round one of the sidelights with a pad of waste.
There was a silence, so far as there is ever silence on a small vessel. A bee had invaded
the cabin and was noisily investigating a jam-pot; I suppose he had come from distant Tresco. The vessel swung slowly on her heel with a faint grating and a scrunch from the anchor chain. A warm patch of sunlight slid across the floor and up my leg; away aft the rudder was clunking gently in the pintles. Presently the girl spoke.
‘Denis saw Mattani yesterday,’ she said. ‘I am expecting him in Hugh Town by this evening’s boat.’
I grunted. ‘And who may Mattani be?’ I inquired.
She didn’t answer; I could see that she hadn’t got over my arrival in the Scillies yet. That seemed to have shaken her. She was suspicious, though what she suspected me of doing I couldn’t make out.
‘If I tell Denis that you are here,’ she said, ‘will you meet him this evening?’
I glanced up at her. ‘Very glad to,’ I remarked. ‘But what if some inquisitive person comes and asks me who I am before this evening?’
‘You mean if the police have followed you?’
I nodded.
‘I think that would be the best thing that could happen now,’ she said wearily—‘for everybody.’
I nearly dropped the lamp. ‘I’m damn sure it wouldn’t be the best thing that could happen to me,’ I said indignantly. And then I stopped, because I saw that she was serious. I think it was then that I first realised that I was no longer playing a game of hide-and-seek that I could take up and throw down when I liked. I hadn’t taken this business seriously up to date; to me it had been merely the excuse for a holiday of a novel and diverting kind. Now I was beginning to see it differently. The first thing I saw was that though I might not have been taking it very seriously, other people had; in this girl’s face I could see that she was most miserably anxious. Whatever it was that she was afraid of, she had the wind right up. I was most awfully sorry for her.