“You’re just in time for a glass, Hovis.” She greeted him with a kiss.
“Oh, I say. Things are looking up.”
Will handed round tumblers that were more used to plain water than bubbly, popped the cork and let the golden liquid fizz into them. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, struggling to keep any trace of emotion out of his voice, “I’d like you to drink a toast to two ladies.”
“Hear, hear!” said Hovis, then, “Sorry. Jumping the gun.” He looked sideways at Amy and raised his eyebrows. She giggled.
“Two ladies who mean a lot to me.” Amy blushed. “One is sixty-eight years old, and the other – ”
“Steady!” cautioned Amy.
“– isn’t. But I wouldn’t have survived the past few weeks without either of them.” He looked pointedly at Amy and raised his glass. “Neither would I have managed without a certain gentleman, but we’ll let his identity pass.”
“Best thing,” agreed Hovis.
Amy raised her glass. “Here’s to Boy Jack. God bless her and all who sail in her.”
The men repeated the toast and all three sipped their champagne, gasping with pleasure as the bubbles hit the back of their throats.
“Come on, then,” urged Hovis. “Let’s wet the old girl’s bottom.”
They climbed the wheelhouse steps to the deck, then stepped down over the beer crate on to the pontoon where Will hurled what remained in his glass over the bows of Boy Jack. He stepped back and looked at her, no longer an apologetic hulk but a graceful lady reclining on the rippling water that sent a mosaic of reflections dancing up her clean white hull. Graceful. He saw now that she had deserved her original name. He reached out his hand to grasp Amy’s and squeezed. She returned his gesture with a flickering smile.
“God bless all who sail in her,” he whispered, so that only she could hear.
♦
The meal was as great a success as the one on Hovis’s boat, and the conversation even more relaxed. They knew each other now, had been through things together. Appreciative noises were made over the crab; the duck with orange was cooked to perfection, but Hovis reckoned, with a wink in Amy’s direction, that the vegetables were better than anything else.
Chablis followed the Bollinger, and Amy lay back against Will on the long bench seat. Over coffee the conversation became reflective. Nobody intended it to be sad, but Ernie’s name could not be avoided. Will was determined not to be morose, and instead regaled them with stories of his early days at the lighthouse, and Ernie’s generosity during that tough time so soon after Ellie’s death. Then they returned to the present. To the fact that Evan Williams, Prince Albert Rock’s second principal lighthouse keeper, had agreed to act as temporary custodian until a permanent replacement could be found. Hovis was reminded of young Applebee: he could not understand the boy’s stupidity in being out in the storm.
Will explained what had happened at the police station.
Hovis was astounded. “You reckon Gryler’s running a booze racket?”
“I don’t know. The police told me not to mention it. Certainly not to Gryler.”
“No. Certainly not. Oh, no!”
“I wonder if we’ll ever find out any more,” mused Amy.
“I don’t know,” said Will. “Maybe not. The police are on to it now, but I can’t help being curious.”
“Best to leave things alone,” said Hovis sharply.
“That’s what Ernie said,” replied Will, ruefully.
“They’ve had Gryler in,” added Hovis. “Questioned him all night, apparently.”
“Let him go, though.”
“Maybe they’re watching him.”
“Ooh! Makes you shudder,” said Amy, nestling closer to Will.
“Anyway. Never mind all that. Who’s for a spin around the Cove tomorrow?” offered Will brightly.
“What?” Amy pulled away a little.
“Tomorrow morning. Maiden voyage, I think. Weather looks fair. Tides are right. Engines are raring to go. Won’t travel far. Just see how she feels in the water.”
“But what about the studio?”
“Close it. We’ll only be a couple of hours.”
She looked at him squarely. “All right, then, I will. You’re on. Hovis, what about you?”
“I think you two should do that on your own.” Hovis eased out of his seat. “Make it special.”
“Oh, come with us,” pleaded Amy. “You’ve watched all the work being done.”
“No. Not this time. This is your treat. I’ll wave you off. I’ll even dress overall if you want.”
“What?” asked Amy.
“Dress overall. Put all me flags out. Look like a regatta.”
“Don’t you dare,” said Will. “I want to slip out quietly, not with a fanfare of trumpets.”
“If you insist. But I’ll give you a push off and I’ll be here to catch your line when you come back.”
“That would be helpful.”
“That’s sorted, then. And now I must be off. I know I got here punctually, so I’ll leave punctually. Stroke of eleven. Not bad. Oh, and that reminds me. Hang on a minute.” He slid open the door and dived from view, returning half a minute later with a small wooden box. “For you. A boat-warming present. Bit of a cheek, really. It’s broken but I thought you wouldn’t mind, if you see what I mean.”
Will took the brass-bound mahogany box, which was about six inches square. He knew precisely what it contained. “Hovis, I can’t take this.”
“Of course you can. I told you, it’s broken, of no use to me. But I know you’ll be able to fix it.”
Will pressed the round brass button and lifted the lid to reveal the marine chronometer under its protective pane of glass. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, don’t say anything. Just enjoy fixing it.” And with a smile Hovis left.
Amy put her arms around Will’s waist and looked with him at the clock face. ‘Charles Shepherd – Makers to the Royal Navy’ was engraved in elaborate script across it. On the front of the box was a small ivory panel bearing the number 1205. “It’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t it? What a man.” He put the clock on the table and turned to her. “I wondered if you – would you…”
“Mmmm?”
“Would you stay the night? Here. On the boat.”
She smiled. “I’ve no toothbrush.”
“We carry a spare.”
He pulled the wheelhouse hatch closed and picked up the brass oil lamp that had provided them with light to dine. He led her down to the aft cabin where the rosy glow of the mahogany panelling seemed warmer still by the lamplight. He slid the cabin door shut, put down the lamp on the bedside locker and turned to kiss her. She stepped back from him and began to peel off her clothes, looking at him all the while. He watched her entranced: the light caught the soft curves of her body and turned her hair to fire. Naked now she stood in front of him, her arms by her sides, quite still. Then she moved to the bed and slid under the quilt, never taking her eyes off him.
He watched her as she lay there, then undressed, gazing at her, until he, too, stood naked in the lamplight. He could hear the silence ringing in his ears and feel the passion rising deep inside.
“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered.
He walked to the bed, pulled back the quilt and looked at her for a moment before sliding in beside her and feeling the soft warmth of her body. Spike was curled up inside the beer crate. Tonight he would sleep outdoors.
Twenty-One
Round Island
Amy woke first. She propped herself on one elbow and looked at him lying next to her in the bed. His dark curls shone in the early-morning sun that slanted through the port-hole. She listened to his slow, regular breathing. He was peaceful now, no creases on his brow, no troubled expression. Just a sleeping boy.
She realised how familiar she had become with his body. She knew each blemish, each mole, and the precise position of the darker flecks on the pale blue irises of
his eyes.
His right arm rested on top of the quilt. She looked with the eye of an artist at the sculpted, lean biceps, the powerful forearms, the craftsman’s hands – a combination of strength and sensitivity. She looked at his right hand; at the veins standing up beneath the weatherbeaten skin, the relaxed ringers. The callouses born of boat repairing could not disguise the delicate touch needed for mending a clock or making a model boat. There were scratches and grazes where the skin had been damaged, and paint ingrained where it had escaped the scrubbing brush and the soap. The short nails were chipped and battered, the cuticles irregular. How she loved his hands.
She reached out to touch his fingers and his eyes slowly opened. He looked at her, then reached up to cup her chin.
“Hallo.”
“Hallo, you.” She eased her body closer to him.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“No, you haven’t, you’ve been sleeping.”
“Yes, but when I was sleeping I was thinking.”
She smiled at him. “Go on.”
“You’ve only got a pair of white jeans. You’re going to get a bit mucky crewing a boat in those.”
“Is that the sort of thought that goes through your mind when you’re lying naked next to me?”
“I’m only being considerate.”
“I worry about you.” She dug him in the ribs with her index finger and he jumped, then put his arms around her and squeezed her, nuzzling into her neck.
“What time is it?”
She looked at her watch on the bedside locker. “Half past seven.”
He sat up and looked out of the port-hole. “And it’s a lovely day. No wind. Sun on the water. Brilliant. Time we were up if we’re to catch the tide.”
She frowned at him. “Which tide?”
“We need to leave about an hour before high water if we want to avoid battling against heavy currents. That way we can get in and out without having to fight the tide.”
“I see. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand it. All those nautical terms and all those bits of rope – sheets and warps and shrouds and stuff.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He bent over to kiss her nose. “The most important thing is still to feel the thrill of the water underneath you. Hang on to the enjoyment. Some sailors are so busy being technically correct in their terminology and their practices, and worrying about what might happen, that they forget to have a good time while they’re doing it. Cowper said something like that.”
“The poet?”
“No. The sailor. Frank Cowper. Wrote a series of books called Sailing Tours in the late nineteenth century. I lost them in the fire. He said, ‘A boating book should be written by a man who has bumped ashore and afterwards has found the way to the proper channel. Such a man learns where the dangers lie’.”
“Sounds a bit irresponsible to me.”
“He wasn’t suggesting foolhardiness, just that instead of taking notice of somebody else’s wagging finger you rely on common sense and observation.”
“Sums you up, really, doesn’t it? Common sense and observation.”
“Listen to me going on. Here I am stark naked next to a beautiful woman and talking about boats.”
“Well, you could make it up to me.”
“We’ll miss the tide.”
“Oh, bugger the tide. Let’s just bump ashore.”
♦
“Have you opened the sea cocks?”
“Yes.”
“Turned on the batteries?”
“Yes.”
“Checked over the engines?”
“Yes.”
“Go on, then, start her up.” Hovis was standing on the pontoon. Will was at the helm inside the wheelhouse door. Amy crouched down on the foredeck, ready to catch the lines as instructed. She tightened the belt on an old pair of Will’s jeans and pulled up the sleeves of the baggy fisherman’s jersey beneath her lifejacket.
“Here goes, then.” He turned the key of the port engine and the warning buzzer sounded. He pushed the port throttle forwards for about a third of its capacity and pressed the starter. The old Perkins engine turned over a few times then rumbled into life. He waited for the rev-counter to spring up to 500 revs, then repeated the process on the starboard engine. It refused to fire. He glanced at Hovis and tried again. Nothing.
“Once more. She’s had a long rest,” said Hovis encouragingly.
Will pressed the starter button a third time, giving just a little more throttle, and the engine growled into action, the rev-counter springing up to 700 revs.
Will looked at the dials in front of him. Water temperature low, as yet not warmed up. Oil pressure fine. Batteries fine. Rudder indicator amidships. He pulled the throttle levers to their lowest position, then stepped out of the wheelhouse and on to the deck.
“I think I’ll just let her warm up for a minute or two.”
“Good idea,” said Hovis. “Everything else all right?”
“Seems to be. Have we got water coming out of the back?”
Hovis walked aft and confirmed that the engine-cooling system was working – regular squirts of water were slopping out of the exhaust pipes just above the water line. Will turned to Amy. “You OK?”
“Fine. Noisy, isn’t it?”
“Should be better at sea.”
“No, I like it. It’s sort of comforting. Like a big cat purring.”
“Talking of cats, where is he?”
Hovis pointed to a coil of rope on the foredeck of Florence Nightingale. Seated in the middle of it was Spike, ears up, eyes wide as he inspected the throbbing vessel that was his home.
“Oh dear. I think we might have upset him.” The cat continued to watch their progress with detached interest from the comfort of the neighbouring vessel. Will walked around the deck of Boy Jack checking that the fenders were in position and that the mooring warps were secure.
“OK. This is it.”
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” asked Hovis.
Will frowned. “What?”
“Auntie Betty.” Hovis pointed astern. “Bad form.”
Will laughed, stepped into the wheelhouse, and returned with the red ensign wrapped around its newly varnished flagstaff. He unrolled it as he walked astern, and slotted it into the brass holder above the transom. Then he walked to the bows and picked up another, smaller flagstaff that had been lying on the deck. He slotted it into the jack-staff holder on the pulpit and unwound the smaller flag of St George, with its central shield – the emblem of the Association of Dunkirk Little Ships.
“Better?”
“Much better!”
“Daft bugger!”
“Well, there are standards to maintain. Mind you, your ensign will be better when it’s faded a bit.”
“Don’t start!” He wagged an admonitory finger at Hovis. “Are we ready, then?”
“I can think of no further reason to detain you.”
“OK. Cast off.”
Hovis undid the two springs and threw them to Amy. She caught them both, then the head line, and finally the stern line.
“Can you coil them?” Will shouted at her.
“How?”
“Just tidy them up so you don’t fall over them.”
He moved the two throttles forward, relying on the paddle-wheel effect of the propellers to push him sideways from the pontoon, then eased them off to slow their forward progress to a minimum. Hovis leaned on the hull of Boy Jack to reinforce the movement. The boat swung slowly outwards, the bows creeping into the water slightly ahead of the stern.
“Lovely!” said Hovis, encouragingly.
Suddenly Will saw a flash of black and white. He looked up, wondering what had fallen from the mast.
Hovis pointed to the sharp end of the boat. There, seated in front of the Samson post, was Spike, like some feline figurehead.
“It looks as though he’s coming, then!” cried Amy.
“I just hope he doesn’t fall overboard. I haven’t got a l
ifejacket for a cat.”
Will eased the port engine into forward gear, keeping his helm amidships, and as they cleared the pontoon to head towards the entrance of the boatyard he switched between the engines, using them, rather than the wheel, to steer the boat out into the cove.
“Bon voyage!” Hovis waved them off, and they cruised slowly past the other boats – Jerry McDermott’s Sokai, gleaming like a newly scrubbed bathtub in the morning light, a couple of guano-spattered day-boats and Gryler’s replacement for PZ 291, another redundant fishing boat.
The sea hove into view as they rounded the corner of the jetty, and they chugged out into the cove at a steady five knots. Now Will realized how it felt to have your own boat. He stood at the wheel, passing it slowly from hand to hand, remembering not to ‘take great fistfuls of it’ as his instructor had taught him three years ago. The butterflies remained in his stomach, but he had a sense of freedom.
Small wavelets broke against the bows as Boy Jack slid through the water, and the sound of the engines was indeed, as Amy had suggested, comforting, now that they were clear of the harbour walls. He pointed his boat westwards, towards Bill’s Island, the only thing in view on the calm, glittering sea.
“This weather is just unbelievable. It’s as if it knew she was going out for the first time today. Sort of welcoming her back,” Will said.
He stuck his head through the wheelhouse door and felt the gentle breeze of their forward motion. He pulled at the hatch in the coach-roof and slid it back to let in the fresh air. The boatyard receded into the distance behind them. He looked at the fluttering ensign and the foaming white wash that fanned out behind them. “Do you want a go?” he asked.
“Can I?”
“Just hold her steady and aim for the island.” She took the wheel from him and he stepped away to stow the ropes. In the event he didn’t have to.
“What have you done?”
“What do you mean?” She sounded troubled.
“With the ropes?”
“You said to coil them so I did.”
“But I didn’t expect this!” They were neatly wound into flat spirals. “She looks like the Victory.”
The Last Lighthouse Keeper Page 16