The Sunken Sailor

by Patricia Moyes

  “Now,” he said. “Haul her up.”

  “Alastair darling,” said a sweet voice from the cockpit, “haven’t you forgotten the burgee?”

  “Oh, blast,” said Alastair. “Didn’t I tell you one always messes things up trying to demonstrate? I should have done that first.”

  He took the small, triangular, blue and white flag from Rosemary, and quickly ran it up to the masthead, where it fluttered encouragingly. Henry looked round at the other boats, and said, “Every boat seems to have a different burgee.”

  “That’s because they belong to different clubs,” said Alastair. “Ours is the Little Ship Club. That red and blue one is the Berrybridge Yacht Club, and the one over there is the Royal Harwich.”

  “This one is just plain white,” said Emmy, indicating a small, swift boat which was skidding past.

  “That’s because she’s racing,” said Alastair. “When you see that, you keep out of her way. Now, up with the jib.”

  Henry, feeling very seamanlike, tugged on the jib halyard, and was intensely gratified to see the shapeless mass of white cotton on the foredeck rear up, and assume the shape of a sail.

  “Tighter than that,” said Alastair.

  Henry pulled again, wincing as the rope bit into his soft, townsman’s hands. The leading edge of the jib remained undulating.

  “Sweat it up,” said Alastair.

  “I am,” said Henry, panting slightly.

  Alastair grinned. “I don’t mean like that,” he said. “Look. Take a turn round this cleat”—he passed the end of the halyard round a wooden peg which protruded from the mast—“now...”

  He leant his full weight on the halyard, pulling it out from the mast with one hand, while with the other he snatched up the slack of the rope round the cleat. The sail stretched bar-taut up the forestay. “Now we make it fast—and there she is.”

  Henry and Emmy looked up admiringly at the big sail flapping gently in the breeze. Then Emmy said, “Why doesn’t the boat try to sail away, now we’ve got the sail up?”

  “Because the sheets are free, and we’re facing directly into the wind. When a boat’s moored, she always puts her nose into the wind or the tide, whichever is the stronger. This morning they’re both in the same direction. So long as we don’t tighten the sheets, the jib’ll flap away there quite happily forever. Now for the main.”

  The mainsail was already in position along the boom, protected by a canvas sail cover, which Alastair unlaced and threw down into the fo’c’sle. “All you have to do with the main is haul her up, and then you’ll have them both flapping and ready to go.”

  “But the mainsail can’t flap,” Henry objected. “The boom is fixed in that thing.”

  “That thing,” said Alastair, “is the boom gallows.”

  “What an unfortunate name,” said Emmy. “Why is it called that?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Alastair, “but that’s what it is.”

  The thing in question was, in fact, no more than two pieces of wood bolted together to form an X, which stood on deck behind the cockpit and supported the end of the boom.

  “Don’t worry about the gallows,” said Alastair. “When the sail goes up, she lifts the boom right out of them. They’re only there to keep the thing out of the way when we’re anchored.”

  Sure enough, as Henry hauled on the halyard and the great white sail ran up the mast, the end of the boom lifted suddenly, and the gallows fell with a thud onto the deck. The two sails flapped noisily, and Rosemary went up to the foredeck and untied the rope that held Ariadne to her mooring, letting it go until only a single turn round the oaken Samson post in the deck secured the boat. At the tiller, Alastair tightened in the mainsheet, and then hauled on the starboard-hand jib sheet. To Henry’s surprise, the jib filled with wind, and the nose of the boat swung to port, towards the centre of the river. Immediately the mainsail, too, caught the wind, and Alastair said, “O.K. Let her go.”

  Rosemary threw the mooring buoy overboard into the water, where it bobbed like a seagull on the wavelets. Alastair quickly released the starboard jib sheet and tightened the port one. And silently, smoothly, Ariadne moved across the river, leaning gently to port, her bows cutting sharply through the shining water.

  “Ease sheets,” said Alastair. He pulled the tiller over, and the boat swung round in a left-handed circle. Simultaneously, Alastair let the mainsheet run out until the boom hung out over the water, and Rosemary released the jib sheet until the big foresail, nearly masked by the main, was barely filling with wind. Ariadne steadied herself onto an even keel and moved downriver towards the sea.

  “The wind’s dropped,” said Emmy.

  “No, it hasn’t,” said Rosemary. “You always get that impression when it’s dead behind you.”

  “But we’re hardly moving now,” Henry put in.

  “Rubbish. We’re steaming along. Just look at the rate we’re passing that buoy. You get a tremendous illusion of speed when you’re beating into the wind, but when you start to run, it always feels as though you’re standing still.”

  Sure enough, the moored boats and marker buoys were slipping rapidly past.

  “And that,” said Alastair, “is all there is to sailing. In theory. When you’re going against the wind, haul in the sheets. When it’s behind you, let them right out. And here we are, on an ebbing tide, with the wind astern and headed for Holland.” And he began stuffing tobacco into a very old pipe, keeping one hand on the tiller and one eye on the burgee.

  From Berrybridge, the river runs southward for several miles, and then widens dramatically as it approaches the North Sea. For an hour, Ariadne ran smoothly downriver, with the north wind behind her. Apart from a moment of activity when Alastair shouted “Gybe-oh,” and the boom swung noisily over from starboard to port, the crew relaxed lazily in the sunshine. Now they could see the ocean ahead of them, and the horizon beckoned with its siren song.

  “Let’s go to Ostend,” said Rosemary. “Why not?”

  “Because we’re meeting Colin and Anne in The Berry Bush tonight, for one thing,” said Alastair,

  “Oh, to hell with Colin and Anne.”

  “Be sensible, darling. We haven’t even got our passports with us. No, we’ll turn north and go up to the Deben.”

  They were near the mouth of the river by now. On their right, the southern shore stretched sandily away towards the playgrounds of Clacton and Frinton. On their left, a wooded promontory ran out into the sea, surrounded on three sides by water—for the coastline to the north swept sharply back, almost parallel to the river, making an isthmus of the last few miles of riverbank.

  On this isthmus, Henry caught a glimpse through an avenue of elms of a magnificent Palladian façade. “Berry Hall,” said Alastair. “Home of our friend Sir Simon Trigg-Willoughby, the lucky devil. One of the architectural gems of southern Suffolk.”

  “Can we go in a bit closer and have a look at it?” Emmy asked.

  “No,” said Alastair firmly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s no water.”

  “What do you mean?” Emmy asked indignantly. “The water goes right up to the trees.”

  “I told you,” said Alastair patiently, “that Ariadne draws five feet. In another hour or so, when the tide has gone out a bit, there’ll be nothing but sand between us and Berry Hall. At the moment, there’s probably less than three feet. We’re as near inshore as we dare go.”

  By this time, Ariadne was approaching the actual river mouth, and Henry could see how the great, beautiful house dominated the landscape, sited proudly as it was on a green hill that sloped to the water on three sides. The front of the house looked straight out over the wide North Sea, and at the edge of the lawns that swept down to the water there was a small boathouse and a jetty.

  “How does Sir Simon get his boats out, if it’s all sand?” said Emmy. “Can he only go out at high tide?”

  “There’s a tiny channel,” Rosemary said. “It runs from the boat
house as far as Steep Hill Sands—that’s the big bank we’ve got to go around—and then it sort of meanders round Steep Hill and into the sea. But it’s very shallow at low water. Sir Simon can use it, because he’s got a motor boat and a dinghy, and they don’t draw much.”

  “Sir Simon Trigg-Willoughby,” said Henry slowly. “The name rings a bell. Wasn’t there a case, about two years ago—a robbery or something?”

  “That’s right,” said Alastair. “Cat burglar got the family jewels.”

  “I remember,” said Henry. “They were never found, were they?”

  “I don’t see why Sir Simon and Priscilla go on making such a fuss about it even now,” said Rosemary. “After all, the insurance paid up—which was jolly decent of them, considering that the whole thing was Priscilla’s own fault. But then, of course, she’s slightly bats.”

  “Who’s Priscilla?” Emmy asked.

  “Sir Simon’s sister—curious old girl, spinster and more than half-way round the bend. She insisted on wearing the entire family loot to a hunt ball, and then forgot to lock it up afterwards. Personally, if I’d been Sir Simon, I’d have much preferred the insurance money to a lot of badly set diamonds that would have gone to some distant cousin in the end—because the two old dears are the last of the Trigg-Willoughbys. But to hear them go on, you’d think it was the end of the world. Of course,” Rosemary added, “they’re a tremendously family family, if you know what I mean. Berry Hall, the jewels, the Trigg-Willoughby tradition...it’s all very well, but—”

  “Sir Simon’s not married then?” Henry asked.

  “Poor chap never had a chance,” said Alastair. “Nor did Priscilla. They were brought up by a Victorian martinet of a father who considered that nothing short of royalty was good enough for a Trigg-Willoughby. The old boy only died a few years ago, and by that time Simon and Priscilla were both a bit past it.”

  By now, Berry Hall had been left behind, and Ariadne was heading out into the North Sea, cutting the gently crinkling waves with her sharp bows. Henry said, “I thought we were going northward up the coast.”

  “We are,” said Alastair.

  “But we’re heading straight out to sea.”

  “And shall do, for quite a bit. Steep Hill Sands run out about a mile from the point. You should see it at low water, then you’d understand.”

  Half an hour later, when it seemed to Henry and Emmy that they must be well on the way to Holland, Alastair said, “All right. Harden sheets. I’m turning up now.”

  He hauled in the mainsheet until the big sail was hugged closely in to the boat, while Rosemary did the same for the jib. At the same time, Alastair pushed the tiller to starboard, and the nose of the boat swung round to the north, and almost into the teeth of the wind. Immediately, Ariadne leant gently over to starboard, and the bow wave creamed frothingly as she headed to windward, setting a north-easterly course.

  “We’re beating now,” said Alastair. “We can’t go directly up the coast, because that would be straight into the wind. So we have to tack. We can go as far as we like on this course, because we’re heading out to sea, but when we come about we’ll have to make sure we don’t go too far inshore and hit the sandbank. It is buoyed, but...”

  “We’re getting awfully far away from the land,” said Emmy, “and I do want another look at that house. Can’t we keep closer in?”

  “All right,” said Alastair. “Ready about. Keep your heads down, you two. Lee-oh.”

  The next few seconds seemed to Henry and Emmy like a pandemonium of flapping sails and the sound of ropes running through blocks. They raised their dutifully lowered heads as the noise ceased, and saw that the boom and sails were now on the other side of the boat, and that Ariadne was setting a course almost straight towards the shore. A black, conical buoy bobbed innocently in the water ahead of them.

  “That buoy marks the edge of Steep Hill Sands,” said Alastair. “It’s as far as I dare go on this tack.”

  “You’re an old fuss-pot,” Rosemary remarked. “It’s still half-tide. We can go quite a bit closer in.”

  “I don’t like taking risks,” said Alastair.

  “Then give me the helm,” Rosemary replied with spirit. “I’ll show you how close we can go. I’ve often done it.”

  “Women,” remarked Alastair gloomily, “should never be allowed on boats. All right, take the helm. And don’t blame me if we go on the mud.”

  Rosemary and Alastair changed places, and the black buoy approached at speed, until they could see the words STEEP HILL painted on it in big white letters. Soon they were inshore of it, and getting a fine view of the eastern elevation of Berry Hall.

  “Come about now,” said Alastair.

  “Rubbish,” said Rosemary. “I’ve got another fifty yards.”

  “You’re a bloody fool,” said Alastair, with some heat.

  “Who’s sailing this boat anyway, you or me?”

  “You are, but—”

  “Very well then.” Rosemary’s pretty mouth was set in a stubborn line. “I say we can go closer.”

  “And I say we can’t.”

  “My dear Alastair, it may interest you to know that—oh, hell...”

  There was an ominous, crunching sound.

  “What’s the matter?” said Henry.

  Rosemary was swearing, quietly but with a fine command of Anglo-Saxon. She pulled the tiller towards her, and shouted, “Free sheets. I’ll try to blow her off.”

  “What’s happened?” said Emmy. “We don’t seem to be moving.”

  “Dear Emmy,” said Alastair grimly, “we are not moving. My adorable wife has put us on the putty. On a falling tide. It’s no good, darling. Get the sails off her, and I’ll try the kedge.”

  Working with desperate speed, Rosemary set up the boom gallows and lowered the mainsail and the jib, while Alastair took the anchor into the dinghy and rowed out with it into deep water, where he dropped it. Then he came back, and hauled with all his might on the anchor chain, hoping to pull Ariadne off the sandbank by brute force. But, with the tide running out fast, her keel was by now firmly embedded, and nothing would shift her. Already they could see little white wavelets beginning to break on the topmost point of the sandbank, as the retreating tide left only a few inches of water covering it.

  Rosemary was near tears, and Henry and Emmy, embarrassed, waited for the expected recriminations. But none came. At sea, as they soon learnt, mistakes are forgiven and forgotten more quickly than ashore. Alastair put his arm round his wife’s shoulders, and said, “Cheer up, old love. Could happen to anyone.”

  “Oh, darling, I’m so terribly sorry,” moaned Rosemary. “I really thought there was enough water.”

  “Never mind,” said Alastair cheerfully. “I’m sure Henry and Emmy will forgive you. And it’s a lovely day for a sunbathe on Steep Hill.”

  “I like it here,” said Emmy truthfully. “There’s a wonderful view of the house.”

  Alastair grinned, and consulted his watch. “You may get a bit sick of this particular view by the time we get off,” he said. “We’ve got a good five hours before the tide comes up enough to float us. Still, at least we’re on sand and not on mud, so we can get out and walk around. I imagine lunch will be a more comfortable meal on the sand than on board.”

  As Alastair spoke, they could see that where before had been breaking waves, there was now an island of golden sand. And, as Ariadne heeled over unhappily to landward, this island spread rapidly in circumference until the water had retreated all round them, leaving them and the boat stranded, high and dry, in the sunshine. Inshore, it was now possible to see the narrow, winding channel which ran from Sir Simon’s boathouse to the sandbank: to seaward, a smart, green-hulled sailing boat was coming down the main channel, with a cheerfully waving figure at the tiller.

  “Oh, lord,” said Rosemary in dismay, “that’s Hamish in Tideway. What will he think?”

  “I’ve seen him on Steep Hill before now,” said Alastair, returning the salutati
on. “Let him have a good laugh. He can do with it.”

  “Poor Hamish,” said Rosemary. “He certainly hasn’t been his old self since—” She stopped, suddenly.

  “You know, darling,” said Alastair, “we must be in just about the same place now—where we found Pete, I mean.”

  “Tell us about this man Pete,” said Henry. “We keep hearing about him. What’s the story?”

  “Well,” said Alastair, “it happened just about here, on Steep Hill.”

  “Darling,” said Rosemary, “I’m sure Henry and Emmy don’t want to—”

  “We’ve got plenty of time,” said Alastair. “If you’d like to hear about it.”

  “Yes, please,” said Emmy.

  “Let’s have lunch,” said Rosemary. There was a curious urgency in her voice.

  But when they had all finished their plates of cold chicken and salad—extracted with some difficulty from the galley, which was now listing at forty-five degrees—Alastair leant back on the sand, lit his pipe, and said, “Well...if you’re interested...it was like this...”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “PETE RAWNSLEY,” SAID Alastair, “was a wonderful chap. At least, we thought so. I think everybody did. A great big bear of a man, with one of those weather-beaten faces and bright blue eyes. I suppose he was about fifty—he was Hamish’s uncle—but that sort of chap could be anything from forty to sixty. He was as tough as nails, and what he didn’t know about boats could be written on a sixpence—I tell you, he was the finest sailor I ever knew. That’s why it seemed so terrible when...oh, well, I’ll come to that later.

  “Anyway, a couple years ago he came into some money and retired down here and bought a beautiful Dragon-class boat called Blue Gull—Hamish is trying to sell her now. Except when he was racing, he nearly always sailed single-handed. Said he knew where he was that way. I must say I see what he meant,” he added, with a glance at Rosemary, who put her tongue out at him.