“I didn’t mean the jib sheet,” said Rosemary, “I meant—”
“I know you did,” said Henry. Then, lifting his voice, he added ringingly, “‘O-o-oh, give us some time to blow the man down...’”
***
At five o’clock they turned round and ran before the wind southward down the coast, and back to Steep Hill Point. A small speck which had materialized far out to sea revealed itself on closer inspection to be the green hull and snowy sails of Tideway, and the two boats reached the river mouth almost simultaneously.
Both started to beat upriver against the wind, their zig-zag courses crossing and recrossing.
“Enjoy your day on Steep Hill?” called Hamish, without too much malice, as Ariadne passed within ten feet of Tideway’s bows.
“Wasn’t it awful?” Rosemary yelled back. “All my fault.”
“Get that jib sheet in tighter,” said Alastair. “We can make a better course than this.”
“I think we’re doing beautifully as we are,” said Emmy.
“No, we’re not. Hamish is catching us,” said Alastair shortly. And Henry and Emmy learnt another truth about the people who sail—that it only takes two boats of comparable size and speed, on the same stretch of water and heading in the same direction, to start a race. They could see that Hamish, too, was tending his sheets with extra care, and glancing anxiously up at the burgee to look for the minutest variation in wind direction.
Henry also noticed, with some amusement, that although the two boats were clearly and seriously competing with each other, this fact was never acknowledged in the conversational exchanges that took place whenever they drew close enough together.
“So David didn’t come out today—didn’t think he would,” Alastair called to Hamish, as he edged Ariadne up in an effort to take Tideway’s wind.
“No—trust old David. When I left, he looked as though he was counting his screws again. Probably spent all day sorting them out into little boxes.” Hamish moved his tiller, bearing away for a moment to get out of Ariadne’s lee, and then put his nose up and skimmed off across the river.
At the next encounter—by which time Tideway had gained a yard or so, to Alastair’s chagrin—Hamish said, “See you all in the Bush later on, I dare say.” To which Alastair replied, “Yes, but come on board for a snort first.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Hamish put Tideway about, and sped off towards the far bank of the river.
The two boats battled their way up the broad, quiet stream in a light, summer-evening breeze that threatened every moment to grow lighter still and die on their hands, so that the last yards to the moorings were a matter of drifting rather than of sailing.
To a spectator on the quayside, Henry reflected, the scene must present an appearance of utter tranquillity—the idyllic evening of pink and gold in the sky and on the water, the two swanlike sailing boats drifting dreamily back to harbour. In fact, the atmosphere on board Ariadne was anything but tranquil. Alastair and Hamish, both accomplished helmsmen, were trying every trick they knew with sails, sheets and tiller—each working desperately to turn the drifting match to his own advantage. At last, slowly as a falling leaf, Ariadne nosed her way past the red buoy which marked the start of the line of moorings—some six feet ahead of Tideway. Alastair and Rosemary looked at each other and smiled happily, and Rosemary said, “Well done, darling.” On Tideway, Hamish removed his yachting cap with a flourish and bowed in acknowledgment of defeat.
“Goodness, that was exciting,” said Emmy. “I’m so glad we won. Do you race a lot?”
Alastair looked at her in surprise. “Race?” he said. “Good heavens, no. Never. We don’t enjoy it.”
CHAPTER FOUR
TEN MINUTES AFTER Ariadne had tied up at her mooring, when the crew were sitting down gratefully to mugs of tea and hunks of bread and honey, there was the unmistakable bumping of a dinghy alongside, and David’s voice called, “Anybody at home?”
“Come aboard,” said Alastair, peering out through the hatchway.
A moment later, David Crowther came into the cabin. “I just wondered,” he said diffidently, “if you could lend me some whipping. I seem to have run out.”
Rosemary looked at Alastair and grinned. “What did I say?” she remarked. “Sorry, David, dear—you’re out of luck. We haven’t any. But have a cuppa while you’re here.”
“Thanks.”
David lowered his six feet of lanky body onto a bunk and said, “Had a good day?”
“No, dreadful,” said Rosemary quickly. “I put Ariadne on the mud. Please don’t let’s talk about it. What have you been up to?”
“Oh, nothing much. This and that. Sorting things out below and reeving some new rigging. Didn’t think there was enough of a breeze for a decent sail.” David took a gulp of tea and glanced at his watch. “Colin and Anne should be here soon. Perhaps they’ll have some whipping.”
“Have you tried Hamish?” Alastair asked. “He’s in—we came up the river together.”
“No,” said David, shortly. He contemplated the interior of his tea mug in silence.
Henry watched him with interest. Last night, in the smoky, badly lit bar of The Berry Bush, he had put David Crowther down as an engaging, carefree young man—the sort of character whom one associates with old motor cars and decrepit boats and cheerful, badly channelled enthusiasms. Now he saw that the thin, attractive face was finely lined, that the sun-bleached hair had traces of grey in it—and he decided that David was nearer forty than thirty. He also remarked that the long, sensitive hands were restless and nervy, and trembled slightly as David lit a cigarette. The tiny cabin seemed alive with vibrant and unstable energy.
David looked up, met Emmy’s clear, direct gaze, and looked away again quickly, as he said, “Not a very pleasant introduction to sailing for you people, a day on the mud.”
“I enjoyed it,” Emmy said stoutly.
“The perfect crew,” remarked Alastair. “Six hours on Steep Hill, and not a word of complaint from either of them. In fact—”
“Steep Hill,” said David. “Yes. Well, I think I’ll be off now. I thought I heard... Thanks for the tea, Rosemary. See you later.” And, abruptly, he was gone.
“Dear David,” said Rosemary. “I don’t know why he keeps a boat. There’s always either too much wind or too little. It’s the hardest thing in the world to induce him to leave his moorings.”
“He’s perfectly happy,” said Alastair. “He loves just sitting there by himself sorting out his little boxes. You should see Pocahontas,” he added to Henry. “David’s a bit of an old woman in some ways. One box for inch screws. Another for shackles. Another for bits of string. All neatly labelled. The funny thing is that he never seems to have what he needs when it comes to doing a job.”
“Don’t be catty, Alastair,” said Rosemary.
“What does David do for a living?” Henry asked.
“He’s an artist, believe it or not,” Alastair replied. “Has a studio in Islington. Commercial stuff, mainly, but he does serious painting on the side. I believe he even sells some of his things.”
“He seems rather a restless sort of character,” said Emmy. “Not tranquil, like you two.”
“David was a fighter pilot in the war,” said Rosemary. “He got badly shot up. It’s left him a bit...well, a bit un-tranquil, as you said.”
“Earlier on,” said Henry, “Alastair referred to him as ‘good old reliable David.’ I was expecting something rather different from that description.”
“Were you?” Rosemary opened her blue eyes wide. “I wonder why. David’s a tower of strength.”
“But not tranquil.”
“Goodness, no. But the two things don’t necessarily go together, do they? David’s kind and straightforward and tremendously loyal. The sort of person you could turn to at any time for help or moral support or just a shoulder to cry on. He’d do anything for a friend—and no questions asked.”
“That’s a rema
rkable tribute,” said Henry. “You must be very fond of him.”
To his surprise, Rosemary blushed very slightly. “I am,” she said.
The tea mugs had only just been washed up when Hamish arrived. Alastair produced a bottle of whisky from under one of the bunks.
“I like the way Ariadne behaves with that new jib,” Hamish remarked, as he tried vainly to find room for his long legs. The cabin seemed very full with Hamish in it.
“Yes, we’re delighted with it,” said Alastair.
“When I get my new boat,” said Hamish, “I want a proper complement of sails. Storm jib, beating jib, a Genoa for reaching and a spinnaker. I’m fed up with this one-main-two-jib setup on Tideway.” There was a strong undercurrent of excitement in his voice.
“Why ever do you want a new boat?” Emmy asked. “Tideway looks lovely to me.”
“Not big enough,” said Hamish. “I want to do some real cruising—Holland, France, Spain, the Med. Perhaps even the Canaries and the West Indies. I’ve been coast-hopping long enough.”
Rosemary smiled indulgently. “Don’t listen to him,” she said. “Hamish has been talking about this mythical new boat ever since we’ve known him. Personally, I’m prepared to take a small bet that he’ll still be sailing Tideway in and out of the Berry in ten years’ time.”
“Then you’ll lose your money,” said Hamish. The excitement had reached boiling point. “Look at these.”
He pulled a large envelope out of his pocket, and spread its contents out on the table.
“What on earth have you got there?” demanded Alastair.
“Plans,” said Hamish.
Alastair and Rosemary craned to look, immensely interested. Over their shoulders, Henry glimpsed the graceful skeleton of a yacht design. Alastair drew his breath in sharply.
“By Giles,” he said. “I say, you are going it. What is she? Doesn’t look like one of his regular designs.”
“She’s not,” said Hamish. “He’s done her specially for me. A ten-ton ketch for extensive off-shore cruising.”
There was a small, awkward silence, and then Rosemary said bluntly, “Hamish, you must be mad. Have you any idea how much this is going to cost?”
Hamish lit his pipe with a certain bravado. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose I am mad. But this is something I’ve wanted all my life. The only thing I’ve ever really wanted. If I choose to behave like a lunatic with my own money, surely that’s my business.”
“Yes, but—” Rosemary began, and then stopped, embarrassed. As if reading her thoughts, Hamish said, “Pete would have approved. He knew how much I’d set my heart on it. In fact, he as good as promised me the money before—”
“Of course Pete would have loved her.” Alastair’s voice was just a fraction too loud and too cheerful. “She’s a beauty, Hamish. Let’s see. You don’t think the turn of the bilges is a bit too steep? I know she’ll draw six-foot-six, but...”
In a moment, Hamish and Alastair were deeply involved in a technical discussion of the proposed boat. A long time later, when Alastair had practically redesigned the hull and sail-plan, using the stub of a pencil and the back of an old envelope, Rosemary interrupted them to say, “Look here, you two. It’s after seven. Colin and Anne will have been in the Bush for hours. Put it away, like good boys, and let’s go ashore.”
Reluctantly, the precious drawings were returned to their envelope, and the two dinghies skidded their way over the quiet water to the shore.
The tide was at its highest. Indeed, the water was lapping right up against the wall of The Berry Bush, and Alastair remarked, unoriginally, that this was one of the few places where one really could tie up snug to a pub.
The bar was almost empty. The locals were at home, having supper. Most of the yachtsmen who based their boats on Berrybridge had taken advantage of the good weather to make a cruise to some other harbour.
Colin and Anne were at the bar, talking to David. In the mêlée of greetings and introductions, Henry took a good look at Anne Petrie—and understood at once why Colin Street wanted to marry her, and why Pete Rawnsley had attempted to add her to his list of conquests. She was a tiny slip of a girl: indeed, with her cropped dark hair and faded blue jeans, she might almost have been taken for a schoolboy, were it not for a certain very definite femininity of contour that even a sweater several sizes too large could not hide. She was as brown as honey, and her green eyes—which slanted upwards as delicately as a cat’s—sparkled with high spirits and a zest for life which was immensely attractive. She had, Henry decided, the miniature perfection of a Japanese girl, without the latter’s doll-like fragility. In fact, even as he admired, the thought crossed his mind, This girl’s like a nut—smooth and brown and sweet and hard.
“And so I said to Colin”—Anne was chattering away as merrily as a chipmunk, in a delicious, slightly husky voice—“‘It’s monstrous,’ I said, ‘and if you won’t tell Herbert what you think of him, I jolly well will.’ You know how hopeless Colin is. So anyway, the moment we arrived this evening, I collared Herbert and I told him just what I thought of him. I mean, I ask you—water over the floor boards. I swear he hasn’t been near her all the week. ‘If you’re not very careful, Herbert,’ I said, ‘we’ll hand the boat over to Bill Hawkes, and see how you like that.’”
“What did Herbert say?” Rosemary asked.
“He said ‘Hay?’” Anne cupped a hand to her ear, in a wickedly accurate imitation of the Harbour Master of Berrybridge Haven. “So I said, ‘It’s no good pretending you can’t hear, Herbert, you old rogue. You’re no more deaf than I am—especially when somebody’s offering you a drink.’ And do you know what he did then?” Anne paused, to give the denouement its full effect. “He slapped my bottom!”
“He didn’t!” Alastair gave a great roar of laughter, in which everybody joined, with the exception of Colin.
“Herbert adores Anne,” Rosemary said to Emmy. “She’s the only person who stands up to him and says exactly what she thinks. I wouldn’t dare.”
“So if the boat’s not pumped dry next weekend—just watch out. There’ll be trouble,” said Anne darkly. But her eyes were laughing over the rim of the pint mug.
In contrast to Anne’s vivacity, Colin was silent and grave. He looked the picture of a young intellectual, with his pale face and untidy brown hair. His features were pleasant enough, and there was a lively intelligence in his dark eyes. Only in his hands and his jawline—both of which were strong and square—was there a hint of stubbornness and power. He seemed torn between pride in Anne’s animation and a certain disapproval of those very qualities which he obviously found so attractive.
“Get on with your drink,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re talking too much.”
“I always do. I can’t help it.” Anne turned her kitten eyes to Henry. “I hear you had a dreadful day on the mud. Steep Hill, of all places. I’m sure it’s haunted.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Anne!” Colin’s voice was brusque and angry.
“No, but really,” Anne went on, quite unperturbed, “when we were coming into the river in the dark last Sunday night, we passed the very spot where—where it happened—and I swear I heard something. I swear it.”
“What did you hear?” Henry asked, intrigued.
“I don’t know.” Anne wrinkled her nose. “Just a sort of something. And I said—”
“Shut up, Anne,” said Hamish suddenly. To Henry’s surprise, Anne shut up. She buried her nose in her tankard and looked abashed. David glared at Hamish, but the latter had already started talking to Alastair about the new boat, and apparently did not notice.
A few minutes later, Anne said gravely to Henry, “You never knew Pete, did you?”
“No,” said Henry.
“I loved him,” said Anne. Colin’s face darkened with sudden anger, and he slammed his glass just too forcibly onto the table. Anne added quickly, “Now don’t start bristling like an old bear, darling. You know what I mean. I just loved him in a friend
ly way, as darling David loves me.”
David said nothing, but turned away to the bar and ordered another drink. When David picked up his beer tankard, Henry saw that his hands were trembling again.
The hands of the big white-faced clock on the wall crept towards eight o’clock, and The Berry Bush began to fill up. Herbert arrived in garrulous mood.
“Fine tickin’ off I had from your young lady,” he remarked to Colin, winking incessantly. “Proper little spitfire. I wouldn’t be in your shoes, I can tell you.”
“I must say, we were both very upset to find Mary Jane in such a state, Herbert,” said Colin pompously. “I know you have a lot to do, but—”
“Leaks like a bloody sieve,” said Herbert, promptly and defiantly. “Pumped ’er every day. I can’t help it if she’s rotten. You want your garboards recaulking, that’s what you want.” He managed to make it sound like an unmentionable insult.
Colin flushed angrily. “I don’t need any advice from you on how to look after my boat,” he said.
“Some people...” remarked Herbert ominously, to the bar in general. He turned his back rudely on Colin, and went over to inflict himself on Hamish and Alastair. Anne, Colin and David drifted over to the bar and began a lively conversation with a venerable, grey-bearded fisherman whom Henry had heard alluded to as Old Ephraim.
“Poor Colin,” said Rosemary. “He’s so nice really, but he does put people’s backs up. Anne can tear a strip six feet wide off Herbert, and he just adores her all the more. But Colin only has to remonstrate mildly, and—”
“I know,” said Henry. “Anne has the very rare gift of being able to speak her mind without offending anybody.”
“I don’t know either of them, of course,” said Emmy, “but—well, they seem rather an oddly assorted couple to me. Do you think they’ll be happy?”
Henry glanced crossly at Emmy. It always annoyed him deeply when his wife made what he considered to be a typically female, platitudinous and prying remark such as this. In his masculine estimation, she was letting herself down by conforming to the conventions of her own sex. Rosemary, however, pondered the question gravely.
The Sunken Sailor Page 5