Emma Tupper's Diary

by Peter Dickinson

  While Finn still had the lights on and was fiddling with her bottles of developer, Emma carried on with her self-appointed job of looking for the two missing volumes of her great-grandfather’s diaries.

  The evening after the near-drowning the feud between Andy and Roddy had almost broken out again. Andy had a pencil and paper on his knee and was muttering away at sums about how much lead piping he would have to tear out of Big House and hammer into shape to provide a new safety-weight for Anadyomene.

  Suddenly Roddy said “Father knew. So we ought to have known.”

  Andy said nothing, and Roddy was just beginning to look really angry when Finn said “You’ll have to explain. It sounds like a riddle.”

  “Father took the weight off to run her in Coronation Year,” said Roddy. “Therefore he knew there was a weight to take off. Therefore we should have known.”

  “That’s not logic,” said Andy. “You’ve got an undistributed middle there, or something.”

  “An undistributed riddle,” said Finn.

  “It’ll be in Grandfather’s diaries, of course,” said Roddy. “The whole design, everything. If he wrote down all the squawks he made at that parrot, he won’t have left out something like Anna. You ought to have looked.”

  “I did look,” said Andy coldly. “That volume’s missing. Father must have fished it out for his Coronation stunt and put it back in the wrong place. Or lent it to somebody and forgot to ask for it back.”

  “Of course it’s there!” shouted Roddy. “They all are!”

  “I always thought they were,” said Finn. “There isn’t a gap.”

  “Go and look,” said Andy, and threw his leg over the side of his armchair to show he had no intention of going with them. “You can waste your time if you like. I’m going to try and find out what old Kranz is up to.”

  He lit one of his sweet-smelling cheroots, picked up The Scotsman, which never arrived until six o’clock, and screened himself with it from his family’s idiocies. The others went to the laboratory and found that he was right. But while they had been desultorily searching the other bookshelves, Emma had noticed Miss Newcombe’s reflection in one of the glass cupboard doors. She was standing by one of the work-benches, and had lifted a flat brown box off the shelf behind it; she opened the lid and stared inside; her lithe hand leaped forward, picked something out and leaped back again; then, slowly and casually she put the box back on the shelf and bent to adjust her shoe; when she straightened up she held her hands in such a way that you could see there was nothing in them. Emma had told Finn about it when Roddy and Miss Newcombe left the room. Finn had laughed, fetched the box down and opened it. On purple velvet, each in its own circular nest, lay row after row of lenses, gleaming like jewels. One was missing.

  “Poop likes to keep in practise too,” Finn had said. “It’s all right; Jeannie will find it when she cleans Poop’s room and give it to Mary and Mary will give it to me. But it’s useful to know where it belongs. I wonder what on earth happened to those diaries—I’m sure Father would have put them back—he’s very pernickety. And Poop wouldn’t have nicked books.”

  So now Emma was working her way along the shelves which covered the whole of the far end of the room. They had been built to house deep tomes, and where they held smaller books there was sometimes another row of books behind, and usually at least a gap down which a volume might have fallen; so Emma was working systematically from the top left corner, cleaning the tops of all the books with the little hand vacuum as she went, so as not to stir up dust and ruin Finn’s processes. She looked at every book, though three-quarters of them were in foreign languages, and yesterday she had found trove—a little French pamphlet in which M. Goubet had described the design and operation of his submarine. Andy had been pleased, though it turned out that Grandfather had changed a great many devices; Goubet I, for instance, had had no hydroplanes or fins; and it had had electric pumps for the ballast-tanks, while Anadyomene had hand pumps; and storage bottles for air; and an extraordinarily complicated system for balancing fore and aft by pumping water to and fro, which Anadyomene didn’t need because her hydroplanes made her more manoeuvrable. She had a bigger engine than Goubet I, too, though Andy said it would use up her batteries much faster—but then there was only the loch to explore, whereas Goubet I had been built to operate in the open sea. So the pamphlet was not as much use as it might have been, and Emma went on searching for the diaries.

  She had reached the third of the second column of shelves when Finn said “Lights out. This’ll take about three minutes.” So there was nothing to do except sit in the dark on the little mahogany stepladder and listen to the rustle of Finn threading the spools of film into the developing tanks.

  “Is the feud over?” said Emma.

  “It looks like it, but we grow very long memories up here.”

  “Yes. Andy told me all about Glencoe in the car, as if it still mattered.”

  “Oh, that matters. I know people still who’ll have no truck with a Campbell. And you’ve got to remember we’re great blamers. I suppose everybody, all over the world, blames their troubles on the government, but up here we blame things on governments which died long ago and had statues put up to them.”

  “But Roddy and Andy?”

  “I don’t know. It depends. While there’s amusing work to be done it should be OK, and then if Gabriella comes, and if she’s nice to him . . . but until then he’s bound to feel edgy, and Roddy’s bound to take advantage. Lights on.”

  Emma blinked and climbed back to the shelves while Finn poured the developer into the first tank and set the timer; then she came over and watched Emma working.

  “What’s Gabriella like?” asked Emma.

  “Fat. Dark, curly hair. A bit gipsyish. Laughs a lot. Not pretty, but interesting. You mustn’t get the idea that Andy’s actually besotted with her. He’d just got bored of a stunning actress with no manners and no sense of humour when he first met Gabriella, and she was a change. A very nice change for us, I may say. She came and stayed for a bit, and then she went back to her job—that was last holidays. Andy expected her to run to and fro when he wanted her—he’s used to the little dollies at Edinburgh being bowled over by his looks and money and style—I mean, he’s fun to be with when he’s in the mood, isn’t he? But he couldn’t do that with Gabriella, who’s very much her own person—rather like you are, in that way—and I think he got the idea that she thought he wasn’t, well, grown-up enough for her, with her job on TV and her slick friends. I mean Andy’s brainy, but in some lights he’s still a bit of a country cousin. Anyway he wants to see her again partly because he likes her, but partly he wants to pull a very fast one on her TV friends and the whole set-up, in front of her, to show them where they get off.”

  “I hope none of you ever get your knife into the Tuppers.”

  “Oh, you’re blood kin. Besides, you can look after yourself.”

  Ping went the timer, and Finn moved back to the sink and poured liquids about while Emma thought how strangely different you seem to be from outside compared with what you know you are inside. It was twenty minutes before the first film came dripping out of the hypo and Finn was able to hold it up to the light and see what she’d got. Emma came and peered at the negatives, loch and hills all white and the launch a black blob in the middle.

  “This bit’ll blow up quite nicely,” said Finn. “Look, you can see a lot of the tube there, with Roddy holding it steady for Andy, and you can see this other bit in the water looking quite monsterish. I’ll have to use the telephoto for the cine camera, or nothing will show. It’s always astonishing how close you have to get to things.”

  “Can you develop the cine film yourself?”

  “I’ve got the kit. Mother gave it me last Christmas, but it’s trickier than this and sometimes I make a bosh. If we can do several runs with the boat I’ll see what I can get out of a couple of them; then, if they’re no good, we’ll have to send the others away. I don’t want to do th
at, because it will leave longer for the boys to go sour again.”

  Emma picked Finn’s rectangular magnifying glass off the bench and peered through it at the strip of film.

  “You wouldn’t think they’d been having a feud,” she said.

  “No. But even if I do get a decent strip of action developed and we send it off to Gabriella’s boss, it’ll be several days before we hear anything. Andy’s going to be as edgy as hell.”

  “We’d better reserve our peace-keeping energies till then.”

  “You can. I’m just a neutral. Women are the Third World in this house, but if you want to be a one-girl UN observer corps, good luck to you.”

  “I’ll wait and see.”

  Emma didn’t have to wait long. Only till that evening. It was General Kranz’s fault again.

  They came in late to supper, triumphant with having fitted the painted head to the conning-tower and the tail to the stern of Anadyomene. The post never came till the evening. Miss Newcombe was already smiling over a letter on air-mail paper.

  “Hello,” said Finn. “Old Crow’s sent Roddy a letter.”

  Emma could see the liniment company’s hairy scroll on the envelope as Roddy tore it open and dragged out the contents, a letter and a newspaper clipping. He frowned at the letter, tossed it on the table and began to read the clipping. Emma could see what Mr Crowe had written:

  “Dear Master Roderick,

  I believe you do not take the Daily Telegraph, so you may have missed the news.

  Revolutions arranged to suit all tastes, by

  Your obedient servant,

  Jno Crowe.”

  “Hi!” shouted Roddy. “Somebody’s taken a pot-shot at old Kranz!”

  “Let’s have a look,” said Andy.

  Roddy put the cutting down and laid his hand on it.

  “Old Crow sent it to me,” he said, “because it was my idea. You directors hadn’t anything to suggest. Besides, you directors always get all the news, and only dish it out to the shareholders as you think fit. It’s my turn now.”

  “All right, all right,” said Andy.

  “Read it aloud,” said Finn, mistaking the mood of her brothers.

  Roddy only looked at her and continued to read to himself with deliberate slowness, his lips moving with the words. When Andy got up and stood behind him to read over his shoulder he turned away and read slower still. At last he folded the cutting up and put it in the pocket of his jeans.

  “Oh, come on!” said Andy, clinging to the edge of his temper like a man who has fallen over a cliff but still retains his grasp on one last tussock.

  “I need time to think it over,” said Roddy pompously.

  “I’ll give you five seconds,” said Andy, and began to count. Roddy stayed where he was, looking at his brother out of the corner of his eye. When Andy said “Five!” and came round the table he lolled even more exaggeratedly, but judged the exact moment to lash out with his foot and catch Andy on the kneecap. Andy bellowed and Roddy spun himself sideways under the table, wriggled up beside Miss Newcombe and stood there grinning, again protected by the table. Andy, his face quite white except for small red patches below his cheekbones, hoicked the side-table out from the wall to block the space between the door and the table, wedged two spare chairs underneath it and suddenly dashed round the table. He was bigger than Roddy but just as agile, and he caught him trying to climb the barrier and scattering Mary’s carefully ranked forks and spoons across the floor. Roddy wriggled round as soon as he felt the hand in his belt and lashed out, but Andy caught the hurtling fist with his spare hand, let go of the belt, spun Roddy round as he came off the side-table and held both wrists in his right hand while he fished the paper out of Roddy’s pocket. He put it carefully on the side-table and carried his squirming and shouting brother to the French windows, which he opened by shoving the handle down with his knee. Not even grunting with any effort he tossed Roddy out on to the verandah, where the late northern dusk had hardly begun to gather over the loch.

  “I wish I understood about politics,” said Miss Newcombe. “I mean why do they shoot people in some countries and not in others? It doesn’t seem fair.”

  Andy shoved the sideboard back into position, and slapped the chairs back against the wall. While he was scooping the silver off the floor Mary came in, filled a plate with food and took it out. Nobody said anything. When Andy settled back into his chair at the head of the table Emma could see that he was ashamed of having lost his temper and, far stronger than his shame, furious with Roddy for making him do so. To cap it all, the story of the shooting of General Kranz was garbled and obscure; the only certain result was that the General was unhurt and still in power.

  Andy was furious again next morning, and again with Roddy, who over his kippers announced in a careless voice that he was not going to help any more, in any way, with the monster project. The male McAndrews yelled and hissed at each other while the females ate in silence.

  “Finn can do it,” said Roddy.

  “Oh, yes, and take telephoto cine-films from the shore at the same time. And if the Telly-folk come, Gabby’s sure to miss her.”

  “Ewan.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, he’s already doing it. We need two!”

  “Poop.”

  “Yes, darling,” said Miss Newcombe.

  “No, darling,” said Andy.

  It was the first time that Emma had heard anyone in that house speak even faintly unkindly to Miss Newcombe. Her longing to shut the stupid feud out of her mind made her slow to notice the silence and see that Finn and Andy were looking at her, while Roddy was looking carefully away. She caught Finn’s eye and saw the faintest nodding of the long pale face.

  “I’ll be crew, if you like,” she said. The very idea was a nightmare. Even on land being inside the hull of Anadyoene felt like being in a dungeon. And to be trapped in that bronze bubble below the surface of the loch, with the unknown deeps beneath . . .

  “What do you weigh?” said Andy brusquely.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you really?” said Miss Newcombe, wide eyed. “But you can use my scales—they’re very accurate.”

  “Never mind,” said Andy. “She’ll be about right. She’s lighter than Roddy but Ewan’s heavier than I am. We can get along without you, Roddy, if that’s how you want it.”

  “That’s how,” said Roddy.

  No thanks from anybody. They probably didn’t realise, couldn’t realise . . .

  In fact the first trip was not as bad as Emma had feared. Andy was surprisingly considerate, now that he’d got his own way. The first thing Emma noticed after climbing out of the daylight was that Napoleon’s nose had begun to tarnish.

  “It didn’t smell like this before,” she said.

  “Battery acid,” said Andy. “They don’t smell when you’re using them, but they give off gas when they’re re-charging. I rigged that fan to clear it, but there’s still a bit hanging about. Now, Cousin Emma, I’m going to have to tell you how this ship works. I may tell you things you already know, but don’t stop me, or I might leave something important out which you don’t know. But for heaven’s sake stop me if there’s anything you don’t understand. Right?”

  Emma nodded.

  “Good girl. Well, a submarine is a tin can which weighs almost as much as the same volume of water, so it just floats. Underneath it it has ballast tanks, which you can let more water into. In Anna there are four tanks, and you flood them by turning these two stop-cocks here, and those two at the back. When you do that, you let the air in the tank come up into the hull; it’s pushed there by the pressure of the water outside, but it can’t come right up and flood the hull because air-pressure in the hull rises as the tanks fill until it’s equal to the water-pressure outside. Now, you see, the hull will weigh almost exactly the same as the water. If you let a cupful more into the tanks you will sink; a cupful less and you will bob up. It’s almost impossible to get it so that you don’t go up or dow
n. In Anna we try to get it so that we’re just going up.”

  “How can you tell what you’re doing once the window is under water?”

  “Depth gauge here. It works by water-pressure and seems quite accurate. And you tell whether you’re lying level with this gauge here, which works just like a spirit level.”

  “Why’s the pressure gauge by the front seat and the level by the back seat?”

  “That’s where you come in, Cousin Emma. We’ve got Anna barely floating, so we start the motor. Go and sit in the back seat.”

  Emma settled on to the old, crackly black leather.

  “Comfortable?” said Andy.

  “I’m not tall enough to see out.”

  “You wouldn’t be able to anyway, with the beast’s head in position. Right, you’ve got two controls there . . .”

  “These two gear-lever sort of things?”

  “Yes, except that you’ll find they don’t waggle from side to side, they just move to and fro. Hang on while I disconnect the motor. OK; now, that one on your left is the motor control. It makes a bit of a spark when it engages, but it’s quite easy to move. You pull it slightly sideways out of those notches and then it slides back and forwards and fits into the other notches, depending how fast you want the motor to run. Push it towards the tail, and we go backwards, pull it towards the bows and we go forwards. Try it.”

  Emma moved the ebony-handled truncheon to and fro in its groove. As Andy said, it slipped easily into the notches.

  “Right,” said Andy. “Now, there is one absolute rule, Medes-and-Persians stuff. If the motor is going one way and you want it to go the other, you absolutely must wait until it’s stopped turning. If you don’t, you’ll burn the whole thing out. You’re going forward, and some ass of a captain tells you to go into reverse. You shove the lever to neutral, and wait. Wait. Never mind if he calls you beastly names, you wait until the motor’s stopped turning, and then you obey. Got it?”