Desperately Michelle tried to took round into the darkness for somewhere else to hide. There were some lights from boats on the river, but her head was swimming so much that they somehow got mixed up with the stars. The tide must be quite high, she could hear the water lapping gently against the river bank and she had the wild idea of trying to find a boat and rowing to the other side. Crawling nearer to the water's edge under cover of the trailing bushes, she groped hopefully for a rope, or some other sign of a boat; if there was one on the bank she might be able to hide underneath it. Her mind an incoherent jumble of hopes and fears, she stumbled along, and gave an involuntary cry of pain as a thorn tore at her arm.
'Michelle? Michelle, is that you?'
Peter's voice, much closer than she had expected, made her jump with alarm and she turned round to run in the opposite direction, farther down the river bank. Clumsily she pushed the bushes aside, wincing with pain as the thorns caught at her, making her drop her shoe as she put up her hands to protect her face. Her breath came in little sobbing pants as she stumbled on, then turned to a gasp of fear as she heard Peter pushing through the bushes behind her. She looked quickly round to see if she could see him, but the quick movement sent her brain into dizzying spirals as she swayed drunkenly and the stars went whizzing in circles round her head. She teetered, half falling, and reeled backwards, putting out her arms to try to steady herself, but suddenly there was nothing under her feet any more and she fell ungracefully backwards into the river.
Her cry of surprise rather than fear, and the splash she made, brought an answering shout from Peter. 'Michelle? Where are you?'
Spluttering and gasping, she came to the surface and made a grab for a root dial was sticking out of the muddy bank.
'P-Peter! Help!' The water was cold, so cold. And the current was strong, she could feel it tugging at her "legs, already weighted down by the sopping material of her dress and slip.
'Michelle?' The white blob of Peter's face appeared above her. 'You stupid idiot! Why did you, run away from me? Here, take my hand and I'll pull you out.'
He reached down towards her, but the bank was steep here and, although Michelle stretched her arm up as far as she could, there was still at least a foot gap between them.
'Come on.' Impatiently Peter eased himself a Hide further forward. 'Try and pull yourself up by drat root you're holding on to.'
'I am trying. But it's slippery, and my skirt's heavy. Oh, God, it's so cold!' Using both hands, she pulled on the root and tried to bring her feet on to the bank to lever herself upwards, but then the fibrous root bulged out towards her, there was a tearing sound and it broke away from the bank in a shower of mud and stones as she was carried, still clinging to it, downstream with the tide.
Her first reaction was to scream, but as she did so Michelle fell back into the river and her open mouth filled with rank, oily water. Fighting her way to the surface, she came up coughing and spitting out the foul-tasting liquid. Vaguely behind her she could hear Peter shouting her name, but it was too dark to see where she was and she could hardly make out the darker mass of the bank. She tried to kick out towards it, but the current was much too strong and, she was carried fast along with it, clinging to the root as if her life depended upon it, but her head going under more and more often as her struggles to stay afloat gradually weakened.
Half drowned as she was, it wasn't until it rubbed against her arm that Michelle realised the root had got entangled with a rope. Quickly she let go the root and caught hold of the wet nylon rope, using all her remaining strength to pull herself up out of the water a little and gasp some air into her lungs, But the tide was still strong, still pulling at her legs and trying to draw her back into its power. Dimly she could see the outline of a boat above her with the soft green glow of a light farther down the deck. Weakly she called for help, but the occupants mustn't have heard her, because no one came. .Her arms began to burn in their sockets as the current tried to pluck her away and she shouted again, her voice hysterical with fear. Then, for a brief moment, the moon came out and she saw a swimming platform and short ladder at the back of the boat that reached down into the water. If she could only reach it! It was only a yard or so away, but to get there she would have to let go of the rope and swim at an angle against the current. And once she'd let go of the rope, if she missed-the back of the boat… Michelle shuddered and called for help again, her voice rising to a scream, but still no one came. Her hands slid a few inches down the wet rope and she realised sickeningly that if she didn't try now her strength would all be gone and she wouldn't stand any chance of making it. With a great sob, she forced herself to let go of the rope and kicked out towards the ladder.
Her left hand caught one of the rungs, slipped off and she was carried past, but then her right hand clutched at the corner of the boat and somehow she managed to pull herself back and get a firm grip on the metal side of the ladder. She had to rest then, panting for breath before she could manage to climb up the ladder and pull herself over the rail.
The green and red riding lights cast an eerie glow over the shadowed deck, but at least they gave her enough light to see the door leading down to the cabins. Shaking with cold, her teeth chattering, Michelle banged on the door and called out, but there was no reply and she realised at last that the boat must be empty. Without hope, she pushed at the cabin door and stood stock-still in amazement when it swung open. Quickly then she went inside, groped for a light switch and turned it on. She found ' herself in a large saloon but had to turn and go down some more steps to a lower deck before she found a galley and beyond it the sleeping cabins. Michelle didn't know much about boats, but she was pretty sure that there ought to be some sort of bathroom where she might find a towel to rub herself dry.
After the galley there were double cabins on either side, but then she found a bathroom and gratefully stripped off the soggy remnants of her dress, her torn tights and her bra and pants, letting them lie in a heap on the floor as she wrapped a big soft towel round herself and began to rub some life into her numb limbs. The towel caught on her necklace and it took several minutes to remove that and her bracelet and earrings, and of course her engagement ring. Michelle looked at it resentfully, wishing she'd thought to throw it back at Peter. The beast! She hoped he was still looking for her and going mad with worry.
Dropping the jewels on to a shelf above the hand, basin, she glanced up and caught sight of herself in the mirror. God, she looked terrible! Her long brown hair hung in a tangled mass about her shoulders, and her hazel eyes were red rimmed from the river. Her mascara had run and made black patches under her eyes and there was a scratch down the side of her cheek from a thorn or something. Michelle gazed at herself miserably, hating her face. She'd always hated it, a cross between her parents' features that had little of her mother's exceptional beauty and none of her father's strength of character, only his leanness and high cheekbones. Even now, when she felt half dead, when only all the alcohol she'd drunk prevented her from fainting from cold, she could still look at her reflection disparagingly. Echoes of her mother's, 'But you have quite a pleasant face, darting', and her father's, 'Never mind, little one, you can always play character parts', rang in her ears from long, long ago.
Suddenly the room began to sway and she had to cling to the sink; nausea filled her throat, but she managed to fight it down. Lord, she was so cold, and so tired! Through the muzziness in her head, she realised that she couldn't stay here, she would have to try and find someone to help her, get her some dry clothes. Still wrapped in the towel, she reeled unsteadily along, exploring the rest of the boat and finding that only one of the cabins seemed to be occupied, a single one in the forward end. This had the bunk made up with a soft comfortable-looking sleeping bag and there were some books on a shell, and a man's clothes in the wardrobe. Michelle looked at both tile clothes and the sleeping, bag longingly, wondering what to do. But her head felt so heavy that she could hardly keep her eyes open and took the choice away
from her. Fumblingly she found the zip of the sleeping bag and pulled it down, then dropped the towel and climbed in just as she was, snuggling down into its soft enfolding warmth. Within two minutes she had fallen into a deep, drunken sleep.
Her first sensation on waking was to an agonising pain in her head. She groaned and found that her throat and lips felt terribly dry, and there was a queer, unpleasant sensation in her stomach. She. moaned again and tried to sit up, blinking in that bright glare of the bedside light. Sitting up was a mistake; it sent sharp pains up into her head and made her stomach feel more queasy than ever. Closing her eyes against the glare, Michelle leant back and felt the coldness of wood touching her bare shoulders. Not up to opening her eyes and turning her head to look, she tried to work out why she wasn't wearing any pyjamas and why the headboard should feel cold and wooden when she knew quite well that the headboard of her bed in her mother's London fiat was .soft, padded velvet.
At length the knives being pushed into her brain eased a little and she managed to very tentatively open one eye. Realisation that she wasn't at home in her own bed but on a boat came at once, and she stared round the little cabin in bewilderment. The walls were panelled in varnished wood, there was a rich deep red carpet on the floor and curtains of a toning but lighter shade pulled across the window. Everything looked clean and new, and a faint smell of the fresh varnish still lingered in the air. Slowly, gingerly, Michelle sat up a little bit more and tried to work out where she was and how she'd got there, but her poor head was such a jumbled up mass of' pain and fleeting impressions that she soon gave it up.
The glare from the lamp was worse now that she was sitting up, so she groped for the switch and turned it off. The relief to her eyes was immediate, but after a moment or two, when her eyes had adjusted, she saw that the cabin was quite light anyway as daylight filtered through the curtains. Curiosity overcoming her hangover, she reached up and pulled the curtain back, blinking as sunlight
poured through the window. Outside there were a whole lot of other boats, some of them large cargo ships, most of which were moored to buoys, but there were several passing through an open stretch of grey sea in-between the massed ships, all guarded by high, massively thick stone harbour walls. Her eyes opened wide in astonishment as she tried to take it all in, and she rubbed them hard, hoping that she was dreaming or something, but when she opened them again all the boats were still there, and now a big ferryboat with the British Rail emblem on its funnel and DOVER-CALAIS painted on the side was surging into the harbour.
'My God! I'm in Dover!' Stupefied, she stared out of the window for several minutes, trying desperately to remember how she'd got here. She could remember going to the engagement party all right, and her mother not turning up, and, very, very vaguely, there was something about being in a car with Peter, but that was as far as it went; trying to search farther through the dentist's drill noises in her head only made it ache worse than ever.
Licking her dry lips, she leant back again and longed for a long, cool drink of water. Her mouth felt absolutely foul. She tried to just forget everything and snuggle down again in the sleeping bag, but physical discomfort at last made her swing her legs off the bunk and stand .up. Immediately everything -began to sway and she had to put a hand on the wall to steady herself; she hadn't realised that the boat was pitching that much. Her feet became entangled in the towel and she automatically picked it up and wrapped it round her. Tentatively she opened the door and poked her head out. The corridor was deserted, the boat completely quiet. The bathroom was easy to find for the simple reason that she'd left the door open last night. Her discarded clothes were still lying where she'd left them, still soaking wet. Michelle looked at them in shocked horror and slowly the memory of being in the river permeated through to her dulled brain. She shuddered, once again feeling the cold, then shook it off as she searched for a glass. There was only a plastic beaker which she found in a cabinet, but the water tasted absolutely delicious, lubricating her parched throat and taking some of the horrid taste away. Also in the cabinet she found a couple of unopened bars of soap. She looked longingly at them and at the shower. Surely whoever's boat it was wouldn't mind her having a shower. She reached for the soap and then jumped with fright, her hand frozen in; mid-air' as a voice shouted just outside the window.
For a moment she didn't know what to do, her heart thumping in panic-stricken dismay, then she nearly hit the roof again as another voice shouted almost above her head. She gave a gasping sob as she looked wildly round, but then she realised with a sick feeling of relief that the two voices were outside and had begun to talk to each other; they Hadn't been shouting at her at all.
Peering out of the small, round window, she saw that a motorboat with two uniformed men in it had come alongside the boat and had thrown a rope to some unseen person on «the deck; the owner of the, other voice, presumably. The uniforms puzzled her; she couldn't remember seeing any like that before. But then one of the men stepped up on to the deck of her boat and said, 'Bojour, m'sieur. Ca va?'and she leant back against the wall in consternation. Dear God, she wasn't in Dover at all—she was in Calais! The boat rocked a little as the second uniformed man climbed on board and then the voices faded as they moved towards the back of the boat. Michelle stood stock-still, hardly daring to breathe. She couldn't possibly be in France—could she? It must take hours and hours for a boat to get from the Thames to Calais. But this was a big boat, which probably had quite powerful engines. Belatedly she looked at her watch, but it had stopped at one-thirty, presumably the time she'd fallen in the water. Desperately she tried to force her mind to think, but all it came up with was that the two uniformed men were probably French Customs officers, that they would search the boat and find her. Hastily she lurched across to the door and pushed home the bolt, then leaned against it, fearfully waiting for the moment when someone would come along, find it locked and demand that she open it.
But, although she strained her ears there was no sound of searching, she couldn't hear anything at all. Cautiously she opened the door a fraction, listened again, then peeped out. The boat was as quiet as it had been before. She hesitated, wondering whether to run back to the cabin, wishing she knew more of what was going on. Then the sound of someone laughing came faintly to her ears and she realised that the men were in the galley at the end of the corridor. If only she could hear what they were saying she might be able to find out something. Wrapping the towel tighter round her, Michelle crept out and tiptoed silently down the carpeted corridor. The door to the galley-was a wooden one, but it was just a fraction ajar. Putting first her eyes and then her ear to it, she found that she couldn't see a thing and could only hear the murmur of voices, not distinguish the words. Biting her lip, she put out a tentative finger and by minute fractions of an inch gradually pushed the door open a little wider,
The voices became clear first and fortunately they were now speaking English. One of the Frenchmen seemed to be asking some technical questions about the boat and a masculine English voice, deep and unhurried, was answering. By squinting at the crack Michelle was able't» see the Frenchman, he was sitting at a table and filling in a form, with a glass of what looked like wine at his elbow, but she couldn't see the other Customs man or the owner of' the English voice.
'You will be staying long in France, m'sieur? the Frenchman asked.
'No. Just long enough for me to go ashore and pick up some goods waiting for me in the dock. Then I'll be leaving immediately and heading west again.'
'The nature of these goods?'
'Some French wines and cheeses. And also one or two fittings for the boat and some spares. It's all been cleared through Customs and Excise already and is just waiting for me to pick up,'
'You will not be taking anything ashore, m'sieur …' the man looked at a passport lying on the table, 'M'sieur Farringdon?'
'No, nothing.'
'Eh bien.' The man pressed a heavy metal stamp on to an ink pad and stamped the passport, then h
eld it out. "There is no one else with you, m'sieur?'
Michelle's view was suddenly obscured by a broad back in a dark shirt as the boat owner came to take the proffered document. 'No, I'm sailing alone.'
The back moved away and she saw the Frenchman stand up. Quickly she drew away and ran back to the bathroom, trying to remember what she'd heard through her splitting headache. The most important thing, of course, was that the owner of the boat was going straight back to England. And it was also obvious that he had no idea she was aboard. It came to her that if she told him she was here now, after he had told the Frenchman that there was no one else on board, he might not be any too pleased. In fact it might be better all round if he didn't know anything about her being there at all. Michelle stood in the bathroom and tried to think how long it would take to get back to England. From the position of the sun she judged it to be about midday, so there was every hope that they would get back before dark and she could hide in the cabin without being found. The boat moved a little again and she peeped out, to see the two Frenchmen boarding their motorboat. It drew away and then a pair of legs in denim jeans walked along the deck past her window, going towards the back of the boat.
Hastily she dropped down out of sight, although it would have been impossible for anyone to have seen her at that angle. The back of the boat swayed for a moment and then the sound of an outboard motor starting up came from close by and gradually faded away. Michelle let out her breath on a long sigh, realising that the owner must have gone to collect his cargo, which gave her a breathing space in which to decide what to do. Still sitting on the floor, she leant her pounding head against the wall and tried to figure out what to do for the best. The more she thought about staying hidden until they got back to England, the better she liked it; ,the Englishman's voice had sounded too firm and assured for her liking. She could imagine the ticking off he might give her. No, better to stay hidden until they got back to London and he left the boat. How she was to leave it herself she didn't bother to try to work
Sally Wentworth - The Sea Master Page 2