Stormfront

by R. S. Sutton

  After ten minutes of mother-son banter, a dilapidated green Land Rover drew up at the front door. The grinding of rusty door hinges announced the arrival of a wizened older version of Ben. Uncle Dan was soon putting Valerie’s grip and Ben’s backpack in behind the seats, along with a flare pack.

  ‘Don’t know what condition the ones on the yacht are in. Those are new.’

  ‘Blimey, Dan, it’s the Medway.’ Ben managed a look of respect mixed in with the scowl. ‘We’re not off to the roaring bloody forties.’

  Taking a flare from the pack, Dan waved it under his nephew’s nose. ‘You never know.’

  ‘Okay, Dan.’ Ben took the flare and threw it back in with the others. ‘Okay.’

  Valerie sat squashed between the two men on the front seats as Dan drove towards the harbour.

  ‘You get down to the harbour master. This young lady can make my day and come along to the coastguard with me.’

  Valerie smiled. There was no threat, no snide meaning behind his words. ‘Okay, Dan, I’ll come along with you.’

  The worn suspension on the Land Rover gave it a rhythm not unlike a boat, as they navigated the narrow gap between cars half-parked on pavements. The smell of burnt engine oil and fish was largely suppressed by the thick clouds from Dan’s pipe and the, mostly, fresh air coming from under the floor.

  Ben jumped from the Land Rover as they passed the harbour master’s office, leaving Valerie and Dan to go to the coastguard.

  ‘You both found Sun Dancer adrift, I think?’ said Valerie as they walked across to the office.

  ‘Yeah, me and Ben work our fishing boat between us.’ Dan pulled a pipe from his smock and stuck it into his mouth. ‘Just driftin’ around, about ten miles out.’

  ‘Tell me, Dan, was it as clean and tidy as it is now, or were there any signs of anyone being on board?’

  ‘Same as now, I suppose. I never set foot on it. Ben took the tow across; I never left Fresh Dawn.’

  ‘Fresh Dawn, your boat?’

  ‘Yeah, our boat Fresh Dawn, named after Ben’s mum. Me sister.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Where’s Ben’s father?’

  The old man’s reply was flat, devoid of expression. ‘Dead.’ He took the pipe from his mouth, tapped it on his palm, then replaced it between clenched teeth. ‘Dead.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Valerie as they climbed the few steps to the dark blue door.

  Inside, the usual office equipment was augmented by walls crowded with colourful posters instructing the public on what to do, and not do, at sea. And reminding anyone calling 999 with a sea-related emergency to ask for the coastguard.

  As Dan pushed the door behind them, the officer got to his feet, deep lines emphasised across his face. ‘No smoking.’ He thrust a long finger at the lopsided sign.

  ‘It’s empty, yer bleedin’ pillock.’ Dan returned the growl in equal measure. He took the pipe from his mouth and shook it upside down. ‘See?’

  As his face gave up the struggle, the coastguard offered a hand from a sleeve heavy with braids. ‘How’s things, Dan?’ A smile revealed a gold tooth amongst uneven neighbours.

  ‘Oh, clinging to the wreckage, you know. How’s things with you?’

  ‘Too busy with bloody fools, as usual.’ Momentarily the frown returned. ‘Don’t know why the arseholes…’ Looking at Valerie, he touched his cap. ‘Pardon my French, Miss.’ She shook her head and let him carry on. ‘Don’t know why the cretins can’t go and jump off a bloody bridge somewhere, instead of getting us and the lifeboat involved. You know, yesterday, the full crew spent the morning looking for some ruddy speedboat, and all the time they was pissed up in the Harbour Arms!’ Again, he apologetically pulled at his cap while looking at Valerie.

  Dan let the minor outburst subside before half-turning to Valerie and gently putting his flat palm to her back. ‘Like you to meet me girlfriend.’ Although friendly, the smile was still mischievous. ‘Valerie, this is Leonard, our esteemed coastguard, Lenny to his intimates.’

  ‘Girlfriend, is it? You wish. You bleedin’ old villain.’

  Feeling the niceties were beginning to take on a life of their own, Valerie cleared her throat.

  ‘Oh, yes. Got the papers?’ Dan took the folder and passed it to Lenny. ‘Valerie and Ben are going to take Sun Dancer back home to the Medway. Want to get out in the next half hour or so, give them some daylight to get along the coast a bit. They can anchor in Seaton Bay till morning. It’ll be sheltered enough tonight.’

  Lenny scrutinised the schedule and copied the relevant information into the office log. ‘Ben navigating?’

  ‘Yes.’ Valerie was quick to assure him there would be no wild goose chase looking for an inept sailor. ‘But I know what I’m doing too. I’ve got my day skipper and used to race a lot, Six Metres mainly.’3

  ‘Six Metre yacht racing,’ said Dan. ‘Now there’s a classy boat if ever there was one.’

  ‘Bloody handful in heavy weather,’ added Lenny.

  ‘You can say that again. Had some big days in a Six Metre…’ Valerie thought better of admitting to nearly sending one to the bottom during a race, even if it was gusting seven at the time.

  Lenny handed the papers back. ‘Warning of squalls maybe tomorrow, so keep an ear to the forecast. Don’t forget to radio in as you leave.’

  Ben was waiting on the quayside as they came out. ‘All clear to go?’ Dan shouted out as they crossed the car park.

  ‘Yeah, fine.’ Swinging his rucksack across his back, Ben handed Valerie her bag. ‘Coastguard happy?’

  ‘Yes, we can leave.’ A playful grin crept across Valerie’s face. ‘Could be squally.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Ben, ‘a few squalls ain’t going to bother The Sun Dancer. You still want to go?’

  ‘No problem.’ She took out a cigarette and accepted Dan’s match. ‘Let’s get over to the boat.’

  Being low on money, only a minimum of diesel was put into the tank. So, with the current to help, Ben kept the revs low as the yacht moved out into the river under the power of its own engine for the first time in weeks. Dan waved a few times, letting it get a couple of hundred yards downstream before turning away towards the Land Rover.

  To the side of the quay, tall drying sheds leant precariously from years of being pounded by storms coming up the channel. A man in a dark suit stopped relaxing against one and popped a Polo mint into his mouth. He removed a grey plastic mac from his arm, threw it over his shoulder and walked off quietly towards a mud-splattered Toyota. He sat behind the wheel, closed his eyes for a few minutes, then made several phone calls. Tossing his mobile on the passenger seat, he took one last look out to sea, then headed up the winding lane towards the main road.

  Notes

  3A Six Metre yacht is a boat built more or less purely to race. It is decked fore to aft with just a cockpit for the crew. They are not six metres in length, as one might expect, but designed to an involved formula allowing the architect to have leeway in the plans. Most are between ten and eleven metres. They are extremely graceful, especially those built between the thirties and sixties.

  Six

  Ben throttled the engine back a little, pointing the boat in a more easterly direction.

  ‘Better get the sails up when we’re clear of the river mouth, save what little fuel we’ve got for heading up the Medway.’ Then he added quietly, ‘And any emergency.’

  ‘Okay. By the way,’ said Valerie, looking at the fuel needle that was barely above the reserve mark, ‘I’d never get paid for any surplus, so I wasn’t going to deliver it full of diesel.’

  Ben raised his eyebrows and passed a hand around the back of his neck. ‘Well, there’s no fear of that.’

  They motored on for another ten minutes, then, pointing the yacht into the wind, it was left to gently tick over.

  ‘Jib’s down the f
ore hatch. Can you bend it on while I get the main sorted?’ Ben received no querying looks as he threw out the occasional technical term.4

  ‘Sure, no problem.’

  He pulled a harness from the locker and threw it across. ‘Better put that on. Prop’s still turning, don’t want you going over and coming out the back as best mince. Can’t say I fancy explaining that one to the insurance company.’

  Valerie slipped it on, connected the carabiner to the safety wire and walked up past the mast, unclipping and re-clipping at every stanchion along the deck, each manoeuvre accompanied by a rearward sarcastic smile and spasmodic flash of tongue.

  The jib fell onto the deck as Valerie upturned the sail bag. She found the head and shackled it to the halyard. ‘Hoist a little,’ she shouted back along the deck, ‘while I get the rest of it on.’

  The jib secured, Valerie made her way back to the cockpit. She looked at the array of tailed-off halyards at the foot of the mast. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Blue.’ He took a shackle pin from between his teeth and nodded to the coils of rope. ‘Get the main up first… you feed, I’ll winch.’

  Valerie stood by the mast, making sure the main went up its track as Ben wound smoothly on the winch handle.

  ‘How long to that bay we’re stopping at?’ asked Valerie.

  ‘Seaton?’ said Ben, looking around. ‘Wind’s good, we’ll be there before dark.’

  Uneventful and quick. They were soon at the overnight anchorage. Valerie dropped the jib as Ben paid out the anchor.

  ‘It doesn’t hang back, this boat, does it?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s quick,’ said Ben, moving his attention to the main. ‘A bit hairy in a blow, but yeah, it fairly bowls along.’

  ‘You been out on similar boats?’ Valerie shook a Disque Bleu up from the pack. ‘You seem to fall into its ways very quickly.’ She flicked at the Zippo as Ben refused an offered cigarette.

  ‘Yeah. Crewed in races and helped deliver boats, mostly into winter storage.’ He coiled the last rope and sat down. ‘What the bloody hell are those?’ He waved a hand across his face as the smoke blew past. Valerie held the pack up. He pressed his lips together and gave a slight shake of the head. ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘French.’

  ‘Which cabin?’ Ben got up and pulled off his deck shoes, before using the chrome rails to slide below.

  ‘Don’t mind.’ She threw the part-smoked cigarette overboard and followed him down. ‘What’s that?’ she added as he pushed down a couple of switches.

  ‘Riding lights. It’s quiet in this bay, but we don’t want to be run down by some half-asleep trawler skipper.’ He motioned his shoes towards the master cabin and yawned. ‘I’ll go forward.’

  The slap, slap of the waves echoing around the yacht had a comforting effect that soon had Valerie asleep.

  ***

  ‘Takes all sorts,’ said Valerie, ringing a spoon on the Charles and Diana mug. ‘Tea.’ She put it down on the bunk side table and gave Ben a shake. ‘Tea,’ she repeated as he opened his eyes. ‘You want something to eat?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Ben moved his head back as if trying to focus and frowned at the mug. ‘Any chance of an egg?’

  ‘Between bread, okay?’

  ‘Sure, no butter, but sauce if there is any, tomato or brown, don’t mind, whatever there is.’ He swung his legs from the bed and scratched vigorously at his unkempt hair. ‘Yuk.’ Looking into a nearby mirror, he clicked his tongue around his mouth. ‘Glad Mum threw a tube of Colgate in.’

  Ben still had the remains of the butty between his teeth as Sun Dancer swung round to reach out of Seaton Bay.

  ‘You want to take her?’ he said, rising from the tiller. ‘I’ll check the weather.’

  ‘Sure. Keep heading east?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ben waved his left hand, ‘just keep the land on this side.’

  ‘Very droll.’ Valerie took the helm and slid across the seat.

  Ben was below for quite a while, and as the wind rose and swung a little more from the north towards the east, Valerie had to harden the sheets, bringing Sun Dancer from a close reach onto a beat. The starboard rails dipped as the port side rose high into the clear wind. With the superior gearing, she pulled the jib in, quickly followed by the main. Now, with the boat really starting to heel, Valerie moved to the windward side of the cockpit, watching the sea bubble and pour along the now-submerged leeward rail.

  Spray started to fly along the deck, but she still managed to light a cigarette. The speed dropped slightly as the boat went past its optimum angle, but Valerie didn’t stop. Pulling at sheets until both sails were bar-tight, the boat began to smash through waves and troughs.

  ‘Blood and friggin’ sand!’ shouted Ben, crawling and falling from the cabin hatch. ‘What the bleedin’ ’ell’s going on?!’

  Jamming a foot against the cockpit side and holding on to a winch top, Ben steadied himself against the violent pounding. With his free hand he grabbed the traveller control and, with one upwards jerk, released it, sending the mains carriage flying down to leeward and crashing against the stop. Sun Dancer immediately obeyed and, recovering her composure, came up to a more comfortable angle.5

  ‘If you’re trying to win the Fastnet, you’re going in the wrong bloody direction!’

  ‘Just seeing what she’ll do,’ said Valerie. ‘Getting a bit of excitement.’ She flicked the remains of her cigarette overboard.

  ‘Seeing what she’ll do!’ Stepping and tripping over rope ends that had emptied onto the deck, Ben took the tiller. ‘What as, a bloody submarine? Carry on like that and something will give.’

  ‘What? On a boat of this calibre? Give me a break.’ She started down the cabin steps. ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘Beer.’ Sliding to the windward side, Ben pushed a hand through his tangled hair. ‘If there’s none on board, try my rucksack.’

  When she returned, Ben had eased the controls and the yacht was creaming along at full speed. She threw him a can of Stella and pulled the ring from a Diet Coke.

  ‘What was all that in aid of?’ Ben wedged his knee under the tiller and opened the beer. ‘Sailing the ruddy thing on its ear?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, live a little closer to the edge, I suppose.’ She took a swig from the can. ‘Don’t you ever get fed up with the dullness of it all, want to go out and do something? Leave your mark?’

  She hadn’t finished a cigarette all morning, so drew one out now they were set on a steady course. ‘That’s nice.’ A long stream of blue smoke disappeared over the stern.

  ‘You not worried they’ll kill you?’ He motioned towards the cigarette between her fingers. ‘Jesus Christ, they’re not even bloody tipped.’

  She took a piece of tobacco from her tongue, shrugged her shoulders and pointed to a structure a few miles out into the channel. ‘What’s that?’

  Ben wiped spray from his face and slid round. ‘Second World War fort. Kept us safe from Hitler. Some, outside territorial waters, were used as pirate radio stations in the sixties.’

  ‘Let’s go and have a look, spin the delivery out a bit.’

  ‘Naw,’ said Ben, ‘it’s only some empty towers strung together with rotting walkways. Likely to get yourself hurt getting on and off.’

  Valerie un-cleated the jib sheet and flicked it from the winch. ‘Good grief, Ben. Get out into the channel and stop being such a wuss.’

  With the jib flogging out of control, Ben had little choice if he didn’t want the sail damaged. He eased the helm and set out towards the rusting structure.

  Valerie smiled as she set the sail on a reach. ‘See, it’s easy, have a nose around and earn a little extra for you and me.’

  Ben settled back into the remains of his beer. ‘Got a boyfriend? You’ve no wedding ring, and anyway, I can’t see a husband putting up with what you do, sitting around the kitc
hen waiting to hear if you’re coming home in the next few days.’ Valerie drew on the last of the Disque Bleu before sending the spinning stub overboard. ‘Or girlfriend?’ added Ben, looking at the man’s wristwatch.

  As all Ben got by way of reply was Valerie staring out into the channel, he tried another approach. ‘Been in this business long? Investigating, I mean?’ He crushed the empty beer can and dropped it over the side.

  ‘Four years or so.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ said Valerie. ‘Change in circumstances set me off in a different direction.’

  ‘You work for the insurance company?’

  Valerie leant back, stretching her arms along the safety wire. ‘No, no, I work for myself. Investigating anything as long as there’s money at the end.’ She trimmed the jib sheet, giving the sail a little more fullness. ‘There’s life cover involved, and Southern and East wanted this accident looking into. All their assessors were tied up, so I got the job. Wouldn’t tell me how or why – maybe they put a pin in Yellow Pages.’

  Three orange buoys, tethered to each other, passed down the port side. ‘They’re not warning markers this far out in the channel, are they?’

  ‘No, they’ll be lobster or crab pots. The amount of wrecks around the south coast is mindboggling. Anything down there,’ he said, motioning over the side, ‘is going to attract fish and shellfish. Bloody big conger in some of them too, like ruddy serpents. We sometimes arrange fishing trips for guys wanting a bit of sport. We had one of our customers catch one just short of a hundred pounds last year. You should have seen Dan, he doesn’t like congers – disappeared into the wheelhouse and locked the door.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’ Valerie leant back on the hatchway and laughed. ‘Looks as hard as nails.’

  ‘Oh Christ, he is. No one better when the going gets hairy, only don’t chuck any big eels into the boat.’

  The buoys vanished in the troughs as the wind started to whip the odd top from the waves. A few minutes later, a large power cruiser passed fifty yards or so on the shore side in the opposite direction. Valerie responded to the friendly wave from a couple up on the flying bridge.