Draca

by Geoffrey Gudgion

  ‘Isn’t this where we’ve seen rough water?’ Charlotte asked. ‘It looks calmer today.’

  ‘The wind and tide are working together, so the sea’s calmer,’ Jack explained, ‘but it’s like swimming against the stream in a river. A lot of hard work to go nowhere.’

  They turned to put the wind on their quarter, almost running before it, and they all felt the ship respond. Now they had a pushing wind with the sails bellied out and full, not a sliding wind with them sheeted close to the centre-line. The motion was easier: a bubbling, happy surge that blew away George’s fears of going below.

  She didn’t make a big thing of it, just took a deep breath and backed down the steps into the chart-room, all nonchalant as if she was going to the head. Which she was. She even dumped her life jacket so she could use the cramped little head properly.

  Afterwards she stood in the saloon, riding the movement of the boat, senses tuned. Draca was alive, in the sense that all classic boats are alive. They creak as they work, like their bones and sinews are moving, but the atmosphere wasn’t threatening. On this course she was sailing just a bit faster than the waves, so there was a smooth climb then a gentle tilt into a wallow, over and over again. Sometimes the tilt was followed by a mild boom, like distant thunder, as the hull hit the next wave. It was as natural as a church in sunshine, not the dark, creepy-headstone horror she’d felt before.

  George turned as Charl came down the steps behind her. Beyond her, Jack held the tiller and watched them. From this angle, he looked like the hero in a schoolboy’s adventure yarn.

  ‘Was it here?’ Charl stood behind George in the saloon. There wasn’t space to stand side by side.

  ‘Nah.’ George pointed towards the door into the sleeping cabin. ‘In there.’

  ‘Are you going to look?’

  George shook her head.

  ‘I think you should. It’s like falling off a horse: you’ve got to get right back on.’ Her hands touched George’s hips and pushed her gently forwards. ‘Go on, show it who’s boss.’

  George went. In the sleeping cabin, a spotlight of sunlight shone through a scuttle and made long, looping, orbit patterns over the starboard bunk as the ship rolled. That dazzling circle of white was enough to light up the whole cabin, and the place felt as wholesome as new bread, empty of any vibes but the natural sounds of the hull as it moved through the water. The noises were louder here, near where the bow was smacking the waves, one small fo’c’s’le and two inches of elm away.

  George began to laugh, her mind filled with the crazy idea that she’d got her body back. She could stand there, where it happened, with her arms stretched wide, feeling female and strong and unthreatened. She was still laughing when the ship hit a bigger wave than most, and this time the ‘boom’ was followed by the hiss of spray falling back onto the sea outside. The ship checked for a moment, which threw George forwards, then backwards as the bow lifted, and Charl was behind her, braced against the bulkhead. Charlotte’s arms went around George to steady her, and it was the most natural thing in the world to be there and happy.

  ‘I love it when you laugh.’ Charl’s face was in George’s hair, and her arms stayed around her a bit too long, and a bit too high, until it wasn’t natural any more and George broke away.

  ‘Don’t, Charl.’

  ‘Oh, poo.’ Charl made that pursed-lip pout that turned everything into a game. She lifted her hand to George’s face and stroked her cheek with the back of her fingers.

  ‘Seriously, Charl.’ George brushed her hand away and pushed past her, kept going through the saloon and the chart-room and grabbed her life jacket on the way. Jack lifted an eyebrow and asked if she was OK, but George didn’t answer and strode forwards until she could lean against the mast with her back towards the cockpit. She stood there, breathing hard, angry. She wanted to be friends with Charl but it was going to be hard if she kept hitting on her.

  When the wind’s on the quarter, sails can act like a whispering gallery. They pick up sounds from way aft, like from the cockpit, and funnel them round the curve of canvas, so as George stood by the mast, she couldn’t help hearing raised voices, especially when the speaker was facing forwards, like Jack. At first he spoke softly, perhaps asking what had happened, which became a louder rant about Charl trying it on in his boat. He said something she only half understood, about giving Charlotte air cover with her parents being one thing, but her shitting in his boat was too much.

  That really ticked George off. It sounded like it would be OK anywhere else, but not in Draca, like Jack didn’t care about her. Then Jack almost shouted ‘She’s not one of your bloody sex toys,’ which sounded more protective, but George was losing her cool by then.

  Charl must have turned away from him and faced forwards, because her next words were clear. ‘You just want her all to yourself,’ she said.

  George lost her rag.

  Charl was leaning against the doghouse hatch cover when George turned, and she straightened when she saw George’s face. Jack seemed all clenched and angry but looked more worried as George came close. George stopped by the hatch, legs braced against the roll of the ship, and glared down at them. It was easier to show how angry she was when her head was higher. If she’d stepped down into the cockpit she’d have been in among them like a yapping dog.

  ‘I am not a piece of meat,’ George almost spat the words at them, ‘and just for the record, I have no frigging intention of going to bed with either of you.’

  ‘George, please…’ Charl looked upset, but not half as upset as George felt.

  ‘You two think that because you’ve got money you can mess around with people. Well I don’t want to frigging play any more.’

  Jack called after George as she ran forwards, but George waved her arm behind her as if she could brush him off, and after that they left her alone. George sat cross-legged on the deck, as far forward as she could go between the bowsprit and the rail, thinking that she made the same frigging mistake every time. If she let people get too close, they hurt her. She thumped the desk with her hand, sniffing, and was cross with herself for that as well.

  Before long the boat began a long turn, a three-quarter circle through the wind until they were pointing back towards the harbour. Jack took it in stages, effectively sailing single-handed, but there was no way George was going to go back and help. Close-hauled into the wind, trim sails. Tack through the wind, trim sails. Ease off the wind to a beam reach, and the boat heeled until George was forced to stand. From time to time the noise of their argument reached her, rising and falling in gusts, like the wind, though the words weren’t clear now the wind was on the beam. Jack sounded well angry.

  Jack sailed Draca hard, like he was using the ship to hit the world. They punched through waves, scattering enough spray to soak the foredeck. And George. But no way was she going to move.

  Too hard. Soon the lee rail was on the water and it was difficult to stand, so George sat on the deck with her feet braced against the bowsprit and glanced back towards the cockpit.

  Jack had a fight on his hands. It reminded George of the squall on the first day they took Draca out, when it seemed like the boat had a mind of her own. Now Draca was trying to turn further into the wind, towards the line of surf under Anfel Head, and George muttered ‘Ease the mainsail, you fool,’ as she watched Jack struggle.

  He did, and he still had to fight. It was illogical. Jack had both foresails set, which should have helped him keep his line, but even when he’d spilled wind from the main, the ship was fighting to turn in, until the sound of the bows hitting the waves had a background chorus of breakers on rocks. It was like Draca had a death wish.

  It ended as suddenly as before. One minute Jack was fighting her, and George was thinking she’d have to swallow her pride and help, the next Draca was docile as a puppy, letting the wind blow her head round, away from Anfel Head. George stood, mainly so she could turn her back on the cockpit, just as Draca fell into a trough hard enough to throw her
off balance. George fell on her knees, pitching forward on her face, and as she reached for support she ended up grabbing the dragon’s head.

  It was the first time she’d touched it, and she felt it move. It vibrated the way rigging can vibrate in a strong wind, but there was something else that made George recoil.

  George could swear that frigging thing knew her. It knew her the way a man who’d groped her might know her.

  And it was laughing.

  II: JACK

  A muffled thump resonated into Jack’s sleep, the kind of thump the butt of a spear might make when it was struck against a deck, if the deck was covered by a fur. Enough of a beat to mark time for oarsmen, for there were also creaks that might have been oars, but not loud enough to carry far, even over water. The tempo was slow, so great oars could sweep backwards to bite again at the next impact, but the excitement was mounting. The intervals between beats were shorter each time, carrying them forwards towards release or violence.

  Them? Jack stirred, flinging his arm out into the tangled emptiness of his bed in the cottage.

  Now there were moans, a woman’s moans that sounded just after each thump.

  Oh fuck.

  Jack flung back the duvet and sat up, cursing, as the moans rose into whimpers and the dividing wall with the next cottage shook to the impact of a bedstead. He pulled on his leg, lifted the bedroom curtain to spill light onto his wristwatch and glimpsed a garden painted in black shadows and silver moonlight. No other movement. Miller was back in his head, not in the trees. He’d slept for under three hours.

  A weight hovered on the edge of memory like a forgotten nightmare. It went with the stale taste of whisky in his mouth and a tiredness that made his face feel as if it was hanging slack from his skull, with his jaw and cheeks suspended from his eye sockets. Outside, Witt Point was a dark mass but Freshwater Bay was totally black and Draca might not have existed.

  Draca. The thought of the day was like a punch in the gut.

  He’d had a parting of the ways with Charlotte. Fooling around under his nose was a step too far. They’d kept things under wraps for so long, almost pretending to themselves, but once they’d started talking, Pandora’s box was open.

  The couple next door reached their operatic finale, and Jack resisted the urge to give them a round of applause. He thought chasing kids all day was supposed to kill your energy for that. Maybe he’d sleep on board Draca until they went home.

  Perhaps he should get away for a while. Sell the cottage, once probate was granted, and sail the world.

  The itch in his foot brought him back to reality. How can a foot itch if it isn’t there? Sometimes, in bed and half asleep, he’d reach beyond the stump, fumbling among bedclothes as he tried to scratch.

  Reality told him he couldn’t handle Draca solo. In good weather, maybe, if he was whole and fit, but not if he couldn’t balance on a moving deck.

  Jack groaned again at the thought of George. She’d been made to feel sordid, and in his boat. He was angry with Charlotte, and angry with himself that he felt so bloody protective over his wife’s girlfriend. Jack lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and with each digital flicker of the bedside clock he felt worse about her.

  When there was a line of light in the east, he gave up trying to sleep.

  By sunrise he was sitting on the stones at Witt Point, nursing a flask of coffee, pushing a bacon roll down onto the ball of guilt in his stomach, but savouring a chill in the air that was almost autumnal. Somewhere nearby, hidden in the trees, a robin sang its heart out, a cleansing touch of normality. Below him, Draca swung around her buoy, tempting him against all logic to risk a solo sail. The sea can’t make you feel good about yourself, but sailing forces you to think of other things, and reminds you that there are fine things in life, even if you aren’t one of them.

  A heron launched itself from the shoreline, flapping away from its morning fishing ground with slow wing beats: a present-day, leg-trailing pterodactyl with its head sunk back between its wings to balance the sabre beak. Once, he’d have tensed at such a sign, and watched with thumb on safety catch for whatever had startled the bird. Now he was just curious. Perhaps the instincts of combat were fading, or maybe he was just too tired to bother.

  The footsteps surprised him. It was too early for walkers. There was a patch of gravel on the coastal path where a spring washed down to the tideline near the heron’s stand, and the crunch of stones carried enough to tell him that someone was approaching, walking slowly rather than with the purposeful stride of a hiker.

  ‘George?’ Surprise lifted his voice. ‘What are you doing here?’ God, he sounded like his father.

  George shaded her eyes with her hand, squinting up the hill towards him. ‘Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d have a cycle and walk before work.’

  Something didn’t add up. She’d told Jack where she lived, and it must have been at least ten miles away.

  ‘I can offer you some lukewarm coffee if you don’t mind sharing the cup.’

  George sat cross-legged on a stone nearby, huddled into her fleece, holding the coffee two-handed and staring at the sunrise rather than Jack. Neither of them seemed to know what to say. Then they both spoke at the same time.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry…’

  ‘Has Charl…?’

  A moment of awkwardness.

  ‘You first.’ An embarrassed flicker of a smile crossed George’s face.

  ‘George, I’m so sorry about yesterday. I feel awful about the way we treated you.’

  She shrugged. ‘You,’ her emphasis made the ‘you’ singular, ‘done nothing wrong.’ She spoke the way Jack used to speak before officer training. ‘Nuthink’.

  ‘Charlotte’s gone, I’m afraid. Last night.’ If George wanted to kiss and make up, it was too late.

  ‘S’all right.’ She hunched further into her fleece.

  ‘We’re breaking up.’ So if the girls were still an item, Jack wasn’t going to stop them. They’d just have to find another venue.

  George made a slight snorting noise. ‘I’m surprised you was together in the first place.’

  ‘We got on well. We were easy together.’

  ‘Must’ve been hard though. For you, I mean.’

  ‘We’ve both had things to forgive.’

  She looked at Jack. ‘What, playing away?’ The way she lifted one eyebrow lightened the question.

  ‘God, you’re direct.’

  ‘Sorry.’ George looked away. ‘That was out of line.’

  ‘But yes.’ Maybe Witt Point was inspiring him to be open. Charlotte knew, anyway. ‘There was an army physiotherapist when I was recovering.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me, Jack.’

  Strangely, he wanted to. There was something about George’s broad, open face that inspired honesty.

  ‘She’d done two tours in Afghanistan as what they call a ‘battlefield physio’. She’d seen things. Horrible things. She understood.’ Jack felt vulnerable for a moment, almost emotional. ‘For some months it was her job to touch me. We became friends. I was weak.’

  George shrugged. ‘So you evened the score.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. Retribution, I mean. I never thought I’d stray, but I was pretty screwed up for a while. Maybe I still am. Charlotte’s had a lot to cope with.’

  George stared into her coffee cup, swirling the dregs as if she had something on her mind.

  ‘Why are you here, George?’

  She threw the dregs on the grass and handed Jack the cup. ‘I said things, yesterday, when I was angry…’

  ‘You had every right to be.’

  ‘But I hope we can still be friends.’ Her eyes flickered upwards towards his face and away again, and for a moment she seemed childlike and vulnerable.

  ‘I’d like that, George.’ And he would. A straightforward, uncomplicated friendship. A meeting of equals with no hidden agendas, now he and Charlotte had split.

  George tugged at tufts of grass near her feet.
r />   ‘That physio: is that why you reacted when I tried to give you a shoulder massage?’ She shredded seeds from the stalks with her thumbnail.

  ‘I’d failed that way once before.’ Plus he really didn’t want to get involved with another gay woman.

  ‘Did you love her?’

  Jack shifted on his stone. George was pushing her luck with these questions. It was too personal.

  ‘I don’t think either of us would have called it love. But there’s a common language between people who’ve known that kind of shit. A bond. And she saw me at my lowest. She knew what had happened, and she didn’t despise me.’

  That slipped out without thinking. Exhaustion, maybe, or a deep need to be understood.

  ‘Why would anyone despise you?’

  Deep breath. He’d talked himself into this. ‘I told you some of it, in the boat. I led two men to their deaths. One of them died because I was screaming and he tried to get me out.’

  ‘Was he a friend?’

  ‘Friend? No, not a friend. But we’d worked together. We were a team. He ran into a killing zone to rescue me, and was shot before he reached me. And the thing I feel worst about, looking back, is that when he was killed I was so wrapped up in what was happening to me that his death was about as significant as that seagull, just a lot uglier.’

  George unfolded her legs and wrapped her arms around them, her cheek resting on her knees, listening with her eyes on Jack’s face.

  ‘You know,’ Jack continued, ‘some part of me still saw myself as a hero in waiting, the kind of guy who staggers out of the fog of battle with a Hollywood wound and says ‘It’s only a scratch, sir!’, before he charges back and clears out three machine-gun nests, single-handed.’

  George laughed, a nervous, release-of-tension laugh. She was making eye contact now, but it was Jack’s turn to drop his voice and mumble towards his hands.

  ‘But when the pain got bad, I disintegrated. As my father would say, I couldn’t hack it.’