Alastair grinned br
oadly. “I know just how you feel,” he said. “I’ve been aground umpteen times, and every time, at this particular moment, I get a twinge of panic that she won’t come up—that she’s somehow stuck to the sand and will just lie there until the water covers her completely. But don’t worry—you’ll see.”
Henry glanced down at the deck rail again. “She’s not moving at all yet,” he said.
“Watch the mast,” said Alastair.
Obediently, Henry transferred his gaze to the mast, which lay over at a drunken angle, its blue and white burgee fluttering not far off the sand.
“Watch it against the trees. Can’t you see it moving?”
Henry watched and, with a lightening of heart, saw that the mast was indeed moving—very slowly but steadily it was swinging more and more uptight. In a surprisingly short time Ariadne was on her feet again, even though her keel was still held fast. Then came the moment of glory that every yachtsman knows. The boat, with a graceful, dipping gesture, shook herself clear of the paralysing grip of the sand and curvetted joyfully to the wind—for all the world like a living creature, ecstatic to be in the freedom of her own element again.
Up went the white, trembling sails. Up came the mud-caked anchor. Ariadne took off like a bird, skimming silently out to sea.
“‘As I was a-walking down Paradise Street,’” chanted Alastair Benson, stockbroker of the City of London, as he snugged down the anchor and wiped his muddy hands on the seat of his jeans, “‘Way-hay, blow the man down...’”
And “‘Give us some time to blow the man down,’” sang Henry Tibbett, Chief Inspector of the C.I.D., bracing one bare foot against a varnished thwart to get a better purchase on the jib sheet.
Rosemary, at the tiller, looked at Henry and smiled.
“Thanks for trying, Henry,” she said.
“It’s not tight enough yet, blast it,” said Henry. “‘Way-hay’—I’ll get it in if it kills me—‘blow the man down’...”
“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.