David looked up, met Emmy’s clear, direct gaze, and looked away again quickly, as he said, “Not a very pleasant introduction to sailing for you people, a day on the mud.”
“I enjoyed it,” Emmy said stoutly.
“The perfect crew,” remarked Alastair. “Six hours on Steep Hill, and not a word of complaint from either of them. In fact—”
“Steep Hill,” said David. “Yes. Well, I think I’ll be off now. I thought I heard... Thanks for the tea, Rosemary. See you later.” And, abruptly, he was gone.
“Dear David,” said Rosemary. “I don’t know why he keeps a boat. There’s always either too much wind or too little. It’s the hardest thing in the world to induce him to leave his moorings.”
“He’s perfectly happy,” said Alastair. “He loves just sitting there by himself sorting out his little boxes. You should see Pocahontas,” he added to Henry. “David’s a bit of an old woman in some ways. One box for inch screws. Another for shackles. Another for bits of string. All neatly labelled. The funny thing is that he never seems to have what he needs when it comes to doing a job.”
“Don’t be catty, Alastair,” said Rosemary.
“What does David do for a living?” Henry asked.
“He’s an artist, believe it or not,” Alastair replied. “Has a studio in Islington. Commercial stuff, mainly, but he does serious painting on the side. I believe he even sells some of his things.”
“He seems rather a restless sort of character,” said Emmy. “Not tranquil, like you two.”
“David was a fighter pilot in the war,” said Rosemary. “He got badly shot up. It’s left him a bit...well, a bit un-tranquil, as you said.”
“Earlier on,” said Henry, “Alastair referred to him as ‘good old reliable David.’ I was expecting something rather different from that description.”
“Were you?” Rosemary opened her blue eyes wide. “I wonder why. David’s a tower of strength.”
“But not tranquil.”
“Goodness, no. But the two things don’t necessarily go together, do they? David’s kind and straightforward and tremendously loyal. The sort of person you could turn to at any time for help or moral support or just a shoulder to cry on. He’d do anything for a friend—and no questions asked.”
“That’s a rema
rkable tribute,” said Henry. “You must be very fond of him.”
To his surprise, Rosemary blushed very slightly. “I am,” she said.
The tea mugs had only just been washed up when Hamish arrived. Alastair produced a bottle of whisky from under one of the bunks.
“I like the way Ariadne behaves with that new jib,” Hamish remarked, as he tried vainly to find room for his long legs. The cabin seemed very full with Hamish in it.
“Yes, we’re delighted with it,” said Alastair.
“When I get my new boat,” said Hamish, “I want a proper complement of sails. Storm jib, beating jib, a Genoa for reaching and a spinnaker. I’m fed up with this one-main-two-jib setup on Tideway.” There was a strong undercurrent of excitement in his voice.
“Why ever do you want a new boat?” Emmy asked. “Tideway looks lovely to me.”
“Not big enough,” said Hamish. “I want to do some real cruising—Holland, France, Spain, the Med. Perhaps even the Canaries and the West Indies. I’ve been coast-hopping long enough.”
Rosemary smiled indulgently. “Don’t listen to him,” she said. “Hamish has been talking about this mythical new boat ever since we’ve known him. Personally, I’m prepared to take a small bet that he’ll still be sailing Tideway in and out of the Berry in ten years’ time.”
“Then you’ll lose your money,” said Hamish. The excitement had reached boiling point. “Look at these.”
He pulled a large envelope out of his pocket, and spread its contents out on the table.
“What on earth have you got there?” demanded Alastair.
“Plans,” said Hamish.
Alastair and Rosemary craned to look, immensely interested. Over their shoulders, Henry glimpsed the graceful skeleton of a yacht design. Alastair drew his breath in sharply.
“By Giles,” he said. “I say, you are going it. What is she? Doesn’t look like one of his regular designs.”
“She’s not,” said Hamish. “He’s done her specially for me. A ten-ton ketch for extensive off-shore cruising.”
There was a small, awkward silence, and then Rosemary said bluntly, “Hamish, you must be mad. Have you any idea how much this is going to cost?”
Hamish lit his pipe with a certain bravado. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose I am mad. But this is something I’ve wanted all my life. The only thing I’ve ever really wanted. If I choose to behave like a lunatic with my own money, surely that’s my business.”
“Yes, but—” Rosemary began, and then stopped, embarrassed. As if reading her thoughts, Hamish said, “Pete would have approved. He knew how much I’d set my heart on it. In fact, he as good as promised me the money before—”
“Of course Pete would have loved her.” Alastair’s voice was just a fraction too loud and too cheerful. “She’s a beauty, Hamish. Let’s see. You don’t think the turn of the bilges is a bit too steep? I know she’ll draw six-foot-six, but...”
In a moment, Hamish and Alastair were deeply involved in a technical discussion of the proposed boat. A long time later, when Alastair had practically redesigned the hull and sail-plan, using the stub of a pencil and the back of an old envelope, Rosemary interrupted them to say, “Look here, you two. It’s after seven. Colin and Anne will have been in the Bush for hours. Put it away, like good boys, and let’s go ashore.”
Reluctantly, the precious drawings were returned to their envelope, and the two dinghies skidded their way over the quiet water to the shore.
The tide was at its highest. Indeed, the water was lapping right up against the wall of The Berry Bush, and Alastair remarked, unoriginally, that this was one of the few places where one really could tie up snug to a pub.
The bar was almost empty. The locals were at home, having supper. Most of the yachtsmen who based their boats on Berrybridge had taken advantage of the good weather to make a cruise to some other harbour.
Colin and Anne were at the bar, talking to David. In the mêlée of greetings and introductions, Henry took a good look at Anne Petrie—and understood at once why Colin Street wanted to marry her, and why Pete Rawnsley had attempted to add her to his list of conquests. She was a tiny slip of a girclass="underline" indeed, with her cropped dark hair and faded blue jeans, she might almost have been taken for a schoolboy, were it not for a certain very definite femininity of contour that even a sweater several sizes too large could not hide. She was as brown as honey, and her green eyes—which slanted upwards as delicately as a cat’s—sparkled with high spirits and a zest for life which was immensely attractive. She had, Henry decided, the miniature perfection of a Japanese girl, without the latter’s doll-like fragility. In fact, even as he admired, the thought crossed his mind, This girl’s like a nut—smooth and brown and sweet and hard.
“And so I said to Colin”—Anne was chattering away as merrily as a chipmunk, in a delicious, slightly husky voice—“‘It’s monstrous,’ I said, ‘and if you won’t tell Herbert what you think of him, I jolly well will.’ You know how hopeless Colin is. So anyway, the moment we arrived this evening, I collared Herbert and I told him just what I thought of him. I mean, I ask you—water over the floor boards. I swear he hasn’t been near her all the week. ‘If you’re not very careful, Herbert,’ I said, ‘we’ll hand the boat over to Bill Hawkes, and see how you like that.’”
“What did Herbert say?” Rosemary asked.