Buchanan’s sloop
Binkie
, the shabby decking of Ogden’s string-tethered
Seawolf
, and the shining twin masts of Hennessy’s yawl, the suave
Symphonetta
.
“Well, there it is, Tina,” Johnson was saying. He stood, pipe in mouth, conning her in, and waving cursorily from time to time as he was hailed from either side. “All the essence of a paranoic scout camp financed by a brewery. Port, Rupert. We’ll get in beside
Cara Mia
.”
“My God, is she there?” said Rupert, craning to see over the coachroof as he eased the tiller. “Jane! Cindy!”
Two reclining figures, one in a man’s shirt and the other in an arrangement of string fulfilling the minimum requirements of decency, rolled over on the decks of a big motor cruiser as we slid past, and waved. Victoria was there too, in her patched trousers and bare feet, with a screwdriver, half sunk, in her hand. “And my God, Ogden will dig that,” said Rupert as he reversed and cut.
“He doesn’t like the
Cara Mia
?” It was not hard to see why. Compared with this, Cecil Ogden’s
Sea-wolf
was a cereal packet, with a hole in the bottom instead of a gift.
“Dotty sub-debs aren’t much in Cecil’s line,” said Rupert. “The boat belongs to Moody the financier —that’s Tim Moody over there.”
True enough, a young man came into view in very small boxer shorts and a peaked cap from the Aquatic Sports Club, Barbados. Two other boys and a fat girl in a catsuit made their appearance, and there was a general clinking and pouring. Daddy, clearly, was absent at work in the City. Music, of a sort, shuddered out from the decks.
“Huddy Leadbetter’s new single,” said Rupert thoughtfully, effecting a final clove hitch. He avoided looking at Johnson.
“Goodbye,” said Johnson lazily. “Give them my love, and don’t smoke anything I wouldn’t smoke.
In five minutes, Rupert had gone.
In five more minutes Michael too had gone, hellbent for the hotel and the telephone, leaving a fallout of Trumper’s Eucris behind him. A succession of working parties began to move round from boat to boat, like bees preparing to swarm. The clinking of glasses, competing strains of tape, radio and record player, and loud bellows of laughter, live performance, were heard all over the basin. Some of the parties came aboard
Dolly
, and Lenny served drinks.
Their jokes were all very long, and some of them were in dialect. They seemed to have had a very dangerous summer. Eventually, Johnson said something about fixing dinner at the hotel and clambered ashore, leaving me to change in my locked cabin, with Lenny as watchdog. Trouble seemed unlikely. But then, trouble always seems unlikely.
I dressed in white cotton matelassé and uncut turquoises. I was very brown, from the South America tour, and my hair had bleached itself almost silver. After a little thought I let it down smoothly over my shoulders and brushed it with Givenchy’s Le Dé. I had just finished this when a voice said, “
Hey, Missus
!”
I was no one’s
Hey missus
now. I slipped on little kid slippers by Jourdain, and fastened my watch, that Byng gave me, in three colours of gold; by which time I had had three
Hey Missuses
more. Then heavy feet sounded on the deck over my cabin, there was a thud as somone jumped into the cockpit, and the same rough voice, “Are ye there, Mistress Rossi? I’ve word from Dr. Kenneth at Rum!”
And at the same moment Lenny’s voice, damn him, said near at hand, “Now wait a bit. Let’s hear who you might be first… oh, it’s you, Tom.”
And the first voice, softening, said, “Aye, man. Tom McIver. I’ve a wee note for the lady. She’ll be in?”
I ran to open the door.
He was from the puffer. He had a Breton beret and a three-day beard, and he stank of kippers and coal dust. But he had a message from Kenneth. I looked Lenny straight in the eye, and Lenny grinned and said, “Tom McIver’s all right, ma’am. You’ll excuse me. I’m cleaning the cooker.” And he
Binkie
, the shabby decking of Ogden’s string-tethered
Seawolf
, and the shining twin masts of Hennessy’s yawl, the suave
Symphonetta
.
“Well, there it is, Tina,” Johnson was saying. He stood, pipe in mouth, conning her in, and waving cursorily from time to time as he was hailed from either side. “All the essence of a paranoic scout camp financed by a brewery. Port, Rupert. We’ll get in beside
Cara Mia
.”
“My God, is she there?” said Rupert, craning to see over the coachroof as he eased the tiller. “Jane! Cindy!”
Two reclining figures, one in a man’s shirt and the other in an arrangement of string fulfilling the minimum requirements of decency, rolled over on the decks of a big motor cruiser as we slid past, and waved. Victoria was there too, in her patched trousers and bare feet, with a screwdriver, half sunk, in her hand. “And my God, Ogden will dig that,” said Rupert as he reversed and cut.
“He doesn’t like the
Cara Mia
?” It was not hard to see why. Compared with this, Cecil Ogden’s
Sea-wolf
was a cereal packet, with a hole in the bottom instead of a gift.
“Dotty sub-debs aren’t much in Cecil’s line,” said Rupert. “The boat belongs to Moody the financier —that’s Tim Moody over there.”
True enough, a young man came into view in very small boxer shorts and a peaked cap from the Aquatic Sports Club, Barbados. Two other boys and a fat girl in a catsuit made their appearance, and there was a general clinking and pouring. Daddy, clearly, was absent at work in the City. Music, of a sort, shuddered out from the decks.
“Huddy Leadbetter’s new single,” said Rupert thoughtfully, effecting a final clove hitch. He avoided looking at Johnson.
“Goodbye,” said Johnson lazily. “Give them my love, and don’t smoke anything I wouldn’t smoke.
In five minutes, Rupert had gone.
In five more minutes Michael too had gone, hellbent for the hotel and the telephone, leaving a fallout of Trumper’s Eucris behind him. A succession of working parties began to move round from boat to boat, like bees preparing to swarm. The clinking of glasses, competing strains of tape, radio and record player, and loud bellows of laughter, live performance, were heard all over the basin. Some of the parties came aboard
Dolly
, and Lenny served drinks.
Their jokes were all very long, and some of them were in dialect. They seemed to have had a very dangerous summer. Eventually, Johnson said something about fixing dinner at the hotel and clambered ashore, leaving me to change in my locked cabin, with Lenny as watchdog. Trouble seemed unlikely. But then, trouble always seems unlikely.
I dressed in white cotton matelassé and uncut turquoises. I was very brown, from the South America tour, and my hair had bleached itself almost silver. After a little thought I let it down smoothly over my shoulders and brushed it with Givenchy’s Le Dé. I had just finished this when a voice said, “
Hey, Missus
!”
I was no one’s
Hey missus
now. I slipped on little kid slippers by Jourdain, and fastened my watch, that Byng gave me, in three colours of gold; by which time I had had three
Hey Missuses
more. Then heavy feet sounded on the deck over my cabin, there was a thud as somone jumped into the cockpit, and the same rough voice, “Are ye there, Mistress Rossi? I’ve word from Dr. Kenneth at Rum!”
And at the same moment Lenny’s voice, damn him, said near at hand, “Now wait a bit. Let’s hear who you might be first… oh, it’s you, Tom.”
And the first voice, softening, said, “Aye, man. Tom McIver. I’ve a wee note for the lady. She’ll be in?”
I ran to open the door.
He was from the puffer. He had a Breton beret and a three-day beard, and he stank of kippers and coal dust. But he had a message from Kenneth. I looked Lenny straight in the eye, and Lenny grinned and said, “Tom McIver’s all right, ma’am. You’ll excuse me. I’m cleaning the cooker.” And he
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