it.
“I’m off to St Austell,” Mrs Dunnett said.
“Oh …” For a moment the wing commander showed the fright of a toddler abandoned in a crowd on a station. Then the stiff side of his face moved slightly. “Yes. Drive carefully, darling, won’t you—”
George, awkwardly on his feet, said: “Goodbye, Mrs Dunnett.”
She stared at him as if he’d said something original. “Goodbye.”
“You’d better be Mother,” Dunnett said to George as sheleft. Pouring the tea, George heard the Mercedes start outside. Its exhaust must have been broken: the engine was making a snarling noise like a tank. The car roared down the drive. He heard it pause, straining, at the gate, then roar down the hill towards St Cadix.
“Cynthia loves the sea,” Dunnett said, as if this somehow accounted for the sound of the car.
“Milk?” George said.
“Oh … would you? Thank you so much.”
Above his head, George noticed a shelf solid with the faded scarlet spines of a row of
Debrett’s
and
Burke’s
. The most recent volume was a
Debrett’s
for 1934. He supposed that Mrs Dunnett must be listed in it somewhere. She must have been Somebody’s daughter.
“I’m afraid I’ve always been too much of an airman to like the sea very much. Didn’t even like flying over it. I get mal de mer very easily. Tried all the pills. None of them seems to work. I always manage to end up with my head stuck over the lee side …”
“Yes,” George said, “it’s flying that does that to me.”
“Same with Cynthia. She hates the air. I suppose it’s not really given to most of us to be at home in more than one element. I’m air; Cynthia’s sea. Ironic really, when you think about it.”
George said: “I was in the Navy for a bit—and since then I’ve always had to do with ships.”
“Betty Castle said something about that, yes. You know her, of course. She’s been an absolute brick to us, you know. Heart of gold.”
“Yes,” George said, and thought, poor sod.
“She’s been awfully good with Cynthia …” The wing commander looked across at George, fishing for some sort of knowing response.
“Has she—?”
“Oh, marvellous. Marvellous. Cynthia’s in so much better shape than she was. Without Betty, I can’t think what we’d have done. She’s been a pillar to both of us.” He carried histeacup carefully to his mouth. It wobbled badly, and tea splashed the travelling rug in which the wing commander had been wrapped.
“I’m going to have to watch my step, you know,” he said. “When I do sell the boat. It was bought for Cynthia, really. Only I turned out to be such a ruddy awful sailor.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t sell it,” George said.
“No choice. Look at me … And then there’s the simple matter of the L.s.d. involved: it’s rotten for Cynthia, all this—she’s not used to having to count pennies.”
“I don’t want to make things more difficult for you.”
“Frankly, old boy, you’ll be taking a millstone from round our necks. I sometimes think that if only I’d had a bit more bottle in me, I should have scuttled the thing for the insurance money long ago …” The good side of Dunnett’s face contracted into a small, unhappy smile. “I knew a chap who did that once. Got clean away with it. Nobody said a word.”
“We had quite a bit of it where I was in Africa. It was supertankers there, usually. There’s a spot just off Liberia where the continental shelf is only five miles out. You can leave the ship in seven hundred fathoms of water and have a pleasant row ashore. Lots of people do it. It’s a profitable way of spending an afternoon.”
“Yes,” said Dunnett. “But I’d be the charlie who gets caught.”
“Well I suppose most of us think that. Luckily for the world. But it’s astonishing how many of the real charlies don’t get caught.”
“You’d … like to buy the boat—” Dunnett’s voice was anxious, papery.
“What are you asking for her?”
“Oh …
“I’m off to St Austell,” Mrs Dunnett said.
“Oh …” For a moment the wing commander showed the fright of a toddler abandoned in a crowd on a station. Then the stiff side of his face moved slightly. “Yes. Drive carefully, darling, won’t you—”
George, awkwardly on his feet, said: “Goodbye, Mrs Dunnett.”
She stared at him as if he’d said something original. “Goodbye.”
“You’d better be Mother,” Dunnett said to George as sheleft. Pouring the tea, George heard the Mercedes start outside. Its exhaust must have been broken: the engine was making a snarling noise like a tank. The car roared down the drive. He heard it pause, straining, at the gate, then roar down the hill towards St Cadix.
“Cynthia loves the sea,” Dunnett said, as if this somehow accounted for the sound of the car.
“Milk?” George said.
“Oh … would you? Thank you so much.”
Above his head, George noticed a shelf solid with the faded scarlet spines of a row of
Debrett’s
and
Burke’s
. The most recent volume was a
Debrett’s
for 1934. He supposed that Mrs Dunnett must be listed in it somewhere. She must have been Somebody’s daughter.
“I’m afraid I’ve always been too much of an airman to like the sea very much. Didn’t even like flying over it. I get mal de mer very easily. Tried all the pills. None of them seems to work. I always manage to end up with my head stuck over the lee side …”
“Yes,” George said, “it’s flying that does that to me.”
“Same with Cynthia. She hates the air. I suppose it’s not really given to most of us to be at home in more than one element. I’m air; Cynthia’s sea. Ironic really, when you think about it.”
George said: “I was in the Navy for a bit—and since then I’ve always had to do with ships.”
“Betty Castle said something about that, yes. You know her, of course. She’s been an absolute brick to us, you know. Heart of gold.”
“Yes,” George said, and thought, poor sod.
“She’s been awfully good with Cynthia …” The wing commander looked across at George, fishing for some sort of knowing response.
“Has she—?”
“Oh, marvellous. Marvellous. Cynthia’s in so much better shape than she was. Without Betty, I can’t think what we’d have done. She’s been a pillar to both of us.” He carried histeacup carefully to his mouth. It wobbled badly, and tea splashed the travelling rug in which the wing commander had been wrapped.
“I’m going to have to watch my step, you know,” he said. “When I do sell the boat. It was bought for Cynthia, really. Only I turned out to be such a ruddy awful sailor.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t sell it,” George said.
“No choice. Look at me … And then there’s the simple matter of the L.s.d. involved: it’s rotten for Cynthia, all this—she’s not used to having to count pennies.”
“I don’t want to make things more difficult for you.”
“Frankly, old boy, you’ll be taking a millstone from round our necks. I sometimes think that if only I’d had a bit more bottle in me, I should have scuttled the thing for the insurance money long ago …” The good side of Dunnett’s face contracted into a small, unhappy smile. “I knew a chap who did that once. Got clean away with it. Nobody said a word.”
“We had quite a bit of it where I was in Africa. It was supertankers there, usually. There’s a spot just off Liberia where the continental shelf is only five miles out. You can leave the ship in seven hundred fathoms of water and have a pleasant row ashore. Lots of people do it. It’s a profitable way of spending an afternoon.”
“Yes,” said Dunnett. “But I’d be the charlie who gets caught.”
“Well I suppose most of us think that. Luckily for the world. But it’s astonishing how many of the real charlies don’t get caught.”
“You’d … like to buy the boat—” Dunnett’s voice was anxious, papery.
“What are you asking for her?”
“Oh …
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