Read Online Rum Affair by Dorothy Dunnett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
Tags: Rum Affair
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the night.
Except that we wouldn’t stay, that night, in the canal, where any passing stranger might step aboard. There are no locks on a cockpit. Tonight, free to use our engine, since we were no longer racing, we should move north to Lochgair, and anchor there beside Johnson’s imposing friend Evergreen until morning, when we should rejoin the rest of the club as they chugged through the canal. Then on Thursday, the open sea again, and surely, comparative safety?
I had assumed that we should be alone in making that hour’s extra journey north to Lochgair. Certainly Stanley Hennessy, triumphant in Symphonetta, was already safe in the basin, although I could see no sign of the Buchanans in Binkie. I watched, the wind in my hair, as the small lights diminished and the waterfall sound of the lock was lost in the hammer of Dolly’s powerful engine.
The sound of our engine concealed at first the hiccoughing eruption of another diesel quite near us. Then, unexpectedly, the pea-green, ill-painted quarter of Seawolf loomed up behind us, the mainsail taped to the boom like a comic umbrella. Rupert rushed to the gunwales to hail her. “Cecil! VICTORIA! Follow Daddy, my sweetie! Who wants a Ber-loody Mary on Evergreen?”
They understood. Victoria waved in assent, and Seawolf picked up and moved into line just behind us. Rupert sat down firmly beside me. Johnson, his hands bent, was lighting a pipe. Dolly’s sail suit, glimmering in semi-darkness, was neat as a pipe cleaner, and her sheets coiled on deck were like optical puzzles. I enquired who Evergreen’s owners might be. Rupert took my hand casually to help him reply.
It was not what I had expected. “The name is Bird. Retired show business, darling. May knits and Billy plays poker, and they have a sing-song after dinner and a few drinks, and tell smoking concert stories – vulgar smoking stories. Rather good ones, in fact.” He squeezed my hand.
“Their bloody Marys must be spectacular,” I said. The emerald was bruising my fingers. I withdrew them, attracting a flash of bifocals.
“Don’t worry: it’s all show,” said Johnson kindly. His pipe glowed a soothing red in the soft windy dark against the smooth gloss of Loch Fyne. “Put a bookmark in, Rupert; and go and be sick.”
I could believe I was getting to like Johnson, at times.
Compared with Ardrishaig, the bay of Lochgair was quite dark, save for a pricking of lights from the hotel half-hidden behind foreshore and trees, and the moving beams of cars slipping to and from Inveraray. Around us, as the engine cut and the anchor chain rattled down, were little white roadhouses, floating on the calm sea like indestructible plastic toys – the motor yachts, the luxury arm of the fleet.
The largest – eighty tons; eighty-four feet overall, with twin-screw oil engines each 6-cylinder and 250 b.h.p. (said Rupert) was Evergreen. From her decks, a nightmare of striped awnings, Sekers curtains and potted geraniums, came a shouted invitation to drinks. I slipped below quickly to change. The black kangaroo dress with the copper chain belt, I thought; and small copper boots. Seawolf, who had had water in her carburettor, arrived in the anchorage just as I fixed my eyelashes on.
The first I knew of it was when I slammed my chin in the eyeshadow and my three cases crashed at my heels. Something had hit Dolly’s side with a hideous thud. There followed something like the quartet from Trovatore, with Victoria’s shrill drawl distinguished among other, masculine voices, heated and also resigned. I repaired the scars in my make-up and, rubbing my back, marched up on deck.
Feebly lit in the sparkling concourse, Seawolf was there on our beam, swiftly retreating under the aegis of an almighty shove by Dolly’s owner and crew. Seawolf’s engine was off, although not far behind her one could see several large boats with which she would shortly collide. Ogden, who had patently seen them too, was now clambering into
Except that we wouldn’t stay, that night, in the canal, where any passing stranger might step aboard. There are no locks on a cockpit. Tonight, free to use our engine, since we were no longer racing, we should move north to Lochgair, and anchor there beside Johnson’s imposing friend Evergreen until morning, when we should rejoin the rest of the club as they chugged through the canal. Then on Thursday, the open sea again, and surely, comparative safety?
I had assumed that we should be alone in making that hour’s extra journey north to Lochgair. Certainly Stanley Hennessy, triumphant in Symphonetta, was already safe in the basin, although I could see no sign of the Buchanans in Binkie. I watched, the wind in my hair, as the small lights diminished and the waterfall sound of the lock was lost in the hammer of Dolly’s powerful engine.
The sound of our engine concealed at first the hiccoughing eruption of another diesel quite near us. Then, unexpectedly, the pea-green, ill-painted quarter of Seawolf loomed up behind us, the mainsail taped to the boom like a comic umbrella. Rupert rushed to the gunwales to hail her. “Cecil! VICTORIA! Follow Daddy, my sweetie! Who wants a Ber-loody Mary on Evergreen?”
They understood. Victoria waved in assent, and Seawolf picked up and moved into line just behind us. Rupert sat down firmly beside me. Johnson, his hands bent, was lighting a pipe. Dolly’s sail suit, glimmering in semi-darkness, was neat as a pipe cleaner, and her sheets coiled on deck were like optical puzzles. I enquired who Evergreen’s owners might be. Rupert took my hand casually to help him reply.
It was not what I had expected. “The name is Bird. Retired show business, darling. May knits and Billy plays poker, and they have a sing-song after dinner and a few drinks, and tell smoking concert stories – vulgar smoking stories. Rather good ones, in fact.” He squeezed my hand.
“Their bloody Marys must be spectacular,” I said. The emerald was bruising my fingers. I withdrew them, attracting a flash of bifocals.
“Don’t worry: it’s all show,” said Johnson kindly. His pipe glowed a soothing red in the soft windy dark against the smooth gloss of Loch Fyne. “Put a bookmark in, Rupert; and go and be sick.”
I could believe I was getting to like Johnson, at times.
Compared with Ardrishaig, the bay of Lochgair was quite dark, save for a pricking of lights from the hotel half-hidden behind foreshore and trees, and the moving beams of cars slipping to and from Inveraray. Around us, as the engine cut and the anchor chain rattled down, were little white roadhouses, floating on the calm sea like indestructible plastic toys – the motor yachts, the luxury arm of the fleet.
The largest – eighty tons; eighty-four feet overall, with twin-screw oil engines each 6-cylinder and 250 b.h.p. (said Rupert) was Evergreen. From her decks, a nightmare of striped awnings, Sekers curtains and potted geraniums, came a shouted invitation to drinks. I slipped below quickly to change. The black kangaroo dress with the copper chain belt, I thought; and small copper boots. Seawolf, who had had water in her carburettor, arrived in the anchorage just as I fixed my eyelashes on.
The first I knew of it was when I slammed my chin in the eyeshadow and my three cases crashed at my heels. Something had hit Dolly’s side with a hideous thud. There followed something like the quartet from Trovatore, with Victoria’s shrill drawl distinguished among other, masculine voices, heated and also resigned. I repaired the scars in my make-up and, rubbing my back, marched up on deck.
Feebly lit in the sparkling concourse, Seawolf was there on our beam, swiftly retreating under the aegis of an almighty shove by Dolly’s owner and crew. Seawolf’s engine was off, although not far behind her one could see several large boats with which she would shortly collide. Ogden, who had patently seen them too, was now clambering into
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