The Sunken Sailor

CHAPTER TWO

HENRY WOKE NEXT MORNING to the sound of sausages sizzling in the pan, and a delicious smell of newly fried bacon. Through the dispersing mists of sleep he became aware of a steaming white mug of tea beside his face, and then of Rosemary, grinning at him through the curtains that separated the fo’c’sle from the main cabin.

“Come on, lazybones,” she said cheerfully, “It’s a gorgeous morning. We’ve been up for hours. Breakfast’s nearly ready.”

She withdrew into the cabin again, like a retreating snail, and reappeared a moment later with a blue enamel bowl.

“Hot water for washing,” she said. “You’ll have to share it. Can’t spare any more. No need to shave unless you feel like it. And if you want to spend a penny, use the bucket.”

With that, she disappeared. Henry struggled stiffly out of his sleeping bag into a sitting position, took a gulp of tea, and looked around him. Last night he had been too exhausted to take in the details of Ariadne’s living accommodation. Now he saw that he and Emmy were ensconced in a narrow, triangular section in the bows of the boat, where there was just room for two sleeping bags to be laid side by side. The frames and timbers of the boat, which formed the walls, were painted gleaming white, and hung with coils of rope: beyond Henry’s feet, in the tapering bows, bulging canvas sailbags were stacked: between Emmy and himself, a stout anchor chain ran down from a hole in the decking to disappear through another opening in the floor boards. Overhead, sunshine slanted in through the square forehatch, which had been prop

ped slightly open for ventilation. There was just enough room to sit up in comfort.

Henry woke Emmy, and when they had washed and dressed, they pulled back the curtains and crawled through into the main cabin.

Here it was possible to stand nearly upright, thanks to the fact that the level of the floor was lower, and the roof built up. Sunshine flooded in, through the skylight in the ceiling and through the open hatch which led to the cockpit. The cabin was about ten feet long by eight feet wide, and its layout followed the traditional pattern which contrives to cram an amazing amount of comfort and storage space into such limited dimensions. Two bunks—now made up for the daytime into settees, with bright red covers and blue cushions—ran down the sides, while in the centre a folding table was set up for breakfast. Between the bunks and the cockpit, there were, on one side, a small galley containing a doubleburner Primus stove, with a plate rack above it and a cupboard below, and on the other, a large locker for storing food, saucepans and crockery. On the wall above one bunk was a neat rack for books, in which Henry noticed Reid’s Nautical Almanack, a well-thumbed copy of East Coast Rivers, The Yachtsman’s Weekend Book, The Venturesome Voyages of Captain Voss, Joshua Slocum’s Sailing Alone Round the World, Peter Heaton’s Sailing and Cruising, and a battered and outdated copy of Lloyd’s Register of Shipping. A similar rack above the other bunk held a selection of charts, rolled up neatly and secured with elastic bands. Another rack held a small fire extinguisher, and a fourth, a portable wireless set.

On the varnished bulkhead, a shining brass oil lamp swung in gimbals, and this was flanked on one side by a white-faced, brassbound clock, and on the other by a matching barometer. As in the fo’c’sle, white paint alternated with bronzed varnish: the effect was spruce, comfortable and exceedingly attractive.

Rosemary was sitting on the step that led up to the cockpit, breaking eggs into a frying pan.

“Won’t be a moment,” she said. “The coffee’s just percolating. Why don’t you go out and have a look at the morning?”

“What time is it?” Emmy asked.

“Late,” said Rosemary. “Eight o’clock. We woke early to catch the tide, and then thought better of it. After all, we’re not trying to get anywhere special today, so we thought we’d have another couple of hours in bed.”

She moved aside to let them pass, and they clambered into the open cockpit.

Berrybridge Haven was putting on a fine show for its weekend visitors. The sun blazed from a sky the colour of a robin’s egg, and danced merrily over the deeper blue water, which—since it was little more than an hour after high tide—stretched dazzlingly from the whitewashed walls of The Berry Bush on one bank to the distant greensward of the other. The dinghies, which had been mud-stranded the night before, now bobbed and curtsied like coloured shells on either side of the grey concrete hard. The main channel in the centre of the river was marked not only by two rows of buoys (pillar-box red and cylindrical on one side, black and conical on the other), but also by two parallel lines of moored boats. The sun, glancing off the rippling water, threw up shifting gleams of light on to their gaudy hulls—white, red, green, blue, black or gold-shimmering varnish. In the channel, several boats were already under sail.

On shore and on the boats, things were stirring. Henry could see besweatered figures in yachting caps carrying cans of water and sailbags down the hard: canvas began to flutter whitely from moored boats, as their crews hoisted sail and prepared to put to sea. Alastair, who was sitting cross-legged on the foredeck of Ariadne splicing a rope, waved cheerfully as a decrepit grey motor launch hiccoughed past—and Henry recognized its occupant as Herbert Hole, going about his official business of collecting mooring fees and cups of tea from visiting boats.

On the next mooring to Ariadne, slightly upriver, there was a small, black-hulled boat with a short mast and an excessively long bowsprit.

Emmy said, “Look, that’s Pocahontas. David’s boat. I can see her name on the back.”

“On the stern, if you please,” said Alastair. “Good-morning. Sleep well?”

“Like logs,” said Henry. “What a wonderful morning.”

“Not bad,” said Alastair. “Not enough wind, really. Still, can’t have everything.” Suddenly he opened the forehatch and bellowed down it, “Rosemary! Where’s the whipping?”

Rosemary’s head emerged into the cockpit. “In the after locker, of course,” she said. “At least, it should be. I’ll look.” She scrambled into the cockpit and pulled open a locker door under the tiller. “Oh, blast,” she added, “I remember now. We used the last bit on the main halyard. I meant to buy more.”

“Have I time to row over and borrow some from David?”

“No,” said Rosemary firmly. “For one thing, breakfast’s ready. For another, David won’t be up yet, if I know him. And for a third, he won’t have any. He never does. He’ll be over to borrow some from us soon—he told me he wanted to renew his jib sheets and topping lift today.”

“This,” said Henry, “is exactly like talking a foreign language. Are you going to translate for us?”

“You’ll learn,” said Rosemary. “It’s not as difficult as it sounds. Come and eat.”

They did—hugely. Even Emmy, whose usual idea of breakfast was a cup of coffee and a roll, worked her way through cornflakes, eggs, sausages, bacon, fried bread and tomatoes, and then accepted toast and marmalade. Henry began to see the reason for the two massive picnic-baskets.

Afterwards, when everything had been carefully washed up and stowed away, Alastair said, “Right. Now for the first sailing lesson. And let’s hope we don’t make a mess of it. One generally does, trying to impress people.”

“Tell us about Ariadne first,” said Emmy, “so that we don’t look too foolish when people ask us. What sort of a boat is she, for a start? I mean, what’s the technical term?”

“She’s a six-ton Bermudian sloop,” said Alastair. “That means that she carries two sails. One little one—the jib—forward of the mast, and the mainsail. That’s the big one,” he added kindly.

“What does Bermudian mean?” Henry asked. “Was she built there or something?”

“No. It simply means that the mainsail is triangular.”

“I thought they all were,” said Emmy.

“Goodness, no. It’s quite a recent innovation. All the old boats were gaff-rigged—like that fishing smack over there. Ariadne used to be gaff before she was converted. She’s pretty ancient, poor old lady.”

Henry and Emmy followed Alastair’s pointing finger, to see a large, dignified old boat ploughing her way slowly downriver. “You see? Her mainsail’s almost rectangular—wider at the bottom, of course, but with four distinct corners, and a second boom running along the top of it.”

“So she’s a gaff sloop,” said Emmy proudly.

“No,” said Alastair, “a gaff cutter.”

“Oh, heavens. Why?”

“Because she carried two foresails—a jib and a staysail.”

“This is much too complicated,” said Henry. “Let’s get back to Ariadne. A Bermudian sloop. Six tons, you said. You mean, that’s what she weighs?”

“No,” said Alastair. “Sorry to be difficult. That’s a measurement called Thames Tonnage, and it hasn’t anything to do with weight. You work it out from a formula involving length and beam—width, to you. So the exact dimensions of six-tonners can vary, but they’re all about the same size of boat. We’re thirty-two feet long over-all, with an eight-foot beam and a five-foot draught, which is about average. Pocahontas is smaller—a three-tonner. You soon get to judge the tonnage of a boat fairly accurately by just looking at her.”

“I don’t,” said Emmy firmly.

Alastair grinned. “It doesn’t matter a hoot anyway,” he said. “The only thing you need remember is that there’s five solid feet of Ariadne under the water, so if you sail her into water that’s less than five foot deep—wham. You’re on the putty.”

“That at least sounds logical,ލ

€ remarked Henry, with some relief.

“Now,” said Alastair, “we’ll set the sails. It’s very simple. Each sail has two ropes attached to it. The halyard and the sheet. The halyard, as you might guess, is the one you haul it up with. The sheet is the one that pulls the sail in or lets it out, according to the direction of the wind. O.K.?”

“O.K.,” said Emmy, a little dubiously.

“Right, then we’ll set the jib.” Alastair reached down through the forehatch into Henry and Emmy’s erstwhile bedroom, and fished up a canvas sailbag. “Now,” he went on. “See this—this is the jib halyard.” He unwound two ropes from the mass of rigging secured to the mast. “It’s a single rope running through a pulley up aloft—except that a pulley is always called a block. You see? Very simple.” He demonstrated. The rope jammed in the block.

“I see it is,” said Henry.

Swearing softly, Alastair proceeded to get involved in a sort of cat’s cradle of rigging, from which the jib halyard eventually emerged, running freely. He shackled it to the peak of the jib.

“Now,” said Alastair, “we attach the jib to the forestay.” Tucking the sail under his arm, he crawled out to the end of the bowsprit, missed his footing, and very nearly fell into the river.

“Very simple,” said Emmy.

“I want no back answers from the crew,” replied Alastair with dignity, hauling himself back to safety with one arm, while the other held the precious bundle of canvas out of the water. When he had fastened one corner of the sail to the end of the bowsprit, and strung the curtain-ring clips on the length of its forward edge to the forestay, he scrambled inboard again.

“Can we hoist the jib now?” Henry asked.

“Not yet. Not till the sheets are attached.”

“Wait a minute,” said Henry. “I thought you said there was only one sheet per sail.”

Alastair looked at him pityingly. “If the jib didn’t have a port and a starboard sheet, how could you come about?” he asked. Henry said he had no idea, and watched humbly as Alastair picked up another rope from the deck. This was, in fact, two ropes, one of which ran down either side of the deck and back into the cockpit. The forward ends were shackled together, and these Alastair proceeded to attach to the third corner of the jib.

“Now,” he said. “Haul her up.”

“Alastair darling,” said a sweet voice from the cockpit, “haven’t you forgotten the burgee?”

“Oh, blast,” said Alastair. “Didn’t I tell you one always messes things up trying to demonstrate? I should have done that first.”

He took the small, triangular, blue and white flag from Rosemary, and quickly ran it up to the masthead, where it fluttered encouragingly. Henry looked round at the other boats, and said, “Every boat seems to have a different burgee.”

“That’s because they belong to different clubs,” said Alastair. “Ours is the Little Ship Club. That red and blue one is the Berrybridge Yacht Club, and the one over there is the Royal Harwich.”

“This one is just plain white,” said Emmy, indicating a small, swift boat which was skidding past.

“That’s because she’s racing,” said Alastair. “When you see that, you keep out of her way. Now, up with the jib.”

Henry, feeling very seamanlike, tugged on the jib halyard, and was intensely gratified to see the shapeless mass of white cotton on the foredeck rear up, and assume the shape of a sail.

“Tighter than that,” said Alastair.

Henry pulled again, wincing as the rope bit into his soft, townsman’s hands. The leading edge of the jib remained undulating.

“Sweat it up,” said Alastair.

“I am,” said Henry, panting slightly.

Alastair grinned. “I don’t mean like that,” he said. “Look. Take a turn round this cleat”—he passed the end of the halyard round a wooden peg which protruded from the mast—“now...”

He leant his full weight on the halyard, pulling it out from the mast with one hand, while with the other he snatched up the slack of the rope round the cleat. The sail stretched bar-taut up the forestay. “Now we make it fast—and there she is.”

Henry and Emmy looked up admiringly at the big sail flapping gently in the breeze. Then Emmy said, “Why doesn’t the boat try to sail away, now we’ve got the sail up?”

“Because the sheets are free, and we’re facing directly into the wind. When a boat’s moored, she always puts her nose into the wind or the tide, whichever is the stronger. This morning they’re both in the same direction. So long as we don’t tighten the sheets, the jib’ll flap away there quite happily forever. Now for the main.”

The mainsail was already in position along the boom, protected by a canvas sail cover, which Alastair unlaced and threw down into the fo’c’sle. “All you have to do with the main is haul her up, and then you’ll have them both flapping and ready to go.”

“But the mainsail can’t flap,” Henry objected. “The boom is fixed in that thing.”

“That thing,” said Alastair, “is the boom gallows.”

“What an unfortunate name,” said Emmy. “Why is it called that?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Alastair, “but that’s what it is.”

The thing in question was, in fact, no more than two pieces of wood bolted together to form an X, which stood on deck behind the cockpit and supported the end of the boom.

“Don’t worry about the gallows,” said Alastair. “When the sail goes up, she lifts the boom right out of them. They’re only there to keep the thing out of the way when we’re anchored.”

Sure enough, as Henry hauled on the halyard and the great white sail ran up the mast, the end of the boom lifted suddenly, and the gallows fell with a thud onto the deck. The two sails flapped noisily, and Rosemary went up to the foredeck and untied the rope that held Ariadne to her mooring, letting it go until only a single turn round the oaken Samson post in the deck secured the boat. At the tiller, Alastair tightened in the mainsheet, and then hauled on the starboard-hand jib sheet. To Henry’s surprise, the jib filled with wind, and the nose of the boat swung to port, towards the centre of the river. Immediately the mainsail, too, caught the wind, and Alastair said, “O.K. Let her go.”

Rosemary threw the mooring buoy overboard into the water, where it bobbed like a seagull on the wavelets. Alastair quickly released the starboard jib sheet and tightened the port one. And silently, smoothly, Ariadne moved across the river, leaning gently to port, her bows cutting sharply through the shining water.

“Ease sheets,” said Alastair. He pulled the tiller over, and the boat swung round in a left-handed circle. Simultaneously, Alastair let the mainsheet run out until the boom hung out over the water, and Rosemary released the jib sheet until the big foresail, nearly masked by the main, was barely filling with wind. Ariadne steadied herself onto an even keel and moved downriver towards the sea.

“The wind’s dropped,” said Emmy.

“No, it hasn’t,” said Rosemary. “You always get that impression when it’s dead behind you.”

“But we’re hardly moving now,” Henry put in.

“Rubbish. We’re steaming along. Just look at the rate we’re passing that buoy. You get a tremendous illusion of speed when you’re beating into the wind, but when you start to run, it always feels as though you’re standing still.”

Sure enough, the moored boats and marker buoys were slipping rapidly past.

“And that,” said Alastair, “is all there is to sailing. In theory. When you’re going against the wind, haul in the sheets. When it’s behind you, let them right out. And here we are, on an ebbing tide, with the wind astern and headed for Holland.” And he began stuffing tobacco into a very old pipe, keeping one hand on the tiller and one eye on the burgee.

From Berrybridge, the river runs southward for several miles, and then widens dramatically as it approaches the North Sea. For an hour, Ariadne ran smoothly downriver, with the north wind behind her. Apart from a moment of activity when Alastair shouted “Gybe-oh,” and the boom swung noisily over from starboard to port, the crew relaxed lazily in the sunshine. Now they could see the ocean ahead of them, and the horizon beckoned with its siren song.

“Let’s go to Ostend,” said Rosemary. “Why not?”

“Because we’re meeting Colin and Anne in The Berry Bush tonight, for one thing,” said Alastair,

“Oh, to hell with Colin and Anne.”

“Be sensible, darling. We haven’t even got our passports with us. No, we’ll turn north and go up to the Deben.”

They were near the mouth of the river by now. On their right, the southern shore stretched sandily away towards the playgrounds of Clacton and Frinton. On their left, a wooded promontory ran out into the sea, surrounded on three sides by water—for the coastline to the north swept sharply back, almost parallel to the river, making an isthmus of the last few miles of riverbank.

On this isthmus, Henry caught a glimpse through an avenue of elms of a magnificent Palladian façade. “Berry Hall,” said Alastair. “Home of our friend Sir Simon Trigg-Willoughby, the lucky devil. One of the architectural gems of southern Suffolk.”

“Can we go in a bit closer and have a look at it?” Emmy asked.

“No,” said Alastair firmly.

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no water.”

“What do you mean?” Emmy asked indignantly. “The water goes right up to the trees.”

“I told you,” said Alastair patiently, “that Ariadne draws five feet. In another hour or so, when the tide has gone out a bit, there’ll be nothing but sand between us and Berry Hall. At the moment, there’s probably less than three feet. We’re as near inshore as we dare go.”

By this time, Ariadne was approaching the actual river mouth, and Henry could see how the great, beautiful house dominated the landscape, sited proudly as it was on a green hill that sloped to the water on three sides. The front of the house looked straight out over the wide North Sea, and at the edge of the lawns that swept down to the water there was a small boathouse and a jetty.

“How does Sir Simon get his boats out, if it’s all sand?” said Emmy. “Can he only go out at high tide?”

“There’s a tiny channel,” Rosemary said. “It runs from the boat

house as far as Steep Hill Sands—that’s the big bank we’ve got to go around—and then it sort of meanders round Steep Hill and into the sea. But it’s very shallow at low water. Sir Simon can use it, because he’s got a motor boat and a dinghy, and they don’t draw much.”

“Sir Simon Trigg-Willoughby,” said Henry slowly. “The name rings a bell. Wasn’t there a case, about two years ago—a robbery or something?”

“That’s right,” said Alastair. “Cat burglar got the family jewels.”

“I remember,” said Henry. “They were never found, were they?”

“I don’t see why Sir Simon and Priscilla go on making such a fuss about it even now,” said Rosemary. “After all, the insurance paid up—which was jolly decent of them, considering that the whole thing was Priscilla’s own fault. But then, of course, she’s slightly bats.”

“Who’s Priscilla?” Emmy asked.

“Sir Simon’s sister—curious old girl, spinster and more than half-way round the bend. She insisted on wearing the entire family loot to a hunt ball, and then forgot to lock it up afterwards. Personally, if I’d been Sir Simon, I’d have much preferred the insurance money to a lot of badly set diamonds that would have gone to some distant cousin in the end—because the two old dears are the last of the Trigg-Willoughbys. But to hear them go on, you’d think it was the end of the world. Of course,” Rosemary added, “they’re a tremendously family family, if you know what I mean. Berry Hall, the jewels, the Trigg-Willoughby tradition...it’s all very well, but—”

“Sir Simon’s not married then?” Henry asked.

“Poor chap never had a chance,” said Alastair. “Nor did Priscilla. They were brought up by a Victorian martinet of a father who considered that nothing short of royalty was good enough for a Trigg-Willoughby. The old boy only died a few years ago, and by that time Simon and Priscilla were both a bit past it.”

By now, Berry Hall had been left behind, and Ariadne was heading out into the North Sea, cutting the gently crinkling waves with her sharp bows. Henry said, “I thought we were going northward up the coast.”

“We are,” said Alastair.

“But we’re heading straight out to sea.”

“And shall do, for quite a bit. Steep Hill Sands run out about a mile from the point. You should see it at low water, then you’d understand.”

Half an hour later, when it seemed to Henry and Emmy that they must be well on the way to Holland, Alastair said, “All right. Harden sheets. I’m turning up now.”

He hauled in the mainsheet until the big sail was hugged closely in to the boat, while Rosemary did the same for the jib. At the same time, Alastair pushed the tiller to starboard, and the nose of the boat swung round to the north, and almost into the teeth of the wind. Immediately, Ariadne leant gently over to starboard, and the bow wave creamed frothingly as she headed to windward, setting a north-easterly course.

“We’re beating now,” said Alastair. “We can’t go directly up the coast, because that would be straight into the wind. So we have to tack. We can go as far as we like on this course, because we’re heading out to sea, but when we come about we’ll have to make sure we don’t go too far inshore and hit the sandbank. It is buoyed, but...”

“We’re getting awfully far away from the land,” said Emmy, “and I do want another look at that house. Can’t we keep closer in?”

“All right,” said Alastair. “Ready about. Keep your heads down, you two. Lee-oh.”

The next few seconds seemed to Henry and Emmy like a pandemonium of flapping sails and the sound of ropes running through blocks. They raised their dutifully lowered heads as the noise ceased, and saw that the boom and sails were now on the other side of the boat, and that Ariadne was setting a course almost straight towards the shore. A black, conical buoy bobbed innocently in the water ahead of them.

“That buoy marks the edge of Steep Hill Sands,” said Alastair. “It’s as far as I dare go on this tack.”

“You’re an old fuss-pot,” Rosemary remarked. “It’s still half-tide. We can go quite a bit closer in.”

“I don’t like taking risks,” said Alastair.

“Then give me the helm,” Rosemary replied with spirit. “I’ll show you how close we can go. I’ve often done it.”

“Women,” remarked Alastair gloomily, “should never be allowed on boats. All right, take the helm. And don’t blame me if we go on the mud.”

Rosemary and Alastair changed places, and the black buoy approached at speed, until they could see the words STEEP HILL painted on it in big white letters. Soon they were inshore of it, and getting a fine view of the eastern elevation of Berry Hall.

“Come about now,” said Alastair.

“Rubbish,” said Rosemary. “I’ve got another fifty yards.”

“You’re a bloody fool,” said Alastair, with some heat.

“Who’s sailing this boat anyway, you or me?”

“You are, but—”

“Very well then.” Rosemary’s pretty mouth was set in a stubborn line. “I say we can go closer.”

“And I say we can’t.”

“My dear Alastair, it may interest you to know that—oh, hell...”

There was an ominous, crunching sound.

“What’s the matter?” said Henry.

Rosemary was swearing, quietly but with a fine command of Anglo-Saxon. She pulled the tiller towards her, and shouted, “Free sheets. I’ll try to blow her off.”

“What’s happened?” said Emmy. “We don’t seem to be moving.”

“Dear Emmy,” said Alastair grimly, “we are not moving. My adorable wife has put us on the putty. On a falling tide. It’s no good, darling. Get the sails off her, and I’ll try the kedge.”

Working with desperate speed, Rosemary set up the boom gallows and lowered the mainsail and the jib, while Alastair took the anchor into the dinghy and rowed out with it into deep water, where he dropped it. Then he came back, and hauled with all his might on the anchor chain, hoping to pull Ariadne off the sandbank by brute force. But, with the tide running out fast, her keel was by now firmly embedded, and nothing would shift her. Already they could see little white wavelets beginning to break on the topmost point of the sandbank, as the retreating tide left only a few inches of water covering it.

Rosemary was near tears, and Henry and Emmy, embarrassed, waited for the expected recriminations. But none came. At sea, as they soon learnt, mistakes are forgiven and forgotten more quickly than ashore. Alastair put his arm round his wife’s shoulders, and said, “Cheer up, old love. Could happen to anyone.”

“Oh, darling, I’m so terribly sorry,” moaned Rosemary. “I really thought there was enough water.”

“Never mind,” said Alastair cheerfully. “I’m sure Henry and Emmy will forgive you. And it’s a lovely day for a sunbathe on Steep Hill.”

“I like it here,” said Emmy truthfully. “There’s a wonderful view of the house.”

Alastair grinned, and consulted his watch. “You may get a bit sick of this particular view by the time we get off,” he said. “We’ve got a good five hours before the tide comes up enough to float us. Still, at least we’re on sand and not on mud, so we can get out and walk around. I imagine lunch will be a more comfortable meal on the sand than on board.”

As Alastair spoke, they could see that where before had been breaking waves, there was now an island of golden sand. And, as Ariadne heeled over unhappily to landward, this island spread rapidly in circumference until the water had retreated all round them, leaving them and the boat stranded, high and dry, in the sunshine. Inshore, it was now possible to see the narrow, winding channel which ran from Sir Simon’s boathouse to the sandbank: to seaward, a smart, green-hulled sailing boat was coming down the main channel, with a cheerfully waving figure at the tiller.

“Oh, lord,” said Rosemary in dismay, “that’s Hamish in Tideway. What will he think?”

“I’ve seen him on Steep Hill before now,” said Alastair, returning the salutati

on. “Let him have a good laugh. He can do with it.”

“Poor Hamish,” said Rosemary. “He certainly hasn’t been his old self since—” She stopped, suddenly.

“You know, darling,” said Alastair, “we must be in just about the same place now—where we found Pete, I mean.”

“Tell us about this man Pete,” said Henry. “We keep hearing about him. What’s the story?”

“Well,” said Alastair, “it happened just about here, on Steep Hill.”

“Darling,” said Rosemary, “I’m sure Henry and Emmy don’t want to—”

“We’ve got plenty of time,” said Alastair. “If you’d like to hear about it.”

“Yes, please,” said Emmy.

“Let’s have lunch,” said Rosemary. There was a curious urgency in her voice.

But when they had all finished their plates of cold chicken and salad—extracted with some difficulty from the galley, which was now listing at forty-five degrees—Alastair leant back on the sand, lit his pipe, and said, “Well...if you’re interested...it was like this...”