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- Herausgeber: Universe
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
This story of adventure, romance and violence, with a strong nautical background, is set in the West Indies and South America. When James Huwes is appointed second-in-command of a magnificent super-yacht he finds himself thrown into a bright playboy world where charming but utterly ruthless enemies compete for the two women he loves. Sexy shenanigans, deceit, revenge, and the prospect of great wealth lead to several murders and suspected murders - some of them, perhaps, entirely justified. James faces down a revolution and endures an alarming spell in a South African prion where he is attacked in the drk - but not by humans. prospect of great wealth lead to several murders and suspected murders – some of them, perhaps, entirely justified. James faces down a revolution and endures an alarming spell in a South American prison where he is attacked in the dark – but not by humans. During this time his ship catches fire and sinks in highly suspicious circumstances. An underwater fight to the death and a devastating hurricane complicate the action, which ends with a twist in the tale.
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Seitenzahl: 366
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Twenty-eight feet under water, in utter silence and darkness, James Huwes waited, immobile in his breathing apparatus. During the next five minutes he would either kill or be killed. All other options had vanished. And his enemy was extremely close, perhaps six feet away.
He was surprised to find that he did not fear death itself, but the manner of dying, knifed and drowned at the bottom of a muddy river in Santa Rosa, would be highly disagreeable while it lasted.
He knew what he had to do and his mind was super-alert to do it, but his memory kept reverting to the terrifying tangle of circumstances that had put him in this deadly position.
* * * * *
It had all started in the hot summer of 1967. An overnight telegram had arrived as he was having breakfast with his mother. It was a moment that changed his life:
HUWES UPTON HOUSE CHURBRIDGE ARE YOU INTERESTED TAKING LADY STEYNES YACHT TO WEST INDIES LEAVING SEPTEMBER DURATION UNKNOWN RING STONHAM MAGNA 372 SIGNED HODGES
He read it, and his mother watched him, curious.
“Who’s Lady Steyne?” he asked her, handing her the telegram.
“I don’t know,” she replied, reading it slowly. “Try Who’s Who.”
He got up and went to the study. His father’s old copy of Who’s Who, dated the year of his death, contained no entry under Steyne. He went back to the breakfast room and his mother’s probing.
“Any luck, dear?” she asked.
“Not a word.”
“Who is this Hodges?”
“He was my captain in the Wilton.” James remembered his time in the Navy with a touch of wistfulness. He had had a modest success there. Those minesweepers in the Mediterranean had given him perhaps the best and most fulfilling time of his life. Since then there had been failures – all sorts of failures.
“I remember, dear,” his mother said. “He was the one you always liked, not like that other dreadful man. I wonder why he’s taking this yacht to the West Indies.”
James said nothing. His mother was desperately interested in his reaction to this surprise, but he did not know his own mind yet. He had a good deal to think about. Recently he had felt the millstone of his family home and estate becoming more and more oppressive. When his father died his mother had run the estate, which had always been legally hers, and although James had become more and more involved in its management his mother never released her hold over any important decision. James was fond of his mother, but he found the situation stifling. There was just not enough money to run the place properly, and this fact made them both edgy in their endless discussions of what should be done. Several ideas of his to make the estate more profitable had foundered because of his mother’s reluctance to experiment. His latest enterprise, which he had at last managed to persuade her to agree to, was to breed Shetland ponies in the park. It seemed that failure was not very far away there either because although Shetlands looked attractive from a distance, people did not seem particularly interested in buying them.
“Well, dear,” said his mother, totally predictable as always, “I don’t know whether you are taking this mysterious offer seriously. Of course whether you go or not is your decision. I dare say I could manage to get along without you, so don’t feel obliged to stay here on my account, although it is the most important time of the year. But if you ask me …”
James felt spontaneous annoyance making him uncomfortable. Why should his mother always intrude on his decisions?
“… you’ll run into endless complications,” she continued. “As an employee of Lady Steyne, whoever she may be, you’ll be subject to her every whim and fancy. You may find yourself thrown off in some unknown part of the world and have to pay your own way back home.”
“I doubt that.”
“James, you really ought to settle down to one thing and stick to it. If you go flitting from job to job like your cousin Freddy …”
“I haven’t decided for or against this business yet.”
He was irritated. The gibe about Freddy, who was always taking on unexpected jobs, was unfair. He excused himself and went back into the study. It was good of Oz Hodges to telegram rather than telephone this offer; it gave him time to turn it over unhurriedly. Clearly there were many things that had to be sorted out before he could decide definitely, but as he dialled the number he realised that he had practically made his decision already.
Oz’s voice was jovial and familiar.
“Hello old boy – how’s things?”
“Fine, thank you sir – I got your telegram just now.”
“Splendid – are you interested?”
“Yes indeed – what’s it all about?”
“Well, I’m not entirely in the picture myself, but Lady Steyne, who was an old friend of my mother’s, is having a yacht built for her to swan around the world in. She’s asked me to drive it. And having been on the beach for two years now I leapt at it. I’d like you to be my First Lieutenant.”
Oz sounded the same as always. He couldn’t quite say his r’s and he pronounced the word “built” as though it was spelt “beelt”.
“Sounds just the job, sir. How long for?”
“Don’t know yet. Look, I shall know more about this later today after one of Lady Steyne’s henchmen has been to see me. Why don’t you come down and spend the night here and I can tell you all I know about it?”
James had agreed and rung off, reminding himself that staying in the Oz household was an experience in itself anyway.
* * * * *
As he guided the old Rover along the curving roads of Wiltshire with the telegram beside him, he realised how little he knew about the whole venture. Was he crazy to contemplate abandoning the estate and his ponies just now? Could his mother really manage?
He turned off the road at the Stonham Magna signpost and the car moved easily down a hill towards the village. It was ages since he had been here. It looked more built-up and vaguely unfamiliar. He stopped alongside a woman pushing a pram.
“Could you tell me where Down Hill Farm is, please?”
“Down Hill Farm? Couldn’t say at all. Sorry.” A local though.
“Commander Hodges?” he tried.
“Ah, Hodges’s – straight on past Big Tree and first left.”
James thanked her and drove on. He remembered Big Tree; it was an enormous chestnut growing more or less out of the middle of a crossroads, with a shabby wooden sign that had once invited you to “Keep Left”. As he kept left and encountered the savage turns required for this manoeuvre, he remembered five years ago a hazy-hot Saturday afternoon when Oz had invited him up from Portland for a game of golf. That had been when he first discovered Stonham Magna, sleepy and nestling deep in unkempt winding lanes. He felt quite separated from the self he remembered of those days, recalling his slightly disreputable sports car, hood back, bare elbow resting on the window ledge and golf clubs tossed into the seat beside him. He had scarcely played golf since then. How had he managed to get into such a rut?
Suddenly he was driving up to the front door. He got out, stretched his back, and extricated his grip from the boot. The front door was open, and as the various noises coming out of it seemed in no way connected with his knocks, he walked in.
Two enormous Old-English sheepdogs bounded up, growled, interrogated him briefly, and bounded off. James, by now covered with dog hairs, picked his way carefully between two pianos, side by side, round a Chinese urn, and past an ancient barrel of cider dripping into a jug. Two clocks started striking. A girl aged about ten rushed in at a door, said “Hello-they’re-all-in-there,” and rushed out again. He had a vague feeling that something was happening and realised he had been counting the chimes. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen – one of the clocks had dropped out but still the other struck and struck again. He paused in the hall, counting to himself, as the house seemed quieter.
Twenty-four, twenty-five – could a clock strike forever? Thirty-two, thirty-three, click! Suddenly it stopped. The drawing-room door burst open and people streamed out into the hall, laughing, hooraying, congratulating each other. He found himself surrounded by the entire family, which seemed to consist largely of dogs and small girls, and towering above them all was the basset-like face of Oz Hodges, welcoming and explaining.
“My dear James, how very nice to see you again. Please forgive this display of family hysteria, but your arrival has precipitated a horological jackpot. These American clocks – a hobby of mine, you may remember – this particular one is a great favourite and it’s just achieved a triple – ten plus eleven plus twelve – the theoretical maximum for this kind of mechanism. It’s never happened before. We were all in there counting breathlessly. This is a great moment. Come on in. Have a glass of cider.”
James received the warmest of smiles from Mrs Hodges and a heavy cut-glass goblet of cider from Oz.
“We haven’t seen you, James, for far too long,” she said with her rather attractive trace of a French accent. She was an Alsatian.
“What an omen, you coming and Matilda striking thirty-three,” said the eldest daughter, wearing red slacks and sitting cross-legged on the floor by the fire. “You must come more often, James.”
She looked a sophisticated thirteen, tall and leggy, like her mother but not yet so pretty. He would have to find out all their names. No one was likely to do much introducing.
“It was a glorious summer’s day,” said James, “and we played golf, last time I was here. And you gave us a fine dinner of mussels with pearls in them, Mrs Hodges, if you remember.”
“I remember it well, but you seem to have forgotten to call me Marie-Claire.” A flashing smile.
“Thank you, Marie-Claire.”
Someone dashed off shouting, “I remember, I remember,” to find the matchbox with the tiny seed pearls she had collected from the grown-ups on that memorable evening.
“Have we got time to, before tea?” asked one of the girls in a stage whisper to her mother, with conspiratorial glances towards the others.
“I suppose so,” said Marie-Claire, “if James can bear it.”
James looked suitably mystified and intrigued.
“Could you bear to witness a …”
“Oh, Maman, don’t tell, you beast.”
“Well,” said Oz, “let’s talk turkey. You know when they promoted me to the ‘dry’ list after all my faithful work driving Wilton around the oceans …”
“Damn shame,” said James.
“… and I was pretty disappointed, naturally, and I suppose somewhat resentful of all those twerps who got on to the ‘wet’ list …”
“Particularly Angus Swallow?”
“Among others, Angus Swallow. Anyway, I resigned to run this creaking family farm and I also got a two-days-a-week job as a local salesman for a firm of fertiliser distributors, of all things.”
“I didn’t know that,” said James. “I thought you were just a gentleman farmer.”
“Didn’t bring in enough to keep my large team of women happy,” said Oz. “You must know some of the difficulties farmers are in at the moment.”
“I do indeed.” The number of people in the room seemed, on balance, to be diminishing.
“So. That’s the uninteresting life history of O. Hodges, until a week ago when I got a letter from a certain Mr Winter, who seems to be a sort of accountant-lawyer-Flag-Lieutenant to Lady Steyne.”
“Who is Lady Steyne?”
“The widow of Sir Joseph Steyne, late recluse, miser and chain-store millionaire, or probably billionaire. My mother used to know her ages ago in Malta, before either of them was married. She was quite a gal: dark, half-Spanish in fact, attractive, and on the fringes of the so-called International Jet Set. Apparently, when she married Joe Steyne, who was already quite well known for meanness and money, everyone hoped she would be able to bring him out of his shell.”
“She didn’t succeed?”
“No. The old boy became quite eccentric as he got older – they say he used to keep most of his vast wealth in emeralds secreted about the house and make his wife wash up with Lifebuoy soap. He hated publicity and wouldn’t go out at all. Anyway, last year he died, and was hardly cold before her ladyship decided to make up for lost time.”
“So she bought a yacht,” said James, not forgetting his telephone conversation but trying to provoke Oz into saying “built” in his own peculiar way.
“Well, she’s having one beelt,” he replied. “At Cowes. It’s due to be completed in September. And that’s where I come in. Lady S. thought of me in a brainstorm, and I found myself invited to be captain of this yacht, man her, and take her out to the West Indies to await my lady’s pleasure. This chap Winter was here this morning to iron out the details.”
“And what are the details, sir?”
Oz outlined them. They were remarkably generous. A salary rather more than James had thought possible, all expenses paid, and a free flight back to England twice a year for a fortnight’s leave – more if the programme allowed. Oz had a contract for a year; the rest of the ship’s company were to be at one month’s notice.
“So you see, James, I jumped at it. Although I shall hate leaving my family, it will be a great joy to be back at sea again, and financially of course I shall be able to put this farm back on its feet.”
James’s thoughts were following similar lines, but without the family ties.
“This yacht – how big is she?” he asked.
“Large motor yacht, eight hundred tons, a hundred and ninety feet long, twin screws. Looks very pretty. She’s called Mozart. Apparently Lady Steyne has just discovered music.”
“Have you seen her?”
“The ship or the lady? Anyway, neither. I’m going down to Cowes this week to see the builders and how they are getting on. Later I shall have to stay at Cowes until she is completed, and I would like you to do so too. As for the lady, she is somewhere in the Middle East at the moment. I doubt if we shall meet her till she flies out to the West Indies to join us.”
Suddenly the door burst open and four creatures minced in, moving in step and howling. It took James a moment or two to realise that these were the four Hodges girls performing a burlesque of a well-known pop group. Their heads were covered with fantastic wigs, they strummed imaginary guitars, and they weaved their hips around in a lithe and seductive way. Their grotesque noises filled the room, unmelodious, harsh and yet surprisingly rhythmic. James was completely astounded. It was a dreadful row.
They finished as abruptly as they had started, and were duly clapped out of the room. Comment seemed superfluous, and it became very quiet. Oz rose from his tattered armchair and strolled to the window to look out over the farm – his ewes with their lambs, his small herd of cows, his beehives, his cider-apple trees. James wondered whether it was deliberately arranged that they should all be visible from this window. Without looking down Oz picked up a pipe with his right hand and with his left opened a Chinese casket containing homemade tobacco. He filled his pipe, thoughtfully, knowing James would be guessing most of his thoughts – how much it would trouble him to leave his wife, his four children, his farm, his clocks, his collection of Chinese oddities. And how much Marie-Claire would have avoided dissuading him, if he really thought he must go back to sea and earn a small fortune. A Chinnery portrait of a Chinese, all benevolence and composure, smiled down from the wall.
Oz turned: “Are you on, old friend?”
“Of course I’m on, sir. When do we start?”
CHAPTER TWO
James had much to occupy him during the next few weeks. Oz had asked him to come down to Cowes a month before the yacht commissioned, which gave him four weeks to organise his affairs. It had seemed just about enough at the time; three weeks later it seemed absurdly little. First his mother had to be coped with, and he remembered driving back from Stonham Magna wondering how difficult that would be. But she had made no difficulties over his decision, and seemed calmer about it than he had expected. In fact he found that they could discuss the arrangements for the estate without exasperating each other – almost the first time this had been possible since his father’s death. Of course, she had had time to think it over during his absence, and seemed to have realised that his mind had been nearly made up anyway. Surprisingly she was even encouraging him and taking an interest in his arrangements. James reflected sadly how little they now knew each other. They had once been so alike that when he was a boy people would mistake their voices on the telephone, and their conversation would be almost unintelligible to outsiders. The estrangement had been mostly his fault, he decided, because he had been unable or unwilling to cut the apron strings delicately enough and she remained subconsciously resentful. Not an unusual situation perhaps. As he struggled to do all he could to make his absence easy for her, his mind leaned, as it often did, on a favourite truism: he had his own life to lead. She refrained from saying so too, and for that he was grateful.
There was also the question of Alice. Alice Cullerby had become a tall, dark girl – little more than a childhood friend really, he thought, but they had known each other for years, and he suspected she might be becoming fond of him lately. He would have to say goodbye to her in a way that would not leave her guessing. She worked in London for a music agency, but her family lived nearby. Her father was a businessman of some sort and kingpin of the local Conservative party; her mother was an opera singer, more or less retired. It was common talk that James and Alice would make a very suitable match – common, that is, with everyone except James and Alice. He found her likeable, and very pretty, and her letters were literate and entertaining, but her outlook and conversation lacked sparkle. Being in her company did not inspire him with any kind of restless enthusiasm.
He mused, as he drove up to London to say goodbye to her, that if ever he wanted a conventional wife Alice would provide one par excellence. Strikingly good looks, a family he could certainly get on with – but a trifle dull perhaps? – No, it simply would not do. But at her little basement flat she greeted him on the doorstep with a most stimulating smile.
“James – you are most welcome.” She did speak beautifully.
“Alice, my dear.” He kissed her lightly. She was a little too tall for him.
“How are you?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Oh fine!”
It would require a good deal of perseverance to keep the evening’s conversation alive. A charming, devoted girl, without much originality in her sleek, dark head.
The evening itself was to start on conventional lines. As they took their places in the theatre he remembered how he had looked through the theatre guide and wondered how it was possible for such a large list to provide so little choice. He was jaded, he told himself, as the curtain rose on some upper-class drawing-room of fifty years ago. He should have stayed at the flat and discovered if Alice wanted to be seduced. He suddenly found the possibility quite enlivening.
The play ended, they agreed it was not bad, and went off to a small restaurant for dinner. They sat at the miniature bar and James found his spirits revive with the second gin. Count your blessings, said the old song. After all, he had just landed a job full of interest and money, a job that would be envied by all these dark-suited characters sitting around with their London girls. While they continued their common tasks, he would be buccaneering off to the West Indies. Another gin. Alice was as charming as ever and listened to what he was saying, which was much more than most people ever did. In fact he found her raptness encouraged him, and his sentences were becoming longer and better formed, and his amusing arguments proceeding logically to unanswerable conclusions. They took their places at a table, and he saw his companion with new, kindly eyes – saw her measure up to the severe glamour-pussies at the neighbouring tables, and perhaps exceed them in every aspect of their art. She had become infinitely more amiable and desirable, and he was a blithe deceiver with an intimate manner. After all, they had known each other for years and years. Had they not, as children, once had a forbidden bathe together in the nude? He reminded her of it, and she blushed and laughed but did not look away.
“This wine is excellent,” he found himself saying.
“Yes, isn’t it,” she said. “I do like a really good fruity wine.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“Well chosen.”
“It’s Chilean.”
“Of course it’s Chilean.”
“I’m getting hints of …”
“Me too.”
That was a surprise, and she gave him a lovely wild burst of laughter.
“I love your laugh,” he said.
“So do I. I’d be miserable without it.”
They both laughed.
He raised a finger. Normally raising a finger does not summon a waiter, but it did in this case.
“Waiter, another one of these superb bottles of wine, if you please.”
As he drove very carefully back to her flat, he realised that whatever the outcome of the rest of the evening he was not making his long-term intentions any clearer. This was only a tiny irritation of conscience, and like an oyster he overlaid it with a covering vastly more attractive. Anyway, he thought, perhaps it did no harm after all to keep a girl guessing for a bit. Anyway, here was the flat.
She was all lightness and pliancy in his arms, and he knew with a surge of excitement that he could succeed. She had conformed for too long. She made some coffee while he sprawled on the sofa, basking in his great good fortune. Was it not astonishing to spend the night with dear conventional Alice? Was this not a memorable evening after all? Surely here, tonight, he had the world at his fingertips.
She sat beside him and they talked and kissed and she smiled, most beguilingly, and the coffee became cold on the table beside them. And then he led her into the bedroom, she apologising for its untidiness and he earnestly brushing her apologies aside. Outside it was beginning to rain.
“Shall I turn the light off now?” he said. “Or don’t you mind?”
“I don’t think I know,” she said, bounding into bed like a frightened hare.
She was sweet and ladylike and required no excuses to be made for her; she had made up her mind. James was courteous with her, and successful because he liked her very much; and at the last moment she tossed her head back with a startling gesture of total abandonment, and he loved her utterly. Then she nuzzled the hair on his chest, sighed, and smiled remotely, and he wished he could purr. Then she cried a little with joy, and they made love again. She looked absurdly young when they made love. How old was she? He could not remember. Cradle-snatcher.
Afterwards, in the sullen London dawn, he left the flat and started the long drive home. The streets were shiny-grey and empty. He felt triumphant but tired, and his mind refused to face the changed relationships this surprising night might be expected to bring. Sex does change things.
But he had a job to do, he told himself, starting tomorrow, and he would be gone in a month. Perhaps he had created problems, but Alice had been very loving, and surely there was an obligation somewhere to live one’s life to the full. His mind was a confusion of Don Juan clichés and lurking accusations. Cad, it told him. Gallant. Buccaneer.
* * * * *
James headed for Cowes with his car full of baggage. There seemed to be a sense of expectancy in the air as the ferry left the jetty and headed down Southampton Water towards the Isle of Wight. It was a sunny morning, but a stiff breeze over the deck made it pleasantly cool. Great cumulus clouds billowed all round the horizon. Good gliding weather, he thought. And the fishing season will be over soon. Pity to have missed it. Not many trout in the West Indies, and I haven’t fished this year.
As the ferry passed Netley, the largest liner ever built came into view, rounding Calshot Spit light vessel in a smooth curve, heeling just perceptibly in the turn. Then she steadied on to her course like a faultless gymnast on a high bar. The ferry was keeping well clear, but Queen Elizabeth seemed to tower above them as she glided up Southampton Water to her home. With the wind full in his face, James was stirred by the sight of this enormous complex of humans and machinery. Ships and the sea held a great fascination for him. It seemed a good omen for a seagoing venture.
The ferry entered Cowes harbour and he had half a glimpse of a large motor yacht behind the floating dock: light grey hull with a blue band round it, white superstructure. No other yacht of that size in the yard – it must be Mozart. Once off the ferry he drove through the narrow Cowes streets, crowded with shoppers and anoraked yachtsmen. He parked outside the arch that marked the entrance to the old shipyard. Oz met him as he walked underneath it, going in the opposite direction.
“The gateway to adventure. Morning, James. Welcome aboard.” He was in a hurry.
“Morning, sir. All well?”
“No. Moderate crisis. See you lunchtime in the bar of The Bull. Must fly.” And Oz was gone.
James went into the grey hangar-like collection of buildings, which were echoing with shipbuilding noises. Few things disturbed Oz’s equanimity, but something had.
This time yesterday, he thought, I was driving back from Alice’s flat. I wonder what she thinks of me now. But enough of women. On with the job!
CHAPTER THREE
The little office which the shipbuilders had put at the disposal of the master of the Mozart was crowded with people, and James could see through the glass door that they were all arguing with each other. There was some kind of a flap on. Being reluctant to get embroiled just at that moment, he walked past the door and found his way down to the yacht. She was secured alongside the cluttered disorderly jetty, and was indeed the one he had seen from the ferry. She looked sleek and beautiful, with a shimmering coat of grey paint, so light in colour that it seemed almost white until the eye compared it to the stark white of the superstructure. A few feet below the unbroken sweeping line of her main deck ran a band of the brightest blue, interrupted only at the bow with a space for her name. A man suspended on a plank was painting in the name, and for some reason he had started at the end. ART it read, and she did seem to James a work of art as she lay there, almost finished, gleaming in the sun. Both bow and stern were raked, not excessively so, and the sloping lines of bridge, mast and ensign staff all matched each other, giving her a sturdy air of surging forward into the sea. He wondered how true it was that what looks good to a seaman’s eye behaves well at sea. Certainly she gave an impression of grace and compactness that was entirely pleasing. ZART she was now called, as he stepped up the brow and went aboard.
Between decks the ship was a mess, but there was a hint of system in the chaos of panelling, electric leads and ventilation trunking that were strewn along the passageways. He picked his way round carefully, gradually becoming familiar with the layout of the ship. Clearly no expense had been spared in the fitting out of this splendid vessel. She was air-conditioned throughout of course. Her finishings were luxurious, but not gaudy. The officers’ quarters were extremely comfortable and made James remember his year sharing one of the tiny cabins of a coastal minesweeper, cheek by jowl in almost intolerable sweaty heat. Dockyard workmen were all over the place, and occasionally a muffled roar of welding came from another part of the ship.
He went aft and came to what were obviously Lady Steyne’s staterooms. They were sumptuously furnished. He noticed polished wood, deep carpets, a faint expensive smell of new leather, and some elaborate tape recording equipment discreetly built in. There was something missing from the traditional decor; he couldn’t determine what it was at first. A man in brown overalls was standing on a cocktail cabinet doing something to the panelling, almost hidden by chintz drapery.
“Morning,” said James.
“Good morning to you,” said the dockyard joiner, jumping nimbly down from the cocktail cabinet. He was wearing felt shoes to avoid scratching the French polish.
“So these are the royal apartments,” said James. He felt inclined to talk to this man.
“Proper job, isn’t it?” said the joiner, lighting a cigarette. “Do you see what’s missing?”
James was aware of an incongruity. Part of his mind had been nagging away at this problem ever since he had entered the room. Another part took refuge in a rather feeble bit of repartee.
“If it’s missing how can I see it?”
“Ha! Wise guy.”
“I’ll buy it. What’s missing?”
“No lights,” said the joiner. “Photo-luminescent panels. First ever at sea.”
There were indeed no lights in the cabin. The joiner explained the principles of the electrically charged panelling on the bulkheads that provided flat, heat-less sources of light.
“All this lot’s coming out again though,” he said. “Lady Whatnot wants this berloody great five-wheel safe in here. Why she couldn’t’ve thought of it before beats me. And another cabin for her nephew they tell me. A lot of the officers’ accommodation’s got to be reorganised. Flipping breaks your heart. There’s a right panic going on about it.”
“Will it put the completion date out?”
“Bound to.” The joiner then considered it for a moment. “Well, we might just get it done on double overtime, if they want to pay for it. I don’t mind – I enjoy starting early on a sunny morning at this time of year. All depends on money.”
James left him and went ashore. It did indeed mostly depend on money. But the yacht was also built with good sense and good taste, and he warmed to her and felt protective. MOZART was now painted bravely on her bow and it seemed the final touch that gave a personality to a beautiful ship, as the Chinese, when painting a ceremonial dragon, brush in the eye last to bring it to life. He found he had taken to her in a way he had almost forgotten that seamen take to their ships, and then usually only in retrospect. He retraced his steps delighted.
Back in the little office the throng had subsided a bit and James went in. A number of people round a desk were taking instructions from a very dark young man who was giving orders with remarkable self-assurance. They caught each other’s eye and at the same instant recognised each other.
Peter Moraes, of all people.
But what was he doing here? Why was he giving orders to the builders? James remembered him as Black Pedro, a schoolboy in a straw hat, slightly an outsider, not quite liking the nickname by which everyone knew him. Did his family not live in South America? What was going on?
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Moraes said to the dockyard officials round him, and ignored them completely as they collected up papers and drawings and left. “James, my dear chap, good to see you after all these years.”
James’s slight bewilderment did not show above the well-worn social ritual. They exchanged pleasantries and the situation unfolded. Peter Moraes was Lady Steyne’s nephew, and had arrived the day before with her new instructions which were now spreading alarm and despondency among those responsible for the nearly finished yacht. Apart from the requirement for a large safe, which entailed refurbishing much of the main saloon, Moraes was to come with them in some undefined capacity, and an extra cabin had to be fitted up to accommodate him. As the joiner had surmised, this was going to cost a fearful amount of money, but no one seemed less concerned about it than Moraes himself.
James had never liked Black Pedro much at school. Now he felt that he was already casting a blight over the proceedings, and that his supremely confident manner might well become irritating. Then James remembered an old maxim of his father’s: nothing is ever as good or as bad as it first seems. Dull, depressing, usually right.
He escaped from Black Pedro to keep his rendezvous in the bar of The Bull. Oz was in rather less than his usual high spirits, and it was not difficult to guess why.
“Good to have you here, James. I need an ally. For the past three weeks I’ve been battling with the builders to make sure Lady Steyne gets a ship worthy of the colossal amount of money she is spending. The firm is absolutely first-class but naturally they see all things in terms of profit and loss, and they need a bit of chivvying. Just as I was beginning to see daylight and Mozart moving to a grand finale, this character Moraes arrives acting like the god from the machine and turns the place upside down. Of course if Grandma wants to rehash her yacht at the eleventh hour at enormous expense, that’s up to her. But this nephew of hers is going to require my utmost resources of self-restraint. Ah, well, the best laid schemes …”
“And he’s coming with us, he tells me,” said James.
“Yes. Perish the thought.”
“What’s he going to do on board?”
“Dunno. Self-appointed political commissar, I suppose.”
James smiled. Oz was resilient and would soon come to terms with the imposition of Black Pedro. He ordered another couple of pints. In Wilton, he remembered, his captain had never drunk spirits, not even duty-free gin at tuppence a tot.
“Will the ship be ready in time?”
“Well, we don’t quite know yet, but I think they may just about be able to make our completion date. We’ve got to be in Bermuda by the middle of October to pick up our alma mater.”
“Grandma?”
“Grandma.”
“What then?”
“Quite a nice programme ahead. It seems we shall do a quick tour round some of the Caribbean islands, through the canal about Christmas, then Acapulco, Monterey, San Francisco, Vancouver. Then all the way south to Santa Rosa, where we’ve got to be in the summer.”
“Why Santa Rosa?”
“Grandma has relations there. In fact Moraes is half Ecuadorian and there’s a family firm in Santa Rosa.”
“I knew he had some connection with South America,” said James. “Forgive my lamentable ignorance, but where is Santa Rosa?”
“Three quarters of the way up the left hand side, you heathen. How did you know about Moraes?”
“Went to school with him.”
“Copulating cats!” Oz sometimes came out with odd interjections, often more distracting than illuminating. “Well, James, you are hereby appointed Moraes Liaison Officer, short title MLO, main duty to keep him away from me and maintain my good temper. Now, to a more interesting subject. I’d like to give a commissioning party just before we leave – a dance perhaps on board. I think we ought to get weaving about this now – when to have it, invitations, arrangements, etc. – over to you. Let’s eat.”
They had lunch and Oz explained all kinds of other problems that needed dealing with. For a start, the yacht had to be manned. She had been built with all the most modern labour-saving devices in her machinery, and needed no more than a crew of twelve. One other officer was required and Oz had already made contact with an Australian who had recently left the RAN and was to join them as Navigator just before they commissioned. Provisioning and supplying the yacht before she sailed was another major concern, and required detailed arrangements with builders and ship chandlers. Charts and navigational instruments had to be obtained, and the various pieces of electrical equipment tested and tuned – which included some recording equipment remarkable for its high fidelity and high price. As Oz outlined what had to be done, explaining with great enthusiasm just how he wanted it and giving an inkling of his subtle relationship with the builders, James remembered how much his captain had enjoyed the running of ships and all the organisation it entailed. He pondered a little on the sense of purpose which he had noticed before with men and their ships; it was more than conscientiousness in doing a job well, or devotion to duty, or even the desire to serve one’s employer faithfully; it seemed that the driving imperative was a sense of service to the ship herself and the function for which she was built. That men should feel this way towards a collection of iron plates and rivets put together by other men, and moreover think themselves rather ennobled by such feelings, was quaint but true.
He checked into the hotel, which was nearly full – the yachting world had not yet departed. The rest of the day passed busily. He had plenty to do.
The next day woke him with the early morning sun streaming in at his window. He got up feeling invigorated and his mind thinking about orange blossom. It was a little while before he could recollect why; the vivid orange blossom at his windowsill in the Jerusalem YMCA had swung gently on just such a morning as this. His mind brought back to him his feelings of that awakening – a sense of confidence, awareness of beauty, excitement and a brave new world – emotions that had somehow eluded him for so long. But on this splendid sunny morning he felt the spring in his bones, and he dressed quickly and stepped out into the deserted streets of Cowes. It was going to be a scorcher and as he walked along the front towards the shipyard he was pleased to find himself the first to appreciate such a glorious day.
Even the grey shipyard looked rejuvenated. He stepped lightly under the archway, spurred on by a wish to see his ship again. Mozart would be just round the next shed – and there she was. As bright as a new toy, she gleamed in the low red sun, and he loved her.
He went up the brow and on board the soundless ship. It was scarcely 6.30 and there was not a soul about. He sensed a slightly eerie atmosphere in the strange emptiness, for it is uncharacteristic of any ship to be completely silent.
On an impulse, he opened the door of Lady Steyne’s saloon. It was dark inside and he paused, leaning in, with his hand on the doorknob.
As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he could just make out what looked like a pair of legs; legs with felt shoes, suspended in space. He backed out and closed the door.
He leant against the bulkhead, his brain labouring thickly. A great shudder made him hunch his shoulders. He looked at his watch: 6.32.
His brain fastened on to the time as the one definite certainty: 6.32. Just after half past six a.m. and there’s a body in there, a suicide, hanging from the deckhead, swinging in space. The joiner in his felt shoes. And I’m the first to find him.
No, I’m not, I never found him. I shall go back to the hotel, and when I get there I shall have breakfast and this thing may never have happened. Somebody else can be the first to find him.
But I can’t possibly do that. I’ve got to be the first to find him, because I’m here and I did find him. I’ve got to go in there and see if it really is a body, and then get some help. I’ve only seen the legs so far. He might not even be dead.
That thought was even more alarming. In desperation he looked again at his watch. Still 6.32. The bloody thing must have stopped. He put it to his ear. It was working perfectly.
Courage, man. Go in there and face it. And he opened the door.
He stood there once more, leaning in, his eyes getting accustomed to the light. It was clearly a pair of felt shoes and there seemed to be some sort of bundled-up figure hanging from a rope. Having recovered his courage, he put his hand round the door frame and switched on the photo-luminescent panels.
It was indeed the joiner, and he seemed completely lifeless. James’s enforced courage had numbed his senses and he looked at his first dead body with no reluctance. Here was an obvious crisis for him to deal with, and it is not too difficult to behave properly in a real crisis; it is the half-crisis that makes cowards of us all. The joiner had sat on a chair on top of another chair on top of the table and secured a stout rope to one of the deckhead fittings. He had then tied his neck to the rope with a complete round turn and two half hitches – an unlikely knot but efficient for the purpose, James thought without any cynicism. He had then passed the free end of the rope under his knees and trussed himself up before toppling off his chair. He had therefore had a fall of about eight feet, and it had been ample. He swung just perceptibly at the end of his plumb line, hunched up and staring, head on one side, eyes and tongue swollen and protruding, with large discoloured blotches on his cheeks. He was recognizable enough, and James remembered his conversation of the previous day and felt sorry for him. But it all seemed a little unreal.
