Rum Affair (6 page)

Only twenty, I gathered, of the Club’s eighty odd members had entered for this particular race: in any case for reasons of safety (safety?) the smallest were barred. For the rest, there was handicapping of a fairly cursory sort over the two halves of the circuit: before the day’s sail to the Crinan Canal which would give us access to the west coast proper, and again on Thursday, when we restarted from the far end of the canal. Everyone was forced to clock in at a checkpoint on each place to be visited, and only the actual sailing time between islands would count in the end. If the weather was bad, there was no reason, explained Victoria comfortingly, why one shouldn’t lie up in harbour until it improved: in fact everyone usually did. But if there was a good wind, for example, you might find yourself sailing night and day to make use of it. It depended.

“It seems an odd way of spending a holiday,” I remarked as we rowed past all these frantic small boats occupied, according to Victoria, by vacationing judges, doctors and chartered accountants, accompanied by their wives, friends and occasionally nieces. “But you and Mr Ogden are awfully keen?”

“Cecil is. Cecil’s marvellous,” said Victoria. Her head screwed permanently over her shoulder, she was digging alternately with this oar and that, avoiding boats big and little. “That’s
Weevli.
That’s
Ballyrow:
they’ve got a super new record player; you’ll hear it at Crinan; and there’s
Blue Kitten;
I’m afraid he practises piping. But
Nina’s
absolutely dreamy: he plays the Hawaiian guitar: he has a cousin in a group. Crinan’s mad: they all get together and get sloshed. You’ll love it.” She turned round, her way being momentarily clear, and added, referring, I soon realised, to Ogden: “He built
Seawolf
practically himself. How many men could do that? With his own hands. On nothing, just about: his people are creeps and he’s got a thing about asking for help. You know. But people know the boat is his life, and they appreciate that, around here. He knows all the locals and the anchorages, and people are jolly good and help when they can. They know he’s genuine.” Suddenly, she tossed her hair back and before it was blown straight back over her face by the wind I saw a thin, bony, rather sad face, like a medical missionary who once addressed us at the Home. Victoria said: “He feels a bit spare at times: who wouldn’t, with the hard work and the loneliness. But he’s a rather epic type, really . . . This one’s
Binkie.”
She indicated the boat we were just about to pass, of a rather disgusting shade of dark red.

“What does
Binkie
do?” I asked gloomily. Johnson. And Ogden. And Hennessy. My God. This particular racehorse of the seas was smaller than most of the others, and was engaged in washing up its breakfast dishes on three inches of deck. As I spoke, a small round person in a knitted cap lifted and emptied the washing-up bowl, to a screaming of seagulls and a man’s voice crying: “Nan! Nan! Did ye feel for the teaspoon?”

It was the man and wife seen last night in the bar, their arms full of bottles of tonic. “Bob and Nancy Buchanan. He runs a garage in Falkirk,” said Victoria, rapidly, and hailed them. “Hallo! This is Madame Rossi: I’m taking her out to the
Dolly.
Well, are you cosy, Bob? How’s the Wee Stinker?”

The face of the man Buchanan split into an affectionate grin. “Fine. Grand, absolutely. You can hang your socks on her and they’re dry in ten minutes.”

“They’ve got a new stove,” explained Victoria.
“Binkie’s
got everything, haven’t you Bob? Wee Stinker’s their stove, and their engine’s called Buttercup: an absolutely stunning great object by Kelvin. And they both eat out of dog dishes: a perfectly super idea because they can’t tip even when you go about, and keep hot and everything. You’ve no idea the wrinkles they have.”

The woman had joined the man. Both their faces were mahogany with weather and flattery. The man Bob said: “Well, you know. A tidy ship is an efficient ship. And an efficient ship is a happy ship. We keep the Good Book handy and do what we can.”

The woman Nancy hit him on the arm. “Bob, Madame Rossi will be wondering. That’s just the name we give the C.C.C. Sailing Directions; don’t heed him.” She suddenly knelt. During all this, Victoria was attaching the entire dinghy to
Binkie
with one calloused hand on their gangway. We bobbed up and down but she showed no signs of discomfort. The woman Buchanan addressed me at close quarters.

“I’m not meaning to be cheeky, but Bob and me and the others at the Clubhouse think your coming with us is great. And in a good working boat:
Dolly’
s been up here a few times before, and she’s a good boat with good people in her. We get the carriage trade slumming up here from Formentor and Alghero with their wigs and their fancy men and their beagles doing the bathroom at every lock gate west of Cairnbaan, but it takes a real lady to try her luck in the Minch. Not that I’ve anything against dumb animals: I’m a vegetarian and a member of the RSPCA and I’ve never worn an animal’s fur in my life, but it’s the principle . . . Are you a good sailor, Madame Rossi?”

“I don’t know yet. I hope so,” I said. I was fascinated.

She clicked her small, blackened teeth. “Tell Johnson to give you a pill. And remember, we’re vegetarian but we’re not a dry ship. If yon debutante’s dream Rupert’s forgotten the booze, there’s enough here lying snug in the bilges to see us both right.”

I thought of it; and I was still thinking of it when, having made out suitable farewells, we left the Buchanans and arrived at last at Johnson’s yacht
Dolly.

She was bigger than I had feared. She was a long white boat, with two tall masts, brass rails and a polished wood companionway. At the top of this, two heads emerged in welcome. One was Rupert Glasscock’s, tousled and blonde, above glittering chrome yellow oilskins. The other belonged to a small, middle-aged man with large ears and an old navy yachting cap whom Rupert, blowing kisses to both of us, introduced as Lenny Milligan from Golders Green, ex-Royal Navy, ex-Royal Yacht, ex-a very fancy job with a millionaire’s steam yacht in Monte. “Signed on for a season to slum it in Britain,” said Rupert as Victoria flung up the painter and planted a prehensile bare foot on
Dolly’s
gangway, ready to board.

“Good show,” said Victoria absently, turning to lend me a hand. “It won’t take him a season to find out there’s nothing wrong with British yachting but lousy old British weather.”

“Lousy weather and herberts like Cecil,” said Rupert, helping us aboard and down into a large and well-cushioned cockpit. “You’re dotty, darling. You know that you’re dotty. Your soulmate’s an incurable nut. He got
Seawolf
from Santa in a polythene bag with a tube of soluble gum. He did. I swear it.”

“You’re just jealous, my Rupert.” Victoria was unperturbed. “My God, new bedspreads.” She withdrew her head from the aft cabin. “I wish I had Johnson’s income tax to live off, that’s all I can say. How’d you like it?”

This to me: I didn’t answer. I was still looking.

This, I was glad to find, was quite a suitable boat for Tina Rossi. To luxury yachts, of course, I was no stranger. But the small kind one sees at Monte and St Jean and Gibraltar – I have observed them. This was different. She had aft a double cabin, with bathroom and shower, which would be mine. Through the cockpit, one descended into the saloon, by way of various amenities, including good lockers. The saloon, with bedcouches and hammocks, would sleep four, but was shared, I was told, by Johnson and Glasscock. Beyond was the galley and Lenny’s quarters, with a central passage leading through to the foreward cabin which had its own hatchway, and thence to the fo’c’sle.

The steering was done by wheel or by tiller from the cockpit, from which one could reach winches on either side deck for working the sheets. Round the wheel was a mass of dials to do with the big Mercedes Benz 60 b.h.p. 6-cylinder diesel engine (said Rupert), which was located under the cockpit. There were seats fitted on either side, and Victoria and I reclined there, until Rupert ceased demonstrating. Eventually: “Gear, eh?” he enquired.

“Very,” said I. I had seen my four cases out of the corner of my eye. “By the way, I’ve brought you a little champagne. Where do you keep it?”

“With the caviar,” said Rupert. “In the bilges. My God, have you really, Madame Rossi? It’s a privilege to sail with you. Here, quick, before the skipper louses it up. If
Symphonetta
beats us into Tobermory I’ll need it more than he does.”

“Will she beat you?” I asked. I had seen
Symphonetta
not far away among three or four of her own kind. She was coloured black, tall and stately and shining with brasswork and paint. Three nimble figures in snowy white oilskins had just taken off her sail suit and were preparing to get her mainsail pulled up.

“Poor bastards,” said Milligan. They were the first words he had spoken, but he made himself clear. “Would’ve bedded down on that boat last night with nothing but some crimpy crisps and a shandy between them if the Buchanans hadn’t stood them a beer or two each in the bar.”

“They are Hennessy’s paid crew?” I enquired. It seemed an unfair advantage.

Victoria shook her head. “In Scotland, he has students mostly. They’re loopy on sailing, and there aren’t many boats like
Symphonetta
up here. He leaves his paid hands at Cowes, and economises with a few bob and free smokes for the boys. Talking of which, what’s the current bit about some crazy, lush bet? Rupert, you’re bonkers. And a bit of a twit to expect Johnson to knock up
Dolly
winning the race against Hennessy for you.”

“He won’t need to knock up
Dolly,”
Rupert was beginning in peeved astonishment when the snarl of an outboard interrupted him, and there was Johnson, eyebrows rampant and black hair sifted up by the gathering breeze. “Victoria, superchick, Cecil’s got a short in his starting motor and if you don’t get over fast, he’ll either be kippered or out of the race. Lenny, the engine. Madame Rossi, you’re going to be cold. Rupert, your troubles are solved. I’m going to lend you my worry beads.”

In ten minutes we were under way. To Kenneth, and Rum.

I had never raced in a small boat before. I did not expect to be seasick. I did not expect, on the other hand, to enjoy it particularly. It could be said, in that way, to have exceeded all my expectations.

To begin with, almost before I had changed, the mainsail was raised, causing a great many draughts, and we had cast off our mooring and were under way down the Clyde Estuary to Gourock, where the starting gun was firing already, at half-hourly intervals, for the departure of each class in the race.

Next there was a great rattling and the mizzen sail went up, causing me to arrive suddenly on the left wall of my cabin en suite with my four cases. It was clear now why Johnson appeared so unconcerned on finding them aboard after all. I was to play pontoon with them for the cruise.

When I hooked back my door, Johnson was alone at the tiller, perched above my head with his feet on the cockpit cushions, the face glassed-in this time by Polaroid bifocals, in black. He was whistling. The rattling, the flapping and the calling had all stopped and
Dolly
was sliding along on one glossy white flank, her sunny canvases masking the sea. Around us the hills were bright green, and the blue water was spiked with sails, coloured and white, tilting slightly at odds, like unrehearsed bows in a
tutti.

I sat down with my back to the saloon wall and my feet on Johnson’s Moroccan wool cushions, and suddenly from below there was a flood of soft music and Lenny appeared at my elbow with a mug of steam-flustered coffee and a ham sandwich, just cut. Johnson took one too and put it on deck, resting the tiller under his elbow. He did not turn his head much, but the dark glasses inclined towards the sails, the bow, the headland, the distant ribbon of small towns and at me. Continuing to contemplate me: “This,” said Johnson agreeably, “is just the commercial. The flip side’ll slay you.”

At the time, I was mildly amused.

The morning passed. I had my first experience of changing direction. On advice, I first retired to my cabin. Then Johnson observed, mildly: “Ready about, gentlemen,” and put the tiller down, and the boat came erect, sails flapping, while the bow began a big swing to the right. For a moment
Dolly
hesitated, and then the wind caught and filled her sails from the new side and turning, she heeled flat out on her right flank. While Lenny scampered about crouching on the foredeck and Rupert in the cockpit had his hands full of whipping white ropes, the two wooden booms holding the sails had swept across, as Johnson prophesied with some confidence that they would.

He and Rupert had ducked. I had no need, being pinned in my cabin by my four cases. It was Rupert who helped me up. “Bit inconvenient, don’t you find?” he said kindly. “You could always leave them on shore at Ardrishaig, and pick them up later . . . Oo, I say! That’s a bit hasty.”

He was gazing at my biggest case, which I had just swung into the cockpit and thence overboard.

“Why? It’s unpacked,” I replied. It was true. The contents of one I had managed to squeeze into my locker.

“But my God, it’s crocodile, isn’t it?” said Rupert, ululation, despite himself, in his voice.

It was. But, of course, it was also insured. I shrugged. “The other three perhaps
Symphonetta
might be persuaded to take for me.”

Rupert caught Johnson’s eye and started to laugh. “Persuade! Christ, Hennessy’s bearings’ll seize. Madame Rossi, you’re marvellous.”

“Tina,” I corrected him. Better be done with it.

“Rupert,” said Rupert.

“Johnson,” said Johnson, smartly. “Rupert, I don’t awfully want to go about again immediately, but I shall have to if you don’t let the mainsail out at the double.”

I crossed the cockpit and knelt, looking out to sea, on the cushions beside him. I was wearing Pucci trousers and Ma Griffe. “Johnson?” I said. “Just so? Like one’s gardener, or one’s clerk?”