The Lighthearted Quest (7 page)

“Can I stay and see?”

“ ‘Course, if you like. But I think I'll go to bed.” He went out again to the bridge, looked at the binnacle, peered over the port side at the flashes from Toriñana Lighthouse; returned to the chart-room, laid the protractors on the chart, ruled a line and made an X in pencil, below which he wrote the time—23.23. Then he called, “I'm going below, Reeder,” and vanished down the companion-ladder.

A moment or so later Reeder ceased his pacing of the bridge and came into the chart-room, where Julia was still peering, fascinated, at the radar screen.

“Oh—you're still here.”

“Yes, the Captain said I could stay—I want to see the land come clearer on this. Oh, could you explain one thing?”

“I expect so—what is it?”

“All this fuzz of little white dots round the ship herself, just like the Milky Way.”

Reeder laughed shortly.

“That's what we call the clutter—it's the ship's own disturbance in the water.”

“Oh—oh, how funny.”

“Why funny?”

“Because all the other things it shows, like ships and land, are solid—this is only bubbles in the water, like you see over the side. And talking of that, did you notice that there's phosphorescence in the water tonight?—not a lot, just an odd spark, but it's there all right.”

“Yes. The beginning of southern waters. Lovely,” said Mr. Reeder. He glanced rather keenly at her. “You're fairly observant.”

“Not really, a bit—madly vague, in fact. Thanks”—as he gave her a cigarette, and lit one for himself. “Do you like southern waters?” she asked then—Mr. Reeder seemed in a more unbending mood than his usual abrupt aloofness, tonight.

“Yes, adore them—sub-southern, that is; I loathe the tropics. That's why I stick to this run—Spanish ports, Moroccan ports!”

When he spoke of sticking to the
Vidago's
run Julia recalled how Captain Blyth had said of him, over one of their nightly drinks, that Reeder was ‘one of the most efficient officers in the merchant navy. He could have had his master's ticket any time these last eight years, but he won't go up for it. Can't understand the fella.' With this in mind—

“Why do you like the Spanish and Moroccan ports so much?” she asked.

“The sun—and the girls! Anything with black hair drives me wild!” said Reeder frankly. “Can't abide blondes—funny, isn't it?”

Julia laughed. But suddenly an idea struck her. “Do you
get to know about other ships in all these ports?—yachts and things like that?'

“Don't know what you mean by ‘things'—one hears about some of the yachts, of course. Why? Do you want a yacht?”

“No, but I'm looking for one.”

“What's her name?”

“The lunatic part is that I don't even know that,” said Julia, more slowly than usual.

“Then I don't see how you are going to find her, unless you know the owner's name. What sort of yacht is she?—steam or sail?”

“Some sail and some engine, I think—I've no idea how big, either. It's all quite mad, but I absolutely must find her. I do know one of the owner's names, but not whether it's registered under that.”

“She's
registered,” Reeder corrected. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then said—“Why have you got to find her? None of my business, of course.”

Julia now plumped for telling this abrupt, rather cranky, man the reason for her quest—after all she needed any help she could get, and the Captain's unsolicited testimonial caused her to regard Reeder as a trustworthy person. In her near-drawling tones she related the whole story: Uncle John's death, and the consequent crisis at Glentoran; Aunt Ellen's distress, Edina's frustration at being stuck in Argyll, and her anxiety to get back to her rich job—finally, Colin's alleged orange-selling, and his failure to write for the last nine months. Reeder listened in silence; at the end he spoke.

“Of course they aren't selling oranges at all—you realise that?”

“No, I don't. I don't realise anything. What would they be doing, if not that?”

“Smuggling, of course.”

“Smuggling!”
said Julia in astonishment, raising her delicate eyebrows. “Smuggling
what,
for goodness sake?”

“Almost certainly currency out of Tangier; watches and cameras, probably, out of Gibraltar. Watches and cameras are duty-free there; they cost about a third of what they do elsewhere. Or American cigarettes.”

While Julia stood silent in front of the radar machine, digesting this quite new idea, a seaman in shirt-sleeves came into the chart-room, bearing a dirty high-sided wooden tray with a pot of tea, some chipped cups, and a jug of the horrible condensed milk—Reeder poured out a cup, which he told the seaman to take out to the helmsman; then he offered Julia one.

“Oh, no, thanks, I think tea is quite too revolting, with this unutterable milk—how you all bear it I can't imagine! But do have a go yourself; I have my thermos of
Nescafé
down below.”

Reeder laughed, and poured himself a cup of the dreadful brew. Drinking it, rather to Julia's surprise he reverted to the subject of Edina. “She must be quite a considerable girl, to be earning such a huge screw. How old did you say she is?”

“I didn't say. But in fact she's twenty-five.”

“Formidable,” said Reeder. “And now she's running the farm?”

“Well, they have three farms in hand, actually; she's running those, and the saw-mill and lime-mill—and of course she has to supervise the other eight farms, see to gates and fences and so on; and then the hill sheep, naturally. They simply can't afford a factor, with taxation what it is. Who can?”

“Sheep, eh? What sort? Black-faced on the hill, I suppose?”

“Yes, and some cross lambs on the low ground.”

“Do you winter those away?”

“No, it's not worth it. Why, do you know about farming in the Highlands?'

“Not there, but I was brought up on a place in Northumberland.” Julia was momentarily struck by his use of the word ‘place' rather than ‘farm'. “Good heavens!” Mr. Reeder
pursued—'What a job for a girl! I should say being a mate is a picnic to it.”

“I couldn't agree more. I think life on this ship is one long picnic—if you leave out the food,” said Julia.

Reeder laughed again, heartily this time.

“Well, I wish you all luck in your search,” he said. “Anyhow you'll be making it in some of the most delightful places in the world. Tangier, is it, that you're making your base? Know it?”

“No—I've never set foot in North Africa. Rather a thrill, really. But any hints and tips will be gratefully received,” said Julia, with a hint of her beguiling grin. She felt sure that if Mr. Reeder vouchsafed any information or suggestions about Tangier they would be on quite different lines to Geoffrey's. She was not wrong. He stared rather hard at her, for a moment or two, in the faint reflected glow from the light over the chart-table; then—

“Well, I will give you one,” he said at last. “I don't suppose it would normally be given to young ladies, but then I know nothing about young ladies!”

“Well, what is it?” Julia asked with a sort of tranquil impatience. “Don't bother over-much about young ladyhood, because I'm congenitally hard-boiled.”

“That was rather my impression, in spite of your appearance,” Reeder said, grinning a little through his beard. “Well go sometimes when you're in Tangier to Purcell's Bar—it's a good place, one of the nicest there is.”

“Good drinks?”

“Yes, first class: no wood-alcohol to put your eyes out. And Purcell is a most delightful type—
sabe todo.”

“Oh, he does, does he? Might he know Colin?”

Mr. Reeder displayed panic, unexpectedly.

“Oh, for God's sake don't go walking in to Purcell's Bar and asking about smugglers!” he said hastily. “That would put the lid on. No—but when you've salted him, just drifting in and
having a gin-and-something for a bit, you might throw a fly over him about your smuggling cousin. He might know or he might not; my bet is that he
would
know, but whether he tells you or not is anybody's guess.”

“My guess is that he might—people do tell one things,” said Julia. “But I'll go very slowly, I promise you. Thanks.”

At that point Mr. Freeman came stumping up the ladder and walked into the chart-room—he checked at the sight of Julia.

“Oh, hullo,” he said—“I didn't expect to find you here.”

“Studying radar,” said Julia. She turned again to the screen. Up in the top left-hand corner the chrysanthemum-petals were now quite clear and strong, and spread much further down towards the ship. “Oh, look, Mr. Reeder—Spain's showing up beautifully now.”

Reeder however did not look; instead he went out onto the bridge, glanced at the binnacle, at his wrist-watch, and then came back and did things on the chart with the protractors, as Captain Blyth, had done making a pencil X and writing ‘23.59 hours' below it.

“There you are,” he said to Freeman. “Over to you now. Wish you joy of your trick”—and he strode out; his heavy steps could be heard clattering down the ladder.

“I think I shall say Goodnight too,” said Julia and betook herself to her cabin. In bed, sipping her coffee and smoking a last cigarette, she meditated on what Reeder had told her. It was quite a new idea that Colin might be smuggling—and would probably make him harder to trace, she thought; he might even be using a false name. But then—if so, why in the world should the Bank of England allow him to transfer his account to Casablanca? Smuggling currency was about the last thing that the Bank would either smile upon or promote. All very queer—and still thinking how queer it was, and what fun to be trying to unravel so odd a mystery, she fell asleep.

Casablanca, where the
Vidago
eventually tied up at about
nine one morning, gives a rather false first impression of North Africa. What one sees—what Julia saw—as the ship moves along the coast to slip in behind the long long mole which protects the harbour is first the hideous factory zone to the north of the city, and then a conglomeration of high, featureless, cream-coloured modern blocks, near-sky-scrapers, which constitute the town itself. This is very disillusioning. It might be a lesser New York; lesser, and less ugly than the fantastic Manhattan skyline, but not in the least anyone's idea of Africa, or any part of the Old World. From the deck Julia observed it all—as they approached the dockside she noticed that the local workers, at least, looked very different to Mr. Murphy's friends at the London Docks: not only had they very dark skins, some indeed being obvious negroes, but many of them wore long-skirted garments, and on their heads small brightly-coloured skullcaps, knitted or crocheted in patterns resembling Fair-Isle, and very dirty.

“Good gracious me, what an extraordinary place,” she muttered to herself. “Not at all what I expected.”

The Arab dockers, in their curious garb, were considerably quicker off the mark than their
confréres
in London. The hatch-covers had been got off while the
Vidago
was idling along inside the mole, awaiting the signal to berth, and in no time at all crane-drivers in fancy dress were slinging tractors, endless tractors, out of one end of the ship and small saloon cars, mostly painted a pale green, out of the other; the moment these last touched solid ground swarms of Moors ran them off the rope nets which held the wheels, manhandled them across the wide quayside, and parked them in neat rows between the warehouse sheds. It was a pleasant lively sight, in the bright southern sunlight, and Julia stood watching it with satisfaction—this might make a nice tail-piece to “Dockside Diversions”, she thought, if
Ebb and Flow
had the guts to print anything which in the least reflected on English labour.

Almost the moment they tied up a very obvious Englishman in a trilby hat had come aboard, and disappeared into the Captain's cabin; he presently re-emerged, accompanied by Captain Blyth, who brought him up to Julia and made one of his little formal introductions:

“Miss Probyn, this is our agent, Mr. Bond; Mr. Bond, this is our passenger, Miss Probyn. Mr. Bond has a letter for you, Miss Probyn”—and the agent, after shaking hands, gave Julia a letter addressed in Geoffrey Consett's familiar hand, simply to ‘Miss Julia Probyn, M.S.
Vidago,
Casablanca'. To her surprise it bore no stamp or post mark.

“Oh, thank you. How did this come, Mr. Bond?”

“It was sent down by hand to the office—from one of the Banks, I believe.”

Julia bore it away to her cabin and read it. Like Casablanca, the letter was not at all what she expected. In the first place it
was typewritten. Mr. Consett began by explaining that to make sure of its reaching her he had sent it with a covering one to Mr. Lynch at the Banque Anglo-Morocaine, telling him that she was on the
Vidago
—“then he can contact the agents and get it to you at once.” “Sensible creature,” Julia commented approvingly. But for the rest of the letter she had no approval at all—she read it, frowning, with mounting vexation.

“I made enquiries in the quarter I spoke of,” Mr. Consett wrote, “but I think you had better leave that line of enquiry alone. As you know, banks are not allowed to divulge any particulars about their clients' accounts to third parties—it is like the seal of the confessional; and though the Bank of England is practically a Government department since it was nationalised, that rule holds for it too. I regret now very much that I made the suggestion at all—it was foolish of me. My only excuse is that at the time I was thinking of something else.” The letter ended very formally—

“Yours ever
Geoffrey Consett.”