Wishing Water (18 page)

Why, for two pins she’d accept a date with someone else. That would show him. Yes, she thought, that might be the answer. And on this comforting thought, Lissa fell asleep.

For some reason Lissa couldn’t quite explain, the day of the races brought a flutter of nervous tension to her stomach. It was a perfect day for a sail, warm and sunny. Puffy white clouds danced across an azure summer sky while the prevailing wind seemed almost eager to fill the white sails and power the little boats along by the unseen miracle of aerodynamics. The lake had never looked more inviting with lacy tips to a blue-grey ruffle of waves.

Competition at the Yacht Club races was always fierce. There were several classes taking part from small dinghies to huge, spanking yachts. Great kudos was attached to winning.

She and Jan had walked down to the little jetty early to watch events, though Derry was already there, trimming sails, checking his mast and rigging, oiling, scrubbing and greasing since dawn.

‘It’s tricky, sailing these lakes,’ Jan told her. ‘The mountains affect the wind currents which are constantly changing. It’s important to know how to play it, how to use the wind, whether to put the spinnaker up or not to get the most speed from the boat. One mistake can slow you down and lose the race.’
 

‘Will Derry win?’ Wanting him to, very badly.

Jan considered a moment. ‘He’s a good sailor, decisive, but perhaps a touch impulsive at times.’
 

They found a space on a low wall where they could get a good view of proceedings.

‘Wish me luck,’ Derry said, appearing at her elbow with a wide grin on his face. He looked so young and eager, handsome in his white T-shirt and navy shorts. Too young and inexperienced compared with the rest of the entrants, Philip Brandon among them. Lissa could see Brandon’s yacht with its showy blue sails standing serenely at anchor some way off shore. Derry will never beat that, she thought, and wished it didn’t matter.

‘Good luck then,’ she said, resisting the urge to kiss his smooth tanned cheek.

‘Now if I were a knight in shining armour going into combat you might offer me a favour.’ For all he was smiling his brown eyes were serious, almost intense.

‘Depends what kind of favour.’
 

He reached out a hand and before she could guess what he was about, slid the ribbon from her hair, releasing her pony tail. The wind caught her black curls and whipped them about her face but she only laughed, instinctively lifting her face to his. And as her gaze slid to his mouth she watched it move slowly towards hers.

‘That won’t help. No pretty ribbon will win you this race.’ The deep voice cut in and they broke away, pretending they hadn’t been irresistibly drawn to taste each other’s lips.

‘Mr Brandon. What a surprise.’ Lissa covered her confusion by desperately trying to gather her hair together and bring it under control. ‘How’s the jiving these days?’
 

‘I’ve given it up. Sailing is much easier.’

‘It’s a fine yacht. I’ve been admiring it.’
 

‘You must come out on it later,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you take the tiller.’
 

Derry said, ‘There’s no need for that, Mr Brandon, thank you. As you can see I have one exactly the same,
The Fair Maid.. My
father built her for me. If Lissa wants a sail she can come out on mine.’
 

Philip Brandon smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Perhaps she may be permitted to choose for herself. She certainly enjoyed it the last time, did you not, Lissa?’
 

Lissa’s cheeks fired, disturbed by the gleam of admiration in Philip Brandon’s eyes and by the undercurrents she could feel flowing between these two who were to be adversaries in this race. ‘Dry land is my favourite place. I know nothing about boats.’
 

Philip chuckled. ‘Nor does my clerk, truth to tell.’
 

Derry was glowering like a sulky child. He longed to say that he didn’t care if Lissa had sailed in Brandon’s yacht, that he’d grown up with boats and his father had taught him to sail almost as soon as he could walk, but this was his boss, and he had no wish to lose his job.

Lissa, sensing his problem, spoke up on his behalf. ‘You don’t need to feel sorry for Derry. He’ll manage well enough. I’m not sure you’re right about the ribbon though. An emblem of good luck never did any harm, particularly if you believe in it. My own family puts great store in a simple Luckpenny.’
 

‘And Dad is crewing for him,’ put in Jan, eyes hot with pride.

Now it was Philip Brandon’s turn to look annoyed. ‘It isn’t luck that wins a race but skill, evaluation of all the relevant factors such as wind and current, and perfect planning. Something I am adept at.’ There was a small, awkward silence.

Lissa tried to smile. ‘Let the best man win, as they say.’
 

Dark eyes met brown and for a moment the air crackled with tension. Then Brandon relaxed, his smile at its most urbane. ‘It should be an interesting contest.’ Bowing slightly to Lissa, he gave her his most charming smile. ‘That dinner invitation still stands, by the way,’ and walked away, leaving Lissa bright red and Derry furious.

The start of a race, Derry knew, was of vital importance. Get this wrong and precious time would be lost, not easily made up. He checked his stop watch so he could keep an eye on those first vital minutes. He knew the distance he must tack away, and at what moment he should turn so that he was crossing the starting line exactly as the starting pistol sounded. He knew how and when to trim his sails, had worked out his plan for tacking to the first marker buoy to the very last detail.

And it seemed that everything was working well. Derry got off to a flying start and
The Fair Maid
hummed along, pointing well into the wind.

What he hadn’t properly taken into account when he devised his plan was Philip Brandon.

It was Jimmy who noticed him first. Brandon had taken the opposite approach, going first to port as Derry tacked to starboard, so when Derry went about on to the port tack, he came about too on a starboard one and was heading straight for the
Maid.

‘He’s coming a bit fast,’ Jimmy called to his son, indicating the approaching yacht sailing at a killing angle in the wind.

Derry scarcely glanced at it, too busy judging how closely he could risk running behind the buoy. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be well past by the time he reaches us.’ He lifted his voice above the slapping waves. ‘The rules allow him to come pretty close and try to unsettle us. Only he won’t unsettle me.’
 

‘So long as he doesn’t risk a collision,’ Jimmy muttered, not entirely mollified by his son’s confidence.
 

‘Ready about,’ Derry shouted, as he saw they were approaching the buoy.

Jimmy slipped the sheets from the cleat and held the rope ready, waiting for the next call when Derry had swung over the tiller, then he would let the jib sheet go so that the boom and mainsail could follow it. But before that could happen his attention was caught once again by Brandon’s boat.

‘Bloody hell, he’s cutting it a bit fine. What the...? He’s letting his sail out. Watch it, Derry, he’s swinging this way.’
 

Derry’s face was as white as the sails as he watched Philip Brandon deliberately alter his course so that instead of crossing safely some fair distance behind Derry’s yacht, he cut right across the bows, narrowly risking collision. The spray hit Derry in the face, running down him like a cold shower and the boat lurched, very nearly overturning in the wash.

‘You damn fool,’ he shouted.

‘Scared of a bit of competition?’ Brandon called back, and neatly turned about ready for the next tack. ‘I told you that bit of ribbon wouldn’t help.’ His laugh rang out and Jack Callan, who was crewing for him, likewise grinned while the scrap of scarlet, tied to one of The
Fair Maid’s
main ropes, waved bravely in the wind.

The next few minutes needed Derry’s entire concentration if he was to stay on course and not lose the advantage of his flying start. Anger curdled within. Had he not been an experienced sailor he could very easily have been overturned.

When they were on an even keel again, Jimmy was the first to speak. ‘You should bloody well report him for that. Bad sailing, that’s what it was.’

Derry only shook his head. ‘Who would believe me, a mere clerk complaining about his boss? And Brandon’s a real big-wig in the Yacht Club.’

‘It was deliberate.’
 

‘We can still win, which is all that matters.’
 

The teamwork of father and son was superb, working as one, anticipating the other’s thoughts and actions, horn hard hands on sheet and tiller, keeping the weight right, the sails at the proper tension and swinging over at exactly the right moment. At one point Philip Brandon tried a bit of serious blanketing to rob
The Fair Maid
of vital wind for her sails, but it did no good, she flew over the line several feet ahead, with both Derry and Jimmy yelling for joy.

‘We’ve won.’
 

Derry was jubilant, barely able to wait to see the girls’ faces and wallow in Lissa’s admiration. He’d won the race for her, hadn’t he?

It was much later, after everyone had moored and anchored, that he was called to the committee room. Philip Brandon and several other members were already there, and a very sad-looking official. ‘I’m sorry, son, but I have to disqualify you.’
 

‘What?’ The blood seemed to seep from Derry’s veins. For years he’d dreamed of winning this race. ‘I don’t understand. I won it easily.’
 

The official looked even more uncomfortable, clearing his throat, smoothing a hand over his bald head. ‘These matters are always difficult. As you know it’s not possible for the committee boat to be everywhere at the same time, to see what’s going on, particularly at the start of a race when everyone is so spread out. Mr Brandon here has reluctantly put in a complaint.’
 

Derry stared blankly at his employer. ‘What kind of complaint?’
 

‘He says you cut too close. If he hadn’t taken evasive action you and he would have certainly collided.’
 

‘But he…’
 

‘I was on the starboard tack, Derry,’ Philip gently pointed out, his face sad, as if he hated to be the cause of these ill tidings. ‘Thus had right of way.’
 

Jimmy opened his mouth to protest, anxious to point out the finer points of the ruling. Right of way or not, Philip Brandon had been the one on the attack. Hell-bent on collision, if he was any judge. But his son kicked his ankle so he shut his mouth again, remembering the particular relationship of these two antagonists. Losing a yacht race was preferable to losing a job. He cast a hasty glance at Derry’s face, pale but inscrutable, and surprisingly calm. You had to admire the lad for holding his temper.

‘Nobody else saw what happened?’ Derry asked, quiet as you please.

The official looked embarrassed. ‘As I said, Derry, it’s very difficult...’
 

‘Thanks. I understand.’ Derry nodded to them both and, turning on his heel, walked out of the room. Once outside he found he was trembling. He thrust his hands deep in his pockets and drew in several harsh breaths to regain control. After a moment he became aware of Jimmy standing quietly beside him.

The two men exchanged a long speaking glance, each telling the other that they understood perfectly what had happened. Philip Brandon had failed to overtake Derry so had put in a fallacious complaint to get the result squashed. And there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it.

‘Come on, son, I’ll stand you a pint.’

Later, the girls wanted to know what had gone wrong. Derry considered telling them the truth then changed his mind. It would only sound like the gripes of a poor loser. ‘I lost. That’s what went wrong.’ What else was there to say?

Chapter Nine

First thing the next morning, holding fast to her determination not to risk rejection from Derry, and astounded by her own daring, Lissa telephoned Philip Brandon at his office. ‘Is that offer of a meal still open?’
 

‘Of course,’ he said, sounding slightly breathless.

‘I’d like to accept then, thanks very much.’
 

He picked her up on the dot of seven and took her to a very smart little restaurant in Fisher’s Gate. What a relief, she thought, that she’d worn a smart little navy and white polka dot dress that just skimmed her knees.

Even so, she felt ridiculously nervous. Lissa told him she’d never been in such a place before, its clientele being the kind of businessmen and visitors who had been least affected by war and the years of austerity since, perhaps even profited from them.

‘We’ve moved into more prosperous times,’ he agreed as Lissa looked about her at the plush atmosphere and candlelit tables. ‘Never had it so good, isn’t that what Mr Macmillan tells us?’
 

The waiter came and Philip ordered for them both without even consulting her. Lissa felt relieved and strangely irritated all at the same time.