‘Look,’ said Lang earnestly, leaning forward. ‘A few more trips and we’ll really be in the chips. After that,’ he spread his hands wide, ‘who knows? But I, personally, think it’ll get too hot, and the gaff’ll blow!’
As Vivian remained silent and puzzled, he went on hurriedly. ‘If someone can convince Jensen that we’ve gone on long enough, that it’s getting too risky, then perhaps he will destroy the plates. No plates, no racket. It’s that simple. Provided we do it soon.’
‘What’s Mason going to say about all this?’
‘He is the big snag, and I’m convinced that he’s got Jensen so tied up that the old boy’s content to leave everything to him, just so long as the money comes pouring in.’ He smiled slightly. ‘As you’ve seen, I’m pretty well in with Mason’s wife, she’s a sweet kid, and if I can get out of this, I’m hoping to take her along too. At the moment, she sort of keeps an eye on the enemy camp for me.’
‘Another risk, eh?’ Vivian had to grin.
‘Risk is right! Anyway, what about it? Will you stay and give me a hand? You’ll know nothing, except the story I handed you before, so if we slip up, you won’t be in too deep.’ He banged the table violently. ‘And we won’t slip up! As I see it, we may have to pinch the plates, if that’s at all possible, and chuck ’em in the drink.’ He sighed. ‘That’d be the ideal thing; as I said, no plates, no rackets.’
‘Couldn’t he make some more?’
‘Never in this life, old boy. I’m convinced he really is ready to get out. For one thing, after Karen left finishing school, and helped to set up the overseas branches of the travel business, she took it upon herself to spend more and more time at home looking after him, so it’s not been all that easy for him to prepare the paper and stuff for printing in his little workshop.’
Vivian’s heart bounded. ‘You mean she’s not in the racket too?’
‘Lord no! Jensen’s whole life is devoted to her. I’m convinced he started doing this with her in mind. She’s all he’s got now. He lets her think that all he does in his workshop is design those posters you like.’
Vivian stared out of the scuttle at his side, not wishing Lang to see the hopeful gleam in his eye. It was madness, of course, but how else could he manage to hold on to her memory? He spun on his heel.
‘Christ, Felix, I’m on!’ he shouted, with such vehemence that even Lang jumped. ‘If it’s only to keep that girl out of it!’
Lang’s jaw dropped, and his voice shook. ‘You mean you’ll really help me? My dear old Philip, I somehow knew you wouldn’t let me down.’ His eyes were bright. ‘Just think, we could get another boat like this, and later on, perhaps another one, and start a wonderful business.’ He threw out his arm melodramatically. ‘We will never stop,
or
settle, but every waterway will have its memories, as someone once said.’
‘What’s the next step?’ Vivian asked, as he helped Lang down to the dinghy.
‘Just carry on here. Get the boat fuelled, send the bill to us, of course. I shall tell Jensen you’re fixed up, on the payroll, as it were, but you don’t know a thing, okay?’
The dinghy scraped the pier, and Lang reached up for the ladder.
Vivian spoke out of the darkness. ‘That little bastard Cooper, I forgot to ask you about him. He was telling me some yarn about that Patterson bloke.’
Lang growled. ‘He’s a bloody idiot. Useful, I suppose, but not to be trusted, he’s one of Mason’s imports for contact work.’
He heard Vivian chuckle below him, ‘I’m definitely anti-Mason now!’
Just as Lang turned to go, he called down softly, ‘Thanks again, Philip, you’ve given me back a bit of faith.’
He waited until he heard the car roar away, and then pulled back to
Seafox
, his mind busy.
I’m a madman, absolutely useless, he thought, but obstacles like this were made for people like me. He shivered suddenly. And there was, of course, the girl.
THE YELLOW, MUDDIED
waters of the Thames churned and swirled, as the sluggish tide began to turn, and the countless pieces of flotsam, old oil drums, baulks of timber, and bottles, began their endless journey back down to the estuary. The chill in the air was now more prevalent and permanent, as if to announce, once and for all, that summer was but something to dream about, a brief and hurried memory to fortify and encourage the traveller through the bitter weather which was always too eager to follow.
The
Seafox
threaded her way daintily up the fairway, turning quickly to any touch of the wheel, to avoid the floating rubbish, like a prim, young lady gathering up her skirts to cross a muddy road, and as she skimmed past the rusty dumb barges, stubby tugs, and the occasional lighter, she looked completely out of place, a glimpse of another world.
Vivian, standing relaxed but watchful at the wheel, shivered slightly, as an unexpectedly cold gust whipped into the open wheelhouse window, and wished that he had remembered to put on his jacket before getting under way. He hated the greyness, the dirt, and the general atmosphere of gloom which seemed to pervade the London river, and his thoughts turned back to Torquay, with its salt air, and its clean, slow-moving, peaceful life. With a faint flicker of interest, he watched the Fire Boats exercising outside
Lambeth
Pier, shooting great, curving jets of water into the air, and beating the surface of the river into a gigantic froth. They lowered the power of the fire nozzles as the trim, little yacht cruised past, and the firemen grinned cheerfully, as Vivian waved in acknowledgement. He ran his eye for the hundredth time over his boat, and gripped the wheel spokes affectionately.
She was perfect, there was no doubt about it, and most certainly did not belong here, any more than he did. For two days after his long talk with Lang, he had waited impatiently at Chelsea, trying to fill in time by working on the boat, re-provisioning, polishing, but mostly thinking. Twice he had telephoned Lang, and each time Lang had told him to hold on, and be prepared to do another trip across the Channel. He had rung up old Arthur at Torquay, and told him just enough to keep him from worrying, and to learn that his cat was still in good health and spirits. Arthur’s voice, faint and blurred over the distance, had been full of concern and pleading.
‘Yew’m better off down ’ere, Skipper,’ he had said.
Better off, mused Vivian. How true. This damn waiting for something to happen was beginning to get on his nerves. As instructed, he had been down to the fuel barges to fill up his tanks, and now, as he made his way back to Chelsea, he felt more convinced than ever that it was useless hanging around, just waiting for something, or somebody, to make a move.
The bright shape of a racing dinghy careered from behind some moored barges, and with her sails swollen by the freshening wind, tore at right angles across the river, her lee gunwale digging into the water, sending up a shower of spray. The two figures in it leaned far out over the weather side, their oilskin jackets wet and glistening. Vivian measured up the shortening distance, and began judging the
angle
of the little boat’s next tack. Even at that distance he could see one of the figures was a girl, her head wrapped in a bright scarf, her teeth white, as she laughed with excitement. Reluctant to spoil their pleasure, Vivian pressed the horn once, and started to turn the wheel to starboard, then, with sudden alarm, he realized that the dinghy had changed course again, and was bearing straight down on him. Cursing all sailing boats, he heaved one gear lever astern, and put the wheel hard over. The diesels’ roar rose to a shuddering rumble, as
Seafox
began to turn, and fall back on the tide, broaching round as she did so. It was some moments before he had her on course again, and by then the dinghy had wheeled round to run on a parallel course, barely twenty feet away. Vivian wrenched open the wheel-house door, jerking the megaphone off its hook.
‘Hey there!’ he yelled. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing? Are you asking for a ruddy smash or something?’
As the girl turned on her precarious seat, the headscarf slipped about her neck, and a mass of gleaming, yellow hair swirled joyously around her laughing face.
‘Why, Mr. Vivian,’ she called. ‘What a welcome to give a fellow-sailor!’
His throat contracted, and felt suddenly bone dry, and for a few seconds he stood staring at her, the megaphone hanging foolishly from his hand.
He was dimly aware of the amused stare of the man who sat close by her, one elbow negligently resting across the tiller, a young, fresh-faced fellow of about the girl’s own age, with dark, curly hair shining with spray.
He sought round in confusion for something to say.
‘Er, come aboard, won’t you?’ he called at length. ‘I didn’t realize who it was,’ he ended lamely.
She nodded in that grave manner which he remembered so well.
‘Obviously, Mr. Vivian. It would appear that this is not your normal greeting.’
Before he could answer, she jumped lightly to the sheets, and with very little fuss, the sails vanished, and as the motor yacht slowed, the little boat eased alongside, and moved carefully down to the stern, where they secured it, and while Vivian tried to watch the river, the boat, and listen, all at the same time, the two visitors appeared, laughing and breathless, at his side.
The girl was looking even more beautiful than before, he decided, her face, apparently washed and blown free of make-up, looked more golden than ever, and even her hair, tangled by the wind, and which she now combed with her fingers, made his heart throb painfully.
He was again aware of the other man, who was apparently taller than he had realized, about his own height, and whose handsome face was only marred by his rather arrogant mouth.
‘My name’s Muir, David Muir,’ he said suddenly, his voice a soft, well-modulated drawl. ‘Sorry to barge in like this, but little Karen wanted to see your boat apparently. I gather you know each other?’ His eyebrows rose questioningly.
Vivian nodded, watching the other man, and feeling vaguely resentful at his casual and familiar use of the girl’s name.
Karen stood back, looking from one to the other, an amused smile on her lips.
‘Well, you did say I could look at the boat, didn’t you, Mr. Vivian?’ She swung round, and opened her arms wide. ‘She is very beautiful, don’t you think so, David? I would love to have her all to myself.’
Muir smiled indulgently. ‘You’d soon want something with sail on it, though. You might just as well be driving a big, comfortable car, eh, Vivian?’
‘You don’t have to get your feet wet, just to prove you’re a sailor,’ said Vivian coldly. ‘And in any case, I haven’t the time, or the inclination, to potter about the Thames all day!’
He regretted the outburst instantly, and tried to cover his anger by taking a quick glance at the river ahead. In the window glass, he saw Muir’s reflection, as he made a grimace, and turned quickly to the girl.
‘Look, have a look round, if you like, I’ll have to stay here till we get to Chelsea.’
‘I’ll wait then, until you can show me.’ And she sat quickly on the side seat, smiling happily.
Muir shrugged, and slumped beside her, yawning.
‘I gather you’ve only met recently?’ he asked at length.
Vivian waited until a tug and her brood of barges had swished past before he answered, and he felt Karen watching him.
‘Yes, I charter the boat to Miss Jensen’s uncle, for the travel bureau,’ he said shortly.
‘H’m, nice work too, I should think, he’s a charming man,’ he added, with a quick glance at Karen.
She patted his hand, and Vivian’s inside took another plunge.
‘Never mind, we can’t all be hard-worked men like you,’ she smiled. Then, turning to Vivian, she added: ‘David and I belong to the same sailing club. It’s quite good fun, really.’
I’ll bet it is, thought Vivian savagely. But he smiled back, his face muscles tight.
‘I used to do quite a bit of sailing, when I was in the Service,’ he began, but his words were unheard, as the
others
were standing, and pointing at some passing sailing dinghies.
He sighed, and cursed himself for being a fool. She was just a dream, and just as unattainable.
That’s decided for me, he thought. I’ll ’phone Felix tonight, and tell him I’m going back to Torquay, unless he can come up with any definite plan.
With Karen and her friend on deck, handling the ropes,
Seafox
glided gracefully to her buoy by Chelsea Pier, and Vivian’s spine tingled as he heard her laugh gaily, while Muir made three attempts before he could fix the snap-hook on to the buoy-ring. He put the gear levers into neutral, and pulled the throttles. The engines roared and died away, leaving only the sound of the water lapping against the white hull.
Vivian felt suddenly tired and dispirited, and as he glanced around the wheelhouse, he experienced a strange, brittle nervousness, which was quite new to him. It was only a matter of days ago that to own the boat had been the most important desire in his life, the culmination of all his plans and requirements, but as he watched the two figures playfully coiling the ropes on the foredeck, he knew deeply, and at the same time bitterly, what he most wanted, and what he most lacked.
Karen’s scarf lay where she had thrown it, rumpled and damp, and with a strange tenderness he stooped and picked it up from the deck, and ran it through his hands. A shadow had fallen across the door, and he looked up quickly, to find the girl standing silhouetted against the grey light of the river. A surprised, or perhaps puzzled, expression stayed briefly in her eyes, and her lips were parted, as if she was going to speak, yet could not find the words.
Vivian held out the scarf to her, and smiled to cover his
embarrassment,
and she took it from him, her eyes still troubled, and not leaving his.
‘David’s going to scull the dinghy over to the pier,’ she said, her voice was low. ‘Felix Lang is waiting there. He has his car.’ She sounded as if she was sorry.
As Vivian didn’t answer, she laughed quickly. ‘It doesn’t look as if you’ll have time to show me round, does it?’
‘No, I suppose you’ll have to be going back to the sailing club with him?’ He nodded in the direction of the dinghy, which was already moving away.