High Water (1959) (10 page)

He whistled. ‘Quite an idea!’

‘Have you a couple of small pieces of ballast? I can put the packet down here, and the weights will keep it in place.’

Vivian hurried aft, and returned shortly with two small but extremely weighty pieces of iron from the after bilges.

The preparations complete, Vivian rowed Jensen ashore to his car.

He watched the car’s lights fading into the darkness. He and I are very much alike, he mused. It was a frightening thought.

AN EARLY MORNING
tug chugged downstream, two of her crew standing with huge mugs of tea, throwing pieces of bread to a wheeling flock of screaming gulls.

A feeling of urgency transmitted itself to Vivian, and he glanced at his watch. Six-thirty, and the uncertain ripple of the river was beginning to change, the waves slapping against the piles around the pier, as the tide started to turn.

He stepped into the wheelhouse, and slipped into his waterproof jacket, and zipped it up to his neck. He jammed on his cap, and at that moment his eye fell on his reefer hanging on the saloon door, and with a frown he pulled out the pistol, and stood looking at it in the growing light.

He jerked out the magazine from the butt. Fully loaded. He snapped it back, and put on the safety catch. For a brief second he was tempted to throw it overboard. But, as Lang had said, it might be useful. He grinned ruefully, it might even be the thing for dealing with Cooper, as he seemed to love drama so much. He looked about him thoughtfully. The First Aid box, that was it. He lifted up the tray of bandages and bottles, and slid the gun underneath. He smiled, as he noticed the directions on the top of the box: ‘Be prepared for anything!’

He squared his shoulders, and prepared to cast off. With a cough and a roar, the two engines came to life as he
pressed
the starters, then, as they settled down to a steady rumble, he went on deck and cast off from the buoy.
Seafox
started to drift away on the tide, but as he stepped behind the wheel, and pushed the gear levers forward, the screws dug into the murky water, causing the boat to nose steadily forward.

Throttles half open, and wheel to port, he felt a thrill of excitement run through him, as the yacht swung in a tight semi-circle, and headed downstream.

He fell into procession with an old timber ship, flying the German flag, and a smart, Swedish cargo ship, and as the grey banks slid past, with their gaunt warehouses and loading jetties, he knew that the moment for turning back, or changing his mind, had gone.

Tower Bridge loomed ahead, her twin arms raised in salute, and he caught a brief glimpse of the scarlet buses, and packed ranks of cars and lorries, waiting to continue their ordered and relentless journeys.

He knew that many eyes were watching his boat with envy, and he wondered what they would think if they knew his purpose that morning.

On, on down the river, twisting and turning through the shining strip of busy waterway, through the dock area, until at last the banks grew wider apart, and the jetties and wharves gave way to mud flats, and ocean-going ships.

A police boat turned lazily away from a cluster of barges, and his heart quickened as it steered towards him. But it cruised past, the blue-clad occupants hardly giving him a glance.

All at once it was different again. A sharp tang of salt replaced that of smoke and dirt, and the yacht seemed to feel, and welcome it, as she dipped happily into the choppy waters of the Estuary. He breathed deeply, and stretched his arms, and as the long, spider-like line of Southend Pier
appeared
faintly through the fine, morning mist, he began to hum to himself.

It was lucky that the weather was so good, he mused, for had it turned against him, it would have been asking for trouble. No doubt the police boat would have shown some interest at a lone yacht proceeding to sea in the middle of a raging storm.

The hours slid rapidly by, and the motion of the short, steep wavelets became more pronounced, as Vivian altered course to turn round the North Foreland, making
Seafox
roll more heavily in the beam sea. He cursed silently, wishing that he could push on without his unwelcome passengers, and for a moment he toyed with the idea of leaving them behind in Ramsgate. No doubt Cooper would take a poor view of that, he chuckled.

Lifting his glasses, he examined the sun-swept coastline, letting his glance linger on the tiny catwalk around the top of the lofty North Foreland lighthouse, and he wondered if he too was under their scrutiny.

He checked the compass, and altered course again, to pass closer inshore, it was getting near time for the rendezvous, and a feeling of tension held him in its grip.

The grey breakwater of Ramsgate harbour loomed ahead, and he began to think that the arrangements had gone astray, when all of a sudden he saw two small fishing dories wallowing and pitching about half a mile away on the port bow. There were no other vessels in sight, so with the engines at dead slow, he headed towards them.

When he drew near, he quickly recognized, with a feeling of repugnance, the rakish panama hat that perched on one of the occupants of the nearest boat.

As he let the yacht idle alongside, Cooper grinned up at him, and raised a hand in mocking salute, showing his teeth in an insincere smile.

‘Hiya there, Captain, right on the button, I see!’ And he reached up awkwardly for the rail.

The man in the bows of the dory turned his face towards Vivian, and he saw again the dull, impassive manservant from Mason’s flat, Morrie. He merely nodded, and began to wind up a fishing line.

With a scornful laugh, Cooper turned, and kicked the winder from the big man’s grasp, sending it spinning into the sea. Morrie stared at the water impassively, as if he couldn’t understand what had happened, and then with a heavy shrug, clambered up on to the yacht’s deck.

Cooper joined him, and waved to the small, dark man in the other dory. ‘Okay, pal, go on back now, we’re going on to Cornwall, to do a bit of real fishing. I’m fed up with this rod-and-line racket, it’s kid’s stuff!’

‘What’s the idea of the two boats?’ queried Vivian, as he joined the other two.

‘If we’d just sat around in one boat after planning a day fishing, it would have looked as if we had been waiting to hitch a ride. You’ve gotta do these things right,’ added Cooper importantly.

Vivian smiled to himself, it was as Lang had predicted, Cooper had to dramatize everything.

They waited until the boatman had taken the other boat in tow, and then Vivian got under way once more, steering parallel with the shore. Destination Cornwall, if anyone’s watching, he thought wryly.

Through narrowed eyes, he watched Morrie, as he moved heavily about the deck, his broad shoulders bent, as if with the weight of his huge frame. A nasty customer in a fight, he decided.

After a while, the big man entered the wheelhouse, and stood silently watching Vivian’s actions.

‘Here, take a trick at the wheel,’ said Vivian suddenly. ‘Ever done any before?’

Cooper’s laugh drifted up from the saloon. ‘Sure, let him steer, the big dope’ll go to sleep otherwise!’

Vivian darted a glance at Morrie, but the dull, brooding expression was unaltered, until, as he took the spokes in his square hands, a brief glimmer of pleasure crossed his face. He gripped the wheel with confidence, making it look like a toy, and said softly: ‘Yes, I’ve done this before. Many times,’ and he nodded his bullet head slowly.

He didn’t elaborate, so Vivian left him to it, and joined Cooper, who lay back on the settee in the saloon, humming a dance tune, and beating time with one of his pointed shoes.

‘All set?’ he cocked a sharp eye in Vivian’s direction. ‘Got the stuff all right?’

Vivian nodded. ‘It’s stowed away below,’ he answered briefly, a new pang of irritation making him want to turn back and drop this odious little man ashore.

Cooper sat up, and yawned, scratching his stomach absently.

‘Don’t take any notice of old Morrie. Used to be a sailor during the war. Bit bomb-happy, but a useful sort of guy to have in a scrap.

‘Ah well,’ he pouted like a child. ‘Guess I’ll take a little nap. Give us a call when we get near something.’ And with that, he leaned back in a corner, the panama tugged down over his eyes.

Not another word was spoken, although several times he tried to draw out the strange Morrie, only to be met with an almost dumb barrier. So he gave it up, and concentrated on the business of navigation.

When the first streaks of evening crossed the clear sky, he saw the steady eye of the Royal Sovereign Lightship,
with
the dark mass of Eastbourne spread across the coast behind it, and in the far distance he could just see the pale blob of Beachy Head reflecting the last of the fading light.

Humming softly, he altered course, and gently the
Seafox
turned her trim stern towards England and, like a pale ghost, headed for the open sea, and for France.

Vivian switched on the small light over the chart table, and glanced briefly at the thin pencilled line, then, he snapped the switch, and once more the wheelhouse was in pitch darkness, but for the soft glow from the binnacle. He eased the spokes carefully, his eyes watching the swinging compass card. It was getting close, he thought, he’d soon know if he had lost his touch.

A match flared suddenly behind him, and he felt Cooper peering over his shoulder.

‘How close?’ his voice was hard.

‘If I’ve done this correctly, we should be about five miles off the headland.’

He nodded towards a pale glare, which encircled the land like a halo. ‘That’s Dieppe over there. It won’t be long now.’

‘Good. Now what about the dinghy?’

‘I’ve sent Morrie to loosen that. But we won’t bring up the money until we’re sure everything’s all right.’ A tingle of excitement ran through him.

‘You’re obviously born for this caper!’ Cooper laughed in the darkness.

Vivian felt in control of the situation, and now that the operation had started, he was eager to get things moving.

‘Look,’ he said suddenly, ‘if we’re challenged, I’ll switch on the navigation lights again, and we’ll have to say we
were
making for Dieppe. We might be able to bluff it out.’

‘And if not?’

‘We’ll make a run for it,’ said Vivian grimly.

The little yacht crept forward, towards the darkening mass of the land.

Here and there, a buoy flashed its warning to the unwary, and overhead, a brightly lit airliner droned noisily towards Paris. Vivian tensed, as an unwinking, green light appeared in the far distance. But after a few breathless moments, it vanished round the headland. No doubt another yacht heading for home.

The boat’s speed slackened, and as if she was feeling her way, she ploughed forward towards the hardening line of the shore.

‘Right!’ snapped Vivian, and deftly he eased the levers into neutral.

The pulsating roar of the engines died to an even growl, and the boat rolled uneasily in the swell.

With his flashlight in his hand, he groped his way on deck. Silhouetted against the white hull of the dinghy, Morrie’s dark shape loomed like a rock. He too was waiting for something to happen. With a quick intake of breath, he pointed the torch, and pressed the button. Three shorts and a long. In the darkness, the beam seemed like a searchlight, and he found his heart pounding, as he strained his eyes towards the shore.

Then, as he raised the torch again, he saw it, a brief pinpoint of light, stabbing out towards him. Two long flashes, and then a short one.

He stepped back to the wheelhouse, and in a second the engines rumbled into life, as they pushed the boat ahead, but so slowly, that the bow wave hardly made a ripple. It was rather like driving a car without lights into a forest, he
thought.
The black arms of the shore seemed suddenly to leap out, as if to encircle him, while from the corner of his eye he saw a thin, white line, where the surf beat steadily against a line of savage rocks. It had been a good landfall, he decided. Then, having taken a quick bearing from the buoy on the headland, he stopped the engines, and in the silence which followed, the gentle slap of the waves against the hull sounded loud enough to be heard a mile away.

He knew the depth of the water, the figures from the chart had imprinted themselves on his brain, and he had greased and marked the anchor cable in readiness for this moment, so without waiting further, he went forward and began to veer out the cable. After what seemed like an age, the white painted mark on the chain appeared from the chain-locker, and
Seafox
swung more easily, secure to her anchor.

With a splash, the dinghy hit the water, and leaving Morrie to watch it, he scrambled down to the engine room, cursing the hard, unyielding shapes that seemed to try to block his passage. He heaved the package from under the flywheel, and went on deck, where Cooper, his coat collar turned up, and now wearing a dark woollen cap, waited impatiently.

He jumped down into the dinghy, wedging the parcel under the seat.

‘Which one of you is coming?’ His voice sounded strained.