Stephen Morris (23 page)

‘Another yacht!’ said Dennison. ‘What is she?’

‘A big racing cutter. The
Chrysanthe.
’

Dennison started up in his bunk and propped himself on his elbow with a spasm of pain. ‘
Chrysanthe!
’ he
said. ‘Lord, I didn’t know she was coming out again! Has he bought her, then?’

‘I believe so.’

‘
Chrysanthe!
’ said Dennison, and sank back again into his bunk. He knew the vessel well by repute. She had been built in 1912 and had appeared the following year at the principal regattas in the Big Class. At the outset of her career she had created something of a sensation by beating
Britannia
on
Brittania
’s day. As fashions went, she had been slightly under-canvassed, and had done little for the remainder of the last season before the war. Since then she had been laid up. Now, it seemed, she was to appear again.

‘Another vessel for the Big Class,’ said Dennison at last. ‘The more the merrier.’

Morris rose to his feet and opened the door. ‘I say,’ he said, and paused. ‘I’d better go aboard your vessel and clear up any valuables, hadn’t I? Before we hand her over to Flanagan.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Dennison thoughtfully. ‘There’s a pair of glasses in the rack in the cabin, and a sextant in the cupboard on the port side. You might have a look round and bring off anything that strikes you as valuable. Don’t bother much – I’ve never had any trouble in that way.’

Morris made a good breakfast, smoked a pipe, and put off to the
Irene
with a bag. He spent half an hour aboard the little vessel, looked through every cupboard, made a selection of articles of value, and returned on board. He found Rawdon on deck.

Morris walked across the deck and placed the bag on a chair. He beckoned to Rawdon with his head; the red-haired man strolled towards him. ‘What is it?’ he said.

Morris spoke softly. ‘Things I brought off the little cutter,’ he said, ‘ – valuables, before she goes in for overhaul.’ He opened the bag upon the chair and produced
a miscellaneous assortment of objects one by one; a bottle of rum half empty, a pair of Zeiss glasses, a rolling parallel ruler, a few mathematical instruments, a sextant in a case, a prismatic compass, and a chronometer deck watch of navy pattern. The red-haired man stood by in perfect silence while Morris lifted out these articles one by one and replaced them in the bag. ‘There were a whole lot of books on navigation there, too,’ he said. ‘Nautical Almanacks and all sorts of other star tables – specialised things.’ He paused; neither of them spoke for a minute. ‘You see, it’s practically all navigation stuff – all that’s of any value.’

He closed the bag and fell into step with Rawdon as he resumed his pacing up and down the deck. ‘What’s your idea, then?’ asked Rawdon.

‘I haven’t got one,’ said Morris. ‘Only it’s – interesting. I don’t mind telling you, I’ve been thinking a good bit about this matter of the navigator. We’ve been content to go on the assumption that it will be easy enough to get in an expert at the job when the time comes – and, by the way, we ought to be thinking about that soon. That’s a thing we ought to discuss with Sir David while we’re here.’

The older man glanced at him keenly. ‘It will be easy to get a good man,’ he said.

‘Easy enough to get a good navigator,’ said Morris briefly. ‘Not so damned easy to get a good man.’ He stopped and faced Rawdon. ‘I know nothing about the sea,’ he said. ‘If we get into any trouble on the way and I only have some pie-faced theorist with me – we might very soon find ourselves in Queer Street. That’s what I’m thinking about. The navigation itself is child’s play – I could do it myself.’

‘I see,’ said Rawdon. He stood motionless for a little, meditatively caressing his chin with one great hand. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘You know you’ve got a free hand
in that sort of thing. All Sir David cares about is getting the job done. That sort of detail is entirely our affair. Only – don’t do anything in a hurry. We shall have to mention it to him before taking any definite steps in that matter.’

They walked aft to the companion; Morris took the bag and went below to Dennison. The latter laid down his book as Morris entered.

‘Ha!’ he said. ‘Feeling twice the man I was. I’m going to get up this afternoon.’

‘Much better not,’ said Morris. ‘Here’s your stuff. I brought off all that I thought was likely to get snaffled – glasses, sextant, chronometer, and a lot of odds and ends.’ He sat down and lit a cigarette.

Dennison peered into the bag. ‘And half a bottle of rum,’ he said. ‘It was nice of you to think of that.’

Morris blew a long cloud of smoke, and laughed. ‘What do you use all those navigating instruments for?’ he inquired. ‘You never go out of sight of land, do you?’

‘Lord, yes,’ said Dennison. ‘Running down Channel. But you’re quite right – one doesn’t often need them. Last summer we went to the west of Ireland – we were four days from the Longships to Cape Clear. I took a good many sights then – more for practice than anything else. Give me a fag.’

‘Did you make a good landfall?’

Dennison blew a long cloud. ‘Oh yes,’ he said carelessly. ‘There’s nothing in it, you know. We hit it off just about as I expected. It’s not far, but we took long enough over it. Cat’s-paws all the way across.’

Morris gazed at him curiously. ‘I suppose you spend all your spare time doing this,’ he said. ‘Did you cruise at Easter?’

Dennison thrust his cigarette over the side of the bunk and flicked the ash on to the floor with a steady hand. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This Easter was the first I’ve missed
since the war. I was staying with some people in Berkshire – a place called Little Tinney, just under the Downs. Do you know that part at all? Delightful country.’

‘I stayed a week-end down in that part of the world once,’ said Morris. ‘I forget exactly where Little Tinney is, but we weren’t very far away. They fetched us from Didcot in a car; a chap who was at Oxford with me. People called Wallace.’

Dennison glanced sharply at the lean man, and smiled queerly. ‘I was staying with the Wallaces,’ he said.

‘No – really? Do you know them well?’

‘Not very well,’ said Dennison. ‘I met them both – Wallace and his sister, about four years ago, but I’d rather lost touch with them till – till this Easter.’

Morris nodded. ‘Funny,’ he said. ‘I knew Jimmie Wallace quite well up at Oxford after the war; I often meet him in Town. My wife and I went down there one week-end – oh, about eighteen months ago. Charming girl his sister is!’

‘Yes,’ said Dennison dryly. They chatted for a little, discussing the Wallaces and the house at Little Tinney. Then came a bustle on deck of getting under way under motor power, and of taking the
Irene
in tow. Morris went on deck, and Dennison was left to his own devices, to his newly awakened memories of Little Tinney and all that was there.

But one thing puzzled him, eluding all the efforts of his memory. He was nearly certain that at some time or other he had heard Sheila speak of a man called Morris, and that she had mentioned some peculiar and outstanding fact connected with him. Cudgel his brains as he might, he could not recall the occasion or what it was that she had mentioned as peculiar about Morris, what it was that differentiated him from other men. There was something; of that he was quite certain.

The morning was calm and hazy, the tide sweeping down through the roads in placid swirls and eddies. Both vessels weighed anchor and got under way under their engines; then a line was passed to the
Irene
and she was taken in tow, her engine being of little use against the tide. In the
Clematis
there sprang up a subdued, monotonous thudding that drove all coherent thought from the head and jingled the tumblers in the racks. She turned and stemmed the tide, and proceeded up the Solent, towing the
Irene
behind her in the manner of a dinghy.

It was nearly lunch-time when they dropped anchor in Cowes Roads. The
Irene
cast off her tow and motored up the river to Flanagan’s, where she berthed temporarily against a quay. From the deck Sir David watched her in, then turned and went below to pay a visit to his guest.

‘Your cutter’s safely berthed in Flanagan’s yard,’ he said. ‘I’ll go ashore this afternoon and see Flanagan about her. How are you feeling?’

‘Well enough to get up,’ said Dennison. ‘Mr Morris tells me you’ve bought
Chrysanthe
, sir.’

The baronet smiled happily, and sat down on Dennison’s clothes. ‘We should get some good sport out of her,’ he said. ‘My brother George always intended to make a bid for her – but he died. And it’s only lately that I have had leisure to think about racing. For a man who is still at work, cruising should come first. Don’t you find that so?’

‘Every time,’ said Dennison emphatically.

The baronet glanced round the cabin. ‘I’ve had some good cruises in this vessel,’ he said. ‘Not very ambitious – but good holidays. I wouldn’t like to part with her. As for
Chrysanthe
, I shall sail her under her old rig this season. For one thing, there isn’t time to change. But after that, I’ve been thinking of scrapping her gear and
re-rigging her Bermuda fashion. In a similar manner to
Nyria.
’

They plunged into an animated discussion of the technical details of the plan, of the questions of sail area, mast position, and seaworthy qualities of the Bermuda rig. They talked for twenty minutes; then a bell rang for lunch. The baronet rose.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘we really know very little about her. We shall learn a great deal this season. It’s a little early to discuss it before we’ve had an opportunity to try her paces.’

He passed into the saloon and sat down to lunch in silence. ‘He’s perfectly right,’ he thought. ‘She would take more ballast forward. I hadn’t thought of that.’

Lunch over, they smoked a pipe in the saloon, then called for a dinghy and went ashore. Morris wandered off to make some purchases in Cowes; Sir David and Rawdon made their way to Flanagan’s yard. They passed in at the gates and strolled to the quay where the
Irene
lay, inspected her closely, and turned away. In the background, the
Chrysanthe
lay on a slip, being painted, monstrous and ungainly.

The two men picked their way across the litter to the ramshackle little offices. Sir David entered, knocked at a door, and went in, followed by Rawdon. At a roll-top desk was seated a stout middle-aged man in a suit of sad, plebeian grey, sipping a cup of tea, his feet up on a chair. At the sight of his visitors, he laid down the cup and rose ponderously to his feet.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You’ll have come to look over
Chrysanthe
? Getting along with her nicely now. Tell me, did you see the new hollow gaff has come in for her? ’Tis a beautiful gaff, and half again as light as the old one.’

‘I’d like to have a look at it,’ said the baronet. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve brought a repair job. I ran down a
small cutter in the Solent yesterday, I’m sorry to say, and took the bowsprit out of her.’

‘Do you tell me that now!’ said Flanagan.

Sir David nodded. ‘I want her got ready for sea again at once,’ he said. ‘At once. You can take men off
Chrysanthe
for her if necessary.’

The stout man clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘Deary me,’ he said. ‘Will we go out and see her?’ He produced a dishevelled soft felt hat and crammed it on his head. ‘But it would be a terrible pity to take the men from
Chrysanthe
!’

They followed him from the office into the yard. He walked to the quay and glanced at the
Irene.
Then he turned to Sir David in obese amazement.

‘ ’Tis Mr Dennison’s little cutter!’ he said.

‘That’s so. Mr Dennison was slightly injured; he’s with me in the
Clematis
now. I want his vessel got ready for him by the time he’s fit to sail her.’

With surprising agility, the stout man dropped down on to the deck of the
Irene
and made a quick examination. Then he lifted the hatch of the little forecastle and disappeared below. In a minute, he was up on deck again, and on the quay beside them.

‘ ’Tis no great matter,’ he said. ‘Will it do, now, if I have her ready for you by the Friday night?’

‘That will do excellently.’

‘Is Mr Dennison hurt bad?’ inquired Flanagan. ‘I’d be sorry if anything was to happen to him.’

He was reassured. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said heavily. ‘And now, gentlemen, you’ll be wanting to have a look round the
Chrysanthe
and in the big hangar?’

They walked in and out among the smaller vessels to where the
Chrysanthe
lay upon the slip. ‘ ’Tis here that old Mr Dennison – Mr Peter Dennison’s father that was – fitted out before the war,’ he said reminiscently. ‘He was a fine sailor, he was. Do you mind the races
they won in the
Runagate
, sir?’ He laughed to mark the point. ‘They was a crew.’

At the thought, the laughter died from his eyes; he walked a little closer to Sir David, and dropped his voice confidentially.

‘Did you ever give Mr Dennison the wheel on the
Clematis
?’ he said, in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

‘No. He’s in bed, sick. He’s only been on board since yesterday.’

The stout man in the shabby grey suit stopped and caught the baronet by the arm.

‘If I was you,’ he said earnestly, ‘if I was you I’d give him a try-out. Give him a try-out while you’ve got him aboard, sir. I mind him as a boy, the finest youngster that ever I saw, before or since. The most promising, you might say. I mind him on the
Runagate.
’

He drew the other closer to him. ‘Get him for
Chrysanthe
, sir,’ he whispered. ‘You’re after needing a helmsman; give him a chance, and you’ll not regret it. Mind what I’m telling you now – you’ll not regret it.’

The baronet gazed at him steadily. ‘He’s really good, is he?’

The stout man released his arm. ‘If I was to search from here to Ameriky,’ he said emphatically, ‘I’d not find you a better man.’ He dropped his voice again. ‘Give him a try-out round the buoys, sir, and judge for yourself. You’ll not regret it.’