odds, like unrehearsed bows in a
tutti
.
I sat down with my back to the saloon wall and my feet on Johnson’s Moroccan wool cushions, and suddenly from below there was a flood of soft music and Lenny appeared at my elbow with a mug of steam-flustered coffee and a ham sandwich, just cut. Johnson took one too and put it on deck, resting the tiller under his elbow. He did not turn his head much, but the dark glasses inclined towards the sails, the bow, the headland, the distant ribbon of small towns and at me. Continuing to contemplate me, “This,” said Johnson agreeably, “is just the commercial. The flip side’ll slay you.”
At the time, I was mildly amused.
The morning passed. I had my first experience of changing direction. On advice, I first retired to my cabin. Then Johnson observed, mildly, “Ready about, gentlemen,” and put the tiller down, and the boat came erect, sails flapping, while the bow began a big swing to the right. For a moment
Dolly
hesitated, and then the wind caught and filled her sails from the new side and turning, she heeled flat out on her right flank. While Lenny scampered about crouching on the foredeck and Rupert in the cockpit had his hands full of whipping white ropes, the two wooden booms holding the sails had swept across, as Johnson prophesied with some confidence that they would.
He and Rupert had ducked. I had no need, being pinned in my cabin by my four cases. It was Rupert who helped me up. “Bit inconvenient, don’t you find?” he said kindly. “You could always leave them on shore at Ardrishaig, and pick them up later… Oo, I say! That’s a bit hasty.”
He was gazing at my biggest case, which I had just swung into the cockpit and thence overboard.
“Why? It’s unpacked,” I replied. It was true. The contents of one I had managed to squeeze into my locker.
“But my God, it’s crocodile, isn’t it?” said Rupert, ululation, despite himself, in his voice.
It was. But, of course, it was also insured. I shrugged. “The other three perhaps
Symphonetta
might be persuaded to take for me.”
Rupert caught Johnson’s eye and started to laugh. “Persuade! Christ, Hennessy’s bearings’ll seize. Madame Rossi, you’re marvellous.”
“Tina,” I corrected him. Better be done with it.
“Rupert,” said Rupert.
“Johnson,” said Johnson, smartly. “Rupert, I don’t awfully want to go about again immediately, but I shall have to if you don’t let the mainsail out at the double.”
I crossed the cockpit and knelt, looking out to sea, on the cushions beside him. I was wearing Pucci trousers and Ma Griffe. “Johnson?” I said. “Just so? Like one’s gardener, or one’s clerk?”
“Or one’s President or one’s floor polish,” said Johnson, watching the main sheet reel out. “It’s my first name as well. Parents palsied, mentally and physically, by the happy event.”
“Johnson Johnson?” I really did not believe it.
“You’ll get used to it,” he replied.
The start of the race I am sure was exciting, but lunch (out of a tin, as Rupert said with disgust) consisted of partridge stuffed with Perigord truffles, preceded by a good Amontillado, and the Sauterne which followed put an end to my interest in nautical things. Assured that we had crossed the starting line, in the end, in reasonably good order, I retired to my cabin and slept.
I came out of sleep a long time later, very slowly. It was warm. I was lying on my back, being rocked softly from side to side, as if in a cradle. There was a sound of lapping water, like notes of music,
pizzicato
, with small agitated runs between. There was, all about and above, a stirring, a bumping, a minuscule groaning. I rolled over and out of the cabin and into the cockpit. We were becalmed.
We were all becalmed. Between green coast and distant green coast; from the far hills of Arran and the nearer hills of Cowal and Argyll to the Renfrewshire coast and the sandy beaches of the Cumbraes, the estuary lay
tutti
.
I sat down with my back to the saloon wall and my feet on Johnson’s Moroccan wool cushions, and suddenly from below there was a flood of soft music and Lenny appeared at my elbow with a mug of steam-flustered coffee and a ham sandwich, just cut. Johnson took one too and put it on deck, resting the tiller under his elbow. He did not turn his head much, but the dark glasses inclined towards the sails, the bow, the headland, the distant ribbon of small towns and at me. Continuing to contemplate me, “This,” said Johnson agreeably, “is just the commercial. The flip side’ll slay you.”
At the time, I was mildly amused.
The morning passed. I had my first experience of changing direction. On advice, I first retired to my cabin. Then Johnson observed, mildly, “Ready about, gentlemen,” and put the tiller down, and the boat came erect, sails flapping, while the bow began a big swing to the right. For a moment
Dolly
hesitated, and then the wind caught and filled her sails from the new side and turning, she heeled flat out on her right flank. While Lenny scampered about crouching on the foredeck and Rupert in the cockpit had his hands full of whipping white ropes, the two wooden booms holding the sails had swept across, as Johnson prophesied with some confidence that they would.
He and Rupert had ducked. I had no need, being pinned in my cabin by my four cases. It was Rupert who helped me up. “Bit inconvenient, don’t you find?” he said kindly. “You could always leave them on shore at Ardrishaig, and pick them up later… Oo, I say! That’s a bit hasty.”
He was gazing at my biggest case, which I had just swung into the cockpit and thence overboard.
“Why? It’s unpacked,” I replied. It was true. The contents of one I had managed to squeeze into my locker.
“But my God, it’s crocodile, isn’t it?” said Rupert, ululation, despite himself, in his voice.
It was. But, of course, it was also insured. I shrugged. “The other three perhaps
Symphonetta
might be persuaded to take for me.”
Rupert caught Johnson’s eye and started to laugh. “Persuade! Christ, Hennessy’s bearings’ll seize. Madame Rossi, you’re marvellous.”
“Tina,” I corrected him. Better be done with it.
“Rupert,” said Rupert.
“Johnson,” said Johnson, smartly. “Rupert, I don’t awfully want to go about again immediately, but I shall have to if you don’t let the mainsail out at the double.”
I crossed the cockpit and knelt, looking out to sea, on the cushions beside him. I was wearing Pucci trousers and Ma Griffe. “Johnson?” I said. “Just so? Like one’s gardener, or one’s clerk?”
“Or one’s President or one’s floor polish,” said Johnson, watching the main sheet reel out. “It’s my first name as well. Parents palsied, mentally and physically, by the happy event.”
“Johnson Johnson?” I really did not believe it.
“You’ll get used to it,” he replied.
The start of the race I am sure was exciting, but lunch (out of a tin, as Rupert said with disgust) consisted of partridge stuffed with Perigord truffles, preceded by a good Amontillado, and the Sauterne which followed put an end to my interest in nautical things. Assured that we had crossed the starting line, in the end, in reasonably good order, I retired to my cabin and slept.
I came out of sleep a long time later, very slowly. It was warm. I was lying on my back, being rocked softly from side to side, as if in a cradle. There was a sound of lapping water, like notes of music,
pizzicato
, with small agitated runs between. There was, all about and above, a stirring, a bumping, a minuscule groaning. I rolled over and out of the cabin and into the cockpit. We were becalmed.
We were all becalmed. Between green coast and distant green coast; from the far hills of Arran and the nearer hills of Cowal and Argyll to the Renfrewshire coast and the sandy beaches of the Cumbraes, the estuary lay
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