deep as a mirror, scattered with the goosewings of yachts. Here were the red sails of
Binkie
, the patched striped spinnaker of
Seawolf
, the vast china-blue genoa, like some minatory, chiffon-draped Turandot, of
Symphonetta
, languishing with the larger sisters behind. We were all made equal by the absolute calm, and there was nothing to do.
“Hullo,” said Johnson’s voice. Rupert, at the tiller, was stripped to the waist and lying face down on the decking beside it, three-quarters asleep. Lenny, I could see forward, his back propped by the coachhouse while he made buggy-winkles. (That is what he said later.) Johnson, I now located, as he spoke, above my head on the roof of my cabin. He was half hidden by a small canvas, held erect on a strange device like a piano rack, which projected upwards from above my cabin door. On the deck beside him was a palette carrying paint and two pots of liquid, and beside him was a pile of white hogshair brushes. He was wearing his usual bifocal glasses and an open-necked shirt, and I noted that at least there was hair on his chest, unless it was a wig. I have known, since I began filming, wigs of every variety.
“Hullo,” said Johnson. “Happy days at the races. Christian, lock up the water.”
“Lock up the water if you like,” said Rupert’s voice, muffled. “So long as you don’t lock up anything else.”
“I got the last hint,” said Johnson. “But I still won’t ask a man to drink and drive. Lenny, an iced beer for Madame Rossi.”
“Not unless everyone joins me,” I said definitely. Rupert stirred.
“Rupert on iced beer is a sex maniac,” said Johnson.
“I like sex maniacs,” said I.
“In that case,” said Johnson, briskly, “we’ll all have one. Lenny…?”
And suddenly it happened that while I lay drinking my beer, he was painting me. He was talking about
Dolly;
and about what he called the therapy of small-boating.
Through the rough white stuff of the canvas, I could see large scrabbled areas of tone taking shape. “No one sails then because they just like it?” I asked. He had not asked me to keep still, and I did not.
“Oh, you’ll find plenty of people attached to the sea for its own sake: ex-Navy types, or characters with shipping or shipbuilding interests; or people who are just good at it; rowing Blues and middle-aged peers whose grandfathers sailed their steam yachts in Oban Regatta. There’s the Farex-and-potty brigade, who want to toughen their toddlers, and small, decent blokes, like the Buchanans, who enjoy mastering the thing and risking a bit of small-scale adventure as they go. Of course—” he uncapped a fat tube of raw sienna and squeezed a heap on the polished mahogany “—plenty of others sail as you’ve sailed, to have a ball socially; entertaining co-respondents or clients, or dancing on deck all night to a record-player, or horsing up a burn with a splash-net like one of the natives…”
“Johnson doesn’t approve,” said Rupert, turning over to toast his stomach and chest. The smell of warm turpentine lingered inside the cockpit.
“Not at all,” said Johnson. His glasses flashed up and down. “Why be immoral in a flat in a fug, when you can do it at sea and be healthy?”
All the canvas was covered, and I could no longer see what he was doing. “Rupert,” I said, “why does Johnson go to sea?”
Rupert Glasscock turned his big heifer’s head to contemplate Johnson, and Johnson looked back through his bifocals. “Because he hasn’t got a flat,” said Rupert after some thought, and failed to prevent a brush loaded with vermilion from completing a crude cartoon on his spine.
Then there was a call from Lenny and both Rupert and Johnson jumped to their feet. Far across the blue, glassy water there was a smudge, like a finger mark in wet paint. In a second the palette, the brushes were stowed, the canvas was flung, with apology, into my cabin, and all three men were busy with ropes. There was wind, I
Binkie
, the patched striped spinnaker of
Seawolf
, the vast china-blue genoa, like some minatory, chiffon-draped Turandot, of
Symphonetta
, languishing with the larger sisters behind. We were all made equal by the absolute calm, and there was nothing to do.
“Hullo,” said Johnson’s voice. Rupert, at the tiller, was stripped to the waist and lying face down on the decking beside it, three-quarters asleep. Lenny, I could see forward, his back propped by the coachhouse while he made buggy-winkles. (That is what he said later.) Johnson, I now located, as he spoke, above my head on the roof of my cabin. He was half hidden by a small canvas, held erect on a strange device like a piano rack, which projected upwards from above my cabin door. On the deck beside him was a palette carrying paint and two pots of liquid, and beside him was a pile of white hogshair brushes. He was wearing his usual bifocal glasses and an open-necked shirt, and I noted that at least there was hair on his chest, unless it was a wig. I have known, since I began filming, wigs of every variety.
“Hullo,” said Johnson. “Happy days at the races. Christian, lock up the water.”
“Lock up the water if you like,” said Rupert’s voice, muffled. “So long as you don’t lock up anything else.”
“I got the last hint,” said Johnson. “But I still won’t ask a man to drink and drive. Lenny, an iced beer for Madame Rossi.”
“Not unless everyone joins me,” I said definitely. Rupert stirred.
“Rupert on iced beer is a sex maniac,” said Johnson.
“I like sex maniacs,” said I.
“In that case,” said Johnson, briskly, “we’ll all have one. Lenny…?”
And suddenly it happened that while I lay drinking my beer, he was painting me. He was talking about
Dolly;
and about what he called the therapy of small-boating.
Through the rough white stuff of the canvas, I could see large scrabbled areas of tone taking shape. “No one sails then because they just like it?” I asked. He had not asked me to keep still, and I did not.
“Oh, you’ll find plenty of people attached to the sea for its own sake: ex-Navy types, or characters with shipping or shipbuilding interests; or people who are just good at it; rowing Blues and middle-aged peers whose grandfathers sailed their steam yachts in Oban Regatta. There’s the Farex-and-potty brigade, who want to toughen their toddlers, and small, decent blokes, like the Buchanans, who enjoy mastering the thing and risking a bit of small-scale adventure as they go. Of course—” he uncapped a fat tube of raw sienna and squeezed a heap on the polished mahogany “—plenty of others sail as you’ve sailed, to have a ball socially; entertaining co-respondents or clients, or dancing on deck all night to a record-player, or horsing up a burn with a splash-net like one of the natives…”
“Johnson doesn’t approve,” said Rupert, turning over to toast his stomach and chest. The smell of warm turpentine lingered inside the cockpit.
“Not at all,” said Johnson. His glasses flashed up and down. “Why be immoral in a flat in a fug, when you can do it at sea and be healthy?”
All the canvas was covered, and I could no longer see what he was doing. “Rupert,” I said, “why does Johnson go to sea?”
Rupert Glasscock turned his big heifer’s head to contemplate Johnson, and Johnson looked back through his bifocals. “Because he hasn’t got a flat,” said Rupert after some thought, and failed to prevent a brush loaded with vermilion from completing a crude cartoon on his spine.
Then there was a call from Lenny and both Rupert and Johnson jumped to their feet. Far across the blue, glassy water there was a smudge, like a finger mark in wet paint. In a second the palette, the brushes were stowed, the canvas was flung, with apology, into my cabin, and all three men were busy with ropes. There was wind, I
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