Follow a Star by Christine Stovell Page A

there was every chance he could keep it up all by himself. And without using his hands.

Chapter Six
    ‘Clear!’ May shouted from the pulpit, the safety rail at the front of the boat, as she let go of the mooring lines and watched the yellow buoy slip away. Bill, at the helm, gave her a thumbs up. She paused for a moment to catch her breath before making her way back to the cockpit. No turning back now; they were stuck with each other for better or worse. At least she didn’t have to worry about driving Bill crazy with desire. Not unattractive indeed. Talk about faint praise. He probably, like Aiden, had taken one look at her without her make-up and noticed how piggy her muddy hazel eyes were and that her mouth was too wide. An acquired taste, Aiden had called her once, but not one, Bill had made it crystal clear, that he was willing to try.
    A choppy, unsettled tide meant that what should have been a straightforward exercise became a frustrating thrash as they motored slowly towards the narrow mouth of Portsmouth Harbour. ‘Wow! Look – HMS
Victory
!’ May couldn’t help exclaim, catching sight of the tall rigging of the famous old warship beside the historic dockyard. Seven hundred large oak trees, each of them about one hundred years old, were supposed to have gone into its construction. ‘And
Warrior
too!’ This was where Henry VIII’s flagship,
The Mary Rose
, was constructed, the place Admiral Nelson left to command the fleet that won the battle of Trafalgar! Gosh, she really was part of maritime history now.
    ‘Never mind that,’ Bill shouted, steering into what felt like a marine rush hour, ‘just keep an eye on what everyone else is doing, will you?’
    The trouble was that with huge freight ships, passenger ferries, military vessels and a variety of small crafts all funnelling towards what was beginning to feel like a very small exit, May was running out of eyes.
    ‘Bill!’ she shouted, straining to be heard above the commotion as she gesticulated at the ferry bearing down on them.
    ‘I’m trying to get out the way!’ Bill roared back. ‘Ideally I’d like to get close to the western bank where the current curls back on itself so we’re not punching against it.’
    ‘So? Go a bit faster, then.’
    ‘This is as good as it gets,’ Bill said, with a quick look over his shoulder. ‘It’s a sailing boat, remember, not a motorboat. This engine’s not built for speed.’
    No, it was apparently built to chug along at a rate of acceleration so stately that even little old ladies shopping at nearby Gunwharf Quays could easily outpace it. Now May remembered that the
Mary Rose
had sunk here, almost in this very spot, and that Admiral Nelson was mortally wounded in his fight to confirm his country’s naval supremacy and received a hero’s funeral for his achievements rather than a hero’s welcome. Great! She didn’t actually want to be part of maritime history that much. She closed her eyes as the ferry slid past them, its stern wave sending them bucking wildly as
Lucille
crabbed westwards.
    In a minute, she told herself, waiting for her head to stop spinning, the motion would get better. It was fear making her feel queasy, wasn’t it? Worrying that you were about to be sunk without a trace or that your vessel might take out a smaller craft wasn’t good for you. No wonder her legs were shaking and her palms were clammy. But even when they finally made it out of the hectic harbour and into the comparative calm of the Solent, she needed to concentrate. The slim strait, separating the mainland and the Isle of Wight was, after all, a busy recreational area for water sports in addition to being a major shipping route. It was also, she was beginning to realise as
Lucille
started rolling on a wallowy sea left over from the storm, subject to some complex tides.
    May’s stomach started rolling along with the boat, and her face, she was sure, reflected the green waves. Bill frowned at her, but it was