on, perhaps another one, and start a wonderful business.’ He threw out his arm melodramatically. ‘We will never stop, or settle, but every waterway will have its memories, as someone once said.’
‘What’s the next step?’ Vivian asked, as he helped Lang down to the dinghy.
‘Just carry on here. Get the boat fuelled, send the bill to us, of course. I shall tell Jensen you’re fixed up, on the payroll, as it were, but you don’t know a thing, okay?’
The dinghy scraped the pier, and Lang reached up for the ladder.
Vivian spoke out of the darkness. ‘That little bastard Cooper, I forgot to ask you about him. He was telling me some yarn about that Patterson bloke.’
Lang growled. ‘He’s a bloody idiot. Useful, I suppose, but not to be trusted, he’s one of Mason’s imports for contact work.’
He heard Vivian chuckle below him, ‘I’m definitely anti-Mason now!’
Just as Lang turned to go, he called down softly, ‘Thanks again, Philip, you’ve given me back a bit of faith.’
He waited until he heard the car roar away, and then pulled back to
Seafox
, his mind busy.
I’m a madman, absolutely useless, he thought, but obstacles like this were made for people like me. He shivered suddenly. And there was, of course, the girl.
3
THE YELLOW, MUDDIED waters of the Thames churned and swirled, as the sluggish tide began to turn, and the countless pieces of flotsam, old oil drums, baulks of timber, and bottles, began their endless journey back down to the estuary. The chill in the air was now more prevalent and permanent, as if to announce, once and for all, that summer was but something to dream about, a brief and hurried memory to fortify and encourage the traveller through the bitter weather which was always too eager to follow.
The
Seafox
threaded her way daintily up the fairway, turning quickly to any touch of the wheel, to avoid the floating rubbish, like a prim, young lady gathering up her skirts to cross a muddy road, and as she skimmed past the rusty dumb barges, stubby tugs, and the occasional lighter, she looked completely out of place, a glimpse of another world.
Vivian, standing relaxed but watchful at the wheel, shivered slightly, as an unexpectedly cold gust whipped into the open wheelhouse window, and wished that he had remembered to put on his jacket before getting under way. He hated the greyness, the dirt, and the general atmosphere of gloom which seemed to pervade the London river, and his thoughts turned back to Torquay, with its salt air, and its clean, slow-moving, peaceful life. With a faint flicker of interest, he watched the Fire Boats exercising outside Lambeth Pier, shooting great, curving jets of water into the air, and beating the surface of the river into a gigantic froth. They lowered the power of the fire nozzles as the trim, little yacht cruised past, and the firemen grinned cheerfully, as Vivian waved in acknowledgement. He ran his eye for the hundredth time over his boat, and gripped the wheel spokes affectionately.
She was perfect, there was no doubt about it, and most certainly did not belong here, any more than he did. For two days after his long talk with Lang, he had waited impatiently at Chelsea, trying to fill in time by working on the boat, re-provisioning, polishing, but mostly thinking. Twice he had telephoned Lang, and each time Lang had told him to hold on, and be prepared to do another trip across the Channel. He had rung up old Arthur at Torquay, and told him just enough to keep him from worrying, and to learn that his cat was still in good health and spirits. Arthur’s voice, faint and blurred over the distance, had been full of concern and pleading.
‘Yew’m better off down ’ere, Skipper,’ he had said.
Better off, mused Vivian. How true. This damn waiting for something to happen was beginning to get on his nerves. As instructed, he had been down to the fuel barges to fill up his tanks, and now, as he made his way back to Chelsea, he felt
‘What’s the next step?’ Vivian asked, as he helped Lang down to the dinghy.
‘Just carry on here. Get the boat fuelled, send the bill to us, of course. I shall tell Jensen you’re fixed up, on the payroll, as it were, but you don’t know a thing, okay?’
The dinghy scraped the pier, and Lang reached up for the ladder.
Vivian spoke out of the darkness. ‘That little bastard Cooper, I forgot to ask you about him. He was telling me some yarn about that Patterson bloke.’
Lang growled. ‘He’s a bloody idiot. Useful, I suppose, but not to be trusted, he’s one of Mason’s imports for contact work.’
He heard Vivian chuckle below him, ‘I’m definitely anti-Mason now!’
Just as Lang turned to go, he called down softly, ‘Thanks again, Philip, you’ve given me back a bit of faith.’
He waited until he heard the car roar away, and then pulled back to
Seafox
, his mind busy.
I’m a madman, absolutely useless, he thought, but obstacles like this were made for people like me. He shivered suddenly. And there was, of course, the girl.
3
THE YELLOW, MUDDIED waters of the Thames churned and swirled, as the sluggish tide began to turn, and the countless pieces of flotsam, old oil drums, baulks of timber, and bottles, began their endless journey back down to the estuary. The chill in the air was now more prevalent and permanent, as if to announce, once and for all, that summer was but something to dream about, a brief and hurried memory to fortify and encourage the traveller through the bitter weather which was always too eager to follow.
The
Seafox
threaded her way daintily up the fairway, turning quickly to any touch of the wheel, to avoid the floating rubbish, like a prim, young lady gathering up her skirts to cross a muddy road, and as she skimmed past the rusty dumb barges, stubby tugs, and the occasional lighter, she looked completely out of place, a glimpse of another world.
Vivian, standing relaxed but watchful at the wheel, shivered slightly, as an unexpectedly cold gust whipped into the open wheelhouse window, and wished that he had remembered to put on his jacket before getting under way. He hated the greyness, the dirt, and the general atmosphere of gloom which seemed to pervade the London river, and his thoughts turned back to Torquay, with its salt air, and its clean, slow-moving, peaceful life. With a faint flicker of interest, he watched the Fire Boats exercising outside Lambeth Pier, shooting great, curving jets of water into the air, and beating the surface of the river into a gigantic froth. They lowered the power of the fire nozzles as the trim, little yacht cruised past, and the firemen grinned cheerfully, as Vivian waved in acknowledgement. He ran his eye for the hundredth time over his boat, and gripped the wheel spokes affectionately.
She was perfect, there was no doubt about it, and most certainly did not belong here, any more than he did. For two days after his long talk with Lang, he had waited impatiently at Chelsea, trying to fill in time by working on the boat, re-provisioning, polishing, but mostly thinking. Twice he had telephoned Lang, and each time Lang had told him to hold on, and be prepared to do another trip across the Channel. He had rung up old Arthur at Torquay, and told him just enough to keep him from worrying, and to learn that his cat was still in good health and spirits. Arthur’s voice, faint and blurred over the distance, had been full of concern and pleading.
‘Yew’m better off down ’ere, Skipper,’ he had said.
Better off, mused Vivian. How true. This damn waiting for something to happen was beginning to get on his nerves. As instructed, he had been down to the fuel barges to fill up his tanks, and now, as he made his way back to Chelsea, he felt
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