“We’re beating now,” said Alastair. “We can’t go directly up the coast, because that would be straight into the wind. So we have to tack. We can go as far as we like on this course, because we’re heading out to sea, but when we come about we’ll have to make sure we don’t go too far inshore and hit the sandbank. It is buoyed, but...”
“We’re getting awfully far away from the land,” said Emmy, “and I do want another look at that house. Can’t we keep closer in?”
“All right,” said Alastair. “Ready about. Keep your heads down, you two. Lee-oh.”
The next few seconds seemed to Henry and Emmy like a pandemonium of flapping sails and the sound of ropes running through blocks. They raised their dutifully lowered heads as the noise ceased, and saw that the boom and sails were now on the other side of the boat, and that Ariadne was setting a course almost straight towards the shore. A black, conical buoy bobbed innocently in the water ahead of them.
“That buoy marks the edge of Steep Hill Sands,” said Alastair. “It’s as far as I dare go on this tack.”
“You’re an old fuss-pot,” Rosemary remarked. “It’s still half-tide. We can go quite a bit closer in.”
“I don’t like taking risks,” said Alastair.
“Then give me the helm,” Rosemary replied with spirit. “I’ll show you how close we can go. I’ve often done it.”
“Women,” remarked Alastair gloomily, “should never be allowed on boats. All right, take the helm. And don’t blame me if we go on the mud.”
Rosemary and Alastair changed places, and the black buoy approached at speed, until they could see the words STEEP HILL painted on it in big white letters. Soon they were inshore of it, and getting a fine view of the eastern elevation of Berry Hall.
“Come about now,” said Alastair.
“Rubbish,” said Rosemary. “I’ve got another fifty yards.”
“You’re a bloody fool,” said Alastair, with some heat.
“Who’s sailing this boat anyway, you or me?”
“You are, but—”
“Very well then.” Rosemary’s pretty mouth was set in a stubborn line. “I say we can go closer.”
“And I say we can’t.”
“My dear Alastair, it may interest you to know that—oh, hell...”
There was an ominous, crunching sound.
“What’s the matter?” said Henry.
Rosemary was swearing, quietly but with a fine command of Anglo-Saxon. She pulled the tiller towards her, and shouted, “Free sheets. I’ll try to blow her off.”
“What’s happened?” said Emmy. “We don’t seem to be moving.”
“Dear Emmy,” said Alastair grimly, “we are not moving. My adorable wife has put us on the putty. On a falling tide. It’s no good, darling. Get the sails off her, and I’ll try the kedge.”
Working with desperate speed, Rosemary set up the boom gallows and lowered the mainsail and the jib, while Alastair took the anchor into the dinghy and rowed out with it into deep water, where he dropped it. Then he came back, and hauled with all his might on the anchor chain, hoping to pull Ariadne off the sandbank by brute force. But, with the tide running out fast, her keel was by now firmly embedded, and nothing would shift her. Already they could see little white wavelets beginning to break on the topmost point of the sandbank, as the retreating tide left only a few inches of water covering it.
Rosemary was near tears, and Henry and Emmy, embarrassed, waited for the expected recriminations. But none came. At sea, as they soon learnt, mistakes are forgiven and forgotten more quickly than ashore. Alastair put his arm round his wife’s shoulders, and said, “Cheer up, old love. Could happen to anyone.”
“Oh, darling, I’m so terribly sorry,” moaned Rosemary. “I really thought there was enough water.”
“Never mind,” said Alastair cheerfully. “I’m sure Henry and Emmy will forgive you. And it’s a lovely day for a sunbathe on Steep Hill.”
“I like it here,” said Emmy truthfully. “There’s a wonderful view of the house.”
Alastair grinned, and consulted his watch. “You may get a bit sick of this particular view by the time we get off,” he said. “We’ve got a good five hours before the tide comes up enough to float us. Still, at least we’re on sand and not on mud, so we can get out and walk around. I imagine lunch will be a more comfortable meal on the sand than on board.”
As Alastair spoke, they could see that where before had been breaking waves, there was now an island of golden sand. And, as Ariadne heeled over unhappily to landward, this island spread rapidly in circumference until the water had retreated all round them, leaving them and the boat stranded, high and dry, in the sunshine. Inshore, it was now possible to see the narrow, winding channel which ran from Sir Simon’s boathouse to the sandbank: to seaward, a smart, green-hulled sailing boat was coming down the main channel, with a cheerfully waving figure at the tiller.
“Oh, lord,” said Rosemary in dismay, “that’s Hamish in Tideway. What will he think?”
“I’ve seen him on Steep Hill before now,” said Alastair, returning the salutati
on. “Let him have a good laugh. He can do with it.”
“Poor Hamish,” said Rosemary. “He certainly hasn’t been his old self since—” She stopped, suddenly.
“You know, darling,” said Alastair, “we must be in just about the same place now—where we found Pete, I mean.”
“Tell us about this man Pete,” said Henry. “We keep hearing about him. What’s the story?”
“Well,” said Alastair, “it happened just about here, on Steep Hill.”
“Darling,” said Rosemary, “I’m sure Henry and Emmy don’t want to—”
“We’ve got plenty of time,” said Alastair. “If you’d like to hear about it.”
“Yes, please,” said Emmy.
“Let’s have lunch,” said Rosemary. There was a curious urgency in her voice.
But when they had all finished their plates of cold chicken and salad—extracted with some difficulty from the galley, which was now listing at forty-five degrees—Alastair leant back on the sand, lit his pipe, and said, “Well...if you’re interested...it was like this...”
CHAPTER THREE
“PETE RAWNSLEY,” SAID Alastair, “was a wonderful chap. At least, we thought so. I think everybody did. A great big bear of a man, with one of those weather-beaten faces and bright blue eyes. I suppose he was about fifty—he was Hamish’s uncle—but that sort of chap could be anything from forty to sixty. He was as tough as nails, and what he didn’t know about boats could be written on a sixpence—I tell you, he was the finest sailor I ever knew. That’s why it seemed so terrible when...oh, well, I’ll come to that later.
“Anyway, a couple years ago he came into some money and retired down here and bought a beautiful Dragon-class boat called Blue Gull—Hamish is trying to sell her now. Except when he was racing, he nearly always sailed single-handed. Said he knew where he was that way. I must say I see what he meant,” he added, with a glance at Rosemary, who put her tongue out at him.
“Well,” Alastair went on, “we met him down here, and became great friends. He was one of the original group that we call the Fleet.”
“We know about that,” said Emmy. “Rosemary told us.”
“One day a few months ago—in May, it was—Pete was taking Blue Gull up to the Deben for regatta week, picking his crew up there, and we decided to make a Fleet Outing of it and all sail there in company. It was a glorious morning—I remember we had to set sail at seven to catch the tide. We were the first away, then Pete, then the others—they were late getting up, and were some way behind us. Blue Gull is a much faster boat than Ariadne, of course, so we fully expected Pete to overtake us, but somehow we were lucky and caught a bit of breeze that he didn’t, and we managed to keep ahead until we got right down here, near the river mouth. We were pretty pleased about it, as you can imagine, and Pete was determined to pass us. So he thought he’d be a bit clever and cut a corner over the sandbank. He overtook us all right, but the next thing we saw—wham, he was on the putty. Just about here.