I sent one more text message that night. Not to Lindsay, though. In fact you’ll never guess who I sent it to – so I’ll tell you. I sent it to Poppy’s uncle, Clive.
I dropped Lucy back home at about 9.30. Caroline wasn’t back yet. Lucy took me inside and made me a cup of coffee and sat talking to me (after a fashion) in the kitchen for half an hour or so. When it became obvious that Caroline was not exactly going to rush home to see me, I decided to call it a day and I got back into the car and drove to my Travelodge, which was about ten minutes out of town.
So much for my family reunion, then.
Back in the hotel room I knew that, although I was tired, I was too agitated to go straight to sleep. There was nothing on TV so I got Clive’s DVD of Deep Water out of my suitcase and slotted it into my laptop. I had a weird notion that watching it might somehow cheer me up. You know that cliché that ‘There’s always someone worse off than yourself’? Well, I figured that, in my case, it would be hard to find that someone right now. But there was always a chance that it might be Donald Crowhurst.
It was a powerful film. Over the last week, before setting out on this journey, I had been reading The Strange Voyage of Donald Crowhurst. I was about halfway through, which was pretty good going for me. The book was really detailed and well researched, but the film took you much further into the story, into the atmosphere of it. It opened with images of enormous waves heaving in the wind-tossed night, and immediately you got a sense of how lonely and scared Crowhurst must have been out there, putting himself at the mercy of the elements – it made me feel cold and seasick just looking at it. Then there were shots of the man himself, taken late into his voyage and looking toughened and hardened by it: a cruel-looking moustache on his upper lip, his eyes by now guarded and wary. After a few more of these, accompanied by unnerving, portentous music, we flashed back to a scene which at once gave me a shock of recognition: the approach to the harbour at Plymouth, lined with cheering crowds who had all turned out to witness the homecoming of Francis Chichester following his solo voyage. (A scene I could still remember watching on TV with my mother, one Sunday evening back in the spring of 1967.) Next up, you got introduced to all the major players in the story: Crowhurst himself; his wife and family; his main competitors, Robin Knox-Johnston and Bernard Moitessier; his sponsor, Stanley Best; and – perhaps most memorably of all – his press agent, Rodney Hallworth. Hallworth was described as a ‘Dickensian figure’, and the description certainly seemed to fit this imposing, fleshy presence, with an avuncular manner which barely concealed the clear streak of cynicism and ruthlessness running just beneath the surface. ‘Many people who do great things are often, as personalities, rather dull,’ he was heard to declare, blithely. ‘The press agent’s job is to get hold of the package, which could be as dull as an old tin box, and then you’ve got to dress it up – make it a bit Christmassy – so that it appears attractive.’ Crowhurst, I supposed, was the ‘old tin box’ in this scenario, and it would be Hallworth’s endeavours to exaggerate his qualities, to ‘dress him up’, that would be largely responsible for creating the impossible situation that edged him on towards madness. The film went on to chronicle this process in sympathetic but unsparing detail. You saw the chaos that accompanied his departure from Teignmouth, and how apprehensive he looked, during this time, when caught off his guard by the camera. (It was at this point, I thought – not for the first time – that his resemblance to my father was most pronounced.) And then, as the voyage progressed, the focus gradually began to shift from the challenging practicalities of single-handing to Crowhurst’s diaries, his logbooks, his disturbed scribblings, his disintegrating state of mind. The lingering close-up on his final statement – ‘IT IS THE MERCY’ – was especially chilling. When the film was over I felt shaken and drained.
By the time I had finished watching the film, it was after midnight. Despite this, I decided to send Clive a message:Hi there, just watched the Crowhurst film. Absolutely amazing! Thanks so much for lending it to me. Still on my way to Shetland – not there yet.
I went into the bathroom to clean my teeth. A few minutes later I fell into bed and I was almost asleep when my phone started to sing its by now familiar tune. Clive had texted me back already. He had written:Glad you enjoyed it! Have a safe crossing and look forward to hearing about your exploits when you get back. X
I looked at this message – or rather, that final ‘X’ – in some puzzlement. Why was Clive, of all people, sending me a virtual kiss? Coming from Lindsay, I could just about understand it, but Clive? I had never, ever, in my life received a text message from another man that ended in a kiss. The idea of Trevor, for instance, putting a kiss at the end of one of his texts or emails was unthinkable. So what was Clive playing at? I wished that it hadn’t been too late to contact Lucy, to ask for her opinion about this. She might at least be able to tell me whether it was normal or not.
Thinking about it made me uncomfortable. At last I began to sink into sleep, but the Crowhurst documentary had left queasy, unsettling images stamped upon my mind. They were still there, swimming before me, as my breathing began to settle. The fall and rise of the waves … Crowhurst’s face – reminding me (more strongly than ever, tonight) of my father’s … the fall and rise of the waves … Rodney Hallworth and his ‘old tin box’ … the fall and rise of the waves … where had I heard that expression before? … Rodney Hallworth … Lindsay Ashworth …the fall and rise … Rodney Hallworth … Lindsay Ashworth … the fall and rise … the fall and rise …
Kendal–Braemar
16
‘OK, Emma, it’s all starting to become clear now. It’s all falling into place.’
– Proceed on the current road.
‘I don’t know how it’s happened, but I seem to be turning into Donald Crowhurst. That’s who I’m about to become. Call it fate, call it predestination – call it whatever you like – but it looks like I have no choice in the matter. It’s going to happen whether I like it or not.’
– In three-quarters of a mile, right turn.
We had left Kendal about ten minutes ago, and were now driving along the A6 in the direction of Penrith. The weather had taken a turn for the worse, and the windscreen was splattered with heavy drops of something between rain and sleet. The road was climbing steadily in a series of curves through wild, verdant countryside.
‘Here I am, after all, driving a car which is meant to be new and innovative and a radical step forward in design – just like Crowhurst’s trimaran. It’s a sort of modern version of the Teignmouth Electron, and I’m at the helm.’
As we turned off the A6 towards Junction 39 of the M6, on our left we could see the vast chimneys of the Corus limestone works, hidden away at the bottom of a long, somehow intimidating private road which gave it the look of a secret military installation. In a few minutes we had reached the motorway junction.