Night Sky (70 page)

Impossible
.

Because there was nothing else to do, she held the northwesterly course, thinking all the time: I’m failing! Miserably failing!

Perhaps if she held on, perhaps the wind would change …

A long time passed. Dimly she realised that she could see the side of the boat stretching away from her. When she looked again the bow itself was there, a faint black smudge against grey. Then the sea itself – waves; she could see waves like the ripples on an iced cake, but grey and murky. To the right, a thin line of pale white light appeared, stretching across the horizon from side to side; with a slight shock, Julie realised it
was
the horizon. The white light filtered gradually up into the sky, turning a delicate crystal yellow, the colour of pale primrose. One by one the stars disappeared until the sky became a clear unbroken dome over her head.

Dawn. It had come too soon.

Instinctively, Julie looked behind, but she could see nothing – it was still too dark. She looked again a few minutes later. It was difficult to tell: the grey area between the sea and the sky was too indistinct.

Half an hour later the southern horizon was visible, a grey line behind the boat. She looked carefully: there was no land in sight. They were clear of the coast, then. That was something at least.

Then, as she looked at the vast expanse of water appearing around her, stretching out barren and cold in every direction, she didn’t feel so glad. It looked enormous.

Up in the front Peter’s figure was clearly visible, curled up under the sacks. He was sleeping soundly. So was the old man, over on the right-hand side, against the side of the boat. Good. There was no point in everyone being tired.

Wearily, Julie looked at the compass, visible now in the grey light. Still North-west. Still the
wrong
course.

She should do something about it …

She stayed frozen at the tiller a moment longer then made herself stand up.
Time to get going
.

She said out loud, ‘Right!’ Gritting her teeth, she tied up the tiller and eyed the ropes that were coiled or fastened at various points round the boat. There were two sails. The first, a big sail, almost square, was fastened to the mast on its front edge, to a long wooden pole on its lower edge and to another, shorter, pole high up on its top edge. The fourth – back – edge wasn’t fastened to anything. Up in front of the mast, there was another, smaller sail, triangular and attached to a sharp piece of wood that stuck out in front of the boat. She remembered: the piece of wood was called a bowsprit.

The big sail first. There was one rope which seemed to make the sail go in or out. The rope wound back and forth between wooden pulleys. She wasn’t sure why – to make things easier perhaps.

The rope was tied off round a wooden anchor thing – was it called a
fastener
? Tentatively she reached forward and began to untie the rope. She paused, her heart hammering against her chest, then, very slowly, began to take off the last turn.

Suddenly there was an almighty jerk and the rope almost flew out of her hands. She cried out and, holding on grimly, tried to get a second turn of rope back onto the anchor-fastener. As she moved her hands the rope jerked out, pulling her knuckle sharply against the hard wood of the fastener. She gasped out in pain.

God, the pain!

She let go.

The rope whistled out from the coil, snaking up angrily towards the sail. The next moment there was a thunderous noise: the racket of beating canvas and rattling pulleys. Julie looked up. The sail had gone mad; it was beating itself about in a frenzy, girating back and forth until the whole boat vibrated.

Julie stared, aghast.

What now?

She put her hands over her ears, to cut out the dreadful noise, and looked round in desperation.

There was still some rope left in the coil; it hadn’t all run out. Shaking like a leaf, she reached down and picked up the rope and, cautiously, began to pull in on it.

‘Mummy!’

Julie spun round. Peter was standing beside her, rubbing his eyes, and looking curiously up at the sail. ‘Mummy, shouldn’t we pull it in?’

Julie stared at him and shook her head. Then, trying to smile, said wearily, ‘Yes, Peter, we should.’

‘I’ll help you, then!’ He was shouting to make himself heard over the thrashing of the sail.

‘Don’t you dare touch it!’ Julie screamed. ‘Just – leave it!’

There was no reply and, looking down, she saw that he was looking hurt and shame-faced. She sighed, ‘Sorry, I’m just tired, sweetheart, that’s all. I’ll be all right in a moment.’ She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and said ruefully, ‘The trouble is, I don’t know
how
to get the sail in.’

‘You put the rope under the cleat.’

‘The cleat?’

‘Yes.’ Peter pointed at the wooden anchor-fastener thing. ‘That’s what it’s called – a cleat. Richard told me. And I know you put the ropes round it to take the strain. That’s what he said …’ He trailed off.

‘Thank you, darling!’ She almost kissed him. ‘Let’s have a go then!’ She picked up the rope and, with Peter tugging rather ineffectually behind, began to pull. Soon the rope was jerking in her hands. She leant down and slid the rope under the lower arm of the cleat. Alternately she pulled and rested, letting the cleat take the strain of the rope. The clattering of the sail lessened slightly.

Then she had the idea of standing on the other side of the deck, so that the rope was doubled back from the cleat. It was a great improvement: the rope seemed less inclined to jerk out of her hands.

The pull on the rope became much stronger and, though she put her full weight against it, she couldn’t get it in any further. She rested for a moment, panting.

Suddenly the noise got much worse again. Julie looked up, bewildered, then realised the rope had gone almost limp in her hand. She pulled wildly, gathering in great lengths of it, until she could pull no more. Quickly, she tied the rope off round the cleat.

The noise stopped; the sail was full again. She waited. After a few moments the flapping started again. Quickly she pulled in on the rope.

She looked up at the sail: it was almost tight in!

Elated, she tied off the rope securely and looked at the compass. North by West – or thereabouts! And the sail full: a miracle.

How it had happened she had no idea. Then the flapping started again and she saw that the tiller had become untied. Perhaps that was something to do with it.

She took hold of the tiller, put the boat back on course, and grinned at Peter. What did it matter how it had happened? She’d got the sail in
and
the boat on course.

She went forward and hunted for the rope that controlled the other, smaller, sail at the front. She found it and, eyeing the sail with trepidation, undid the rope. It didn’t have nearly so much pull on it and she was able to haul it in quite easily.

Returning to the tiller she undid the lines that tied it and said gaily to Peter, ‘I’ll make a sailor yet!’

The child smiled back and, coming to her side, put his hand in hers. ‘Mummy, I’m hungry. Is there any breakfast?’

Julie’s heart sank. Breakfast. She’d never thought of breakfast. Her smile vanished. Had Michel said anything about food? Water, yes, he’d definitely mentioned that. But food? No.

She sighed. How did one tell a six-year-old that there was nothing to eat? She said softly, ‘There isn’t any breakfast, darling. Sorry.’ She took a deep breath. ‘We’re going to have to go without until we get to England. Sorry.’ She squeezed his hand.

‘Without – anything?’ The voice was small and subdued.

Julie looked away and tried to sound brisk and matter-of-fact. ‘Without anything. We finished all the food when we were on the beach, remember?’

‘Perhaps there’s some on the boat somewhere …’

She sighed. It was very unlikely. ‘Perhaps. Why don’t you go and have a look, eh?’

He nodded brightly and, dropping to his knees, started rooting around in the large box where Julie had found the torch.

It would, at least, keep him busy for a while.

A movement caught her eye: the old man was leaning over the side of the boat, his head down, as if staring at the water. For a moment Julie couldn’t think what he was doing then she heard a faint retching sound and looked quickly away.

She’d quite forgotten about being sick. Extraordinary. She couldn’t understand why it hadn’t happened to
her
.

There was a
crump!
from the bow and a thin veil of spray came flying back into her face. More wind: definitely more wind. The tiller felt different in her hand: it was moving of its own accord and she had to push harder to get the boat back on course. The boat was going faster, too, haring along like the wind. Perhaps her calculations had been wrong; perhaps they’d get to England before nightfall. The idea of more wind made her very nervous but it might be a blessing after all.

There was a whoop from the front. Julie tensed. Peter’s face appeared round the mast, waving madly. She frowned. What on earth was he so excited about?

He emerged, holding a bag, and weaved his way back down the boat. He dumped the bag at her feet in triumph. ‘Food!’ he yelped.

Julie blinked. ‘Food?’

‘Yes, tins, Mummy! Cans of fish and beef and potatoes and
petit pois
and …’

‘Goodness gracious me!’ She stared in astonishment as Peter opened the bag to reveal the cans, about ten of them, a little rusty but obviously quite usable. The whole thing was odd enough – Michel having this boat – but the food … A thought came to Julie and suddenly she understood everything.

This boat was for
Michel
’s escape. He’d planned it all – bought the boat, prepared it, put the food on board, even worked out the course for England. He’d planned it all – and then given the boat to her.

Crump!
Spray flew into Julie’s eyes and pattered against her jacket. ‘Take the bag back to the bow, Peter, so it doesn’t get wet. And you stay there too and have something to eat.’

‘But it’s awfully bumpy up there. Can’t I stay here?’ He was whining. Tiredness.

‘Well – perhaps … All right! We’ll eat here together then. See if you can find an opener or a knife or something.’

He disappeared into the box behind her and rummaged around, then looked up at her dispiritedly. ‘Nothing here, Mummy, only this.’ He held up a metal spike.

‘Try the front, then.’

‘The bow, you mean. That’s its
proper
name.’

Julie made the effort not to clip his ear. ‘Don’t argue with me!’ she shouted. ‘Just go and look.’

He wandered off down the deck. Instantly Julie regretted her anger: she was tired and hungry too.

The bow rose then dipped suddenly. There was more spray, heavier this time and icy cold: she could feel it seeping through her trousers. The wind seemed colder too; she shivered despite the extra sweater.

Peter came back along the deck, his hair dripping with water.

‘Oh darling, you’re all wet!’

‘There was a big wave!’ His lower lip trembled and he started to cry.

‘Come on, let’s get some food inside you!’

‘There’s no opener!’ He was crying in earnest now, his face creased up in despair.

One thing after another. Julie took a deep breath and said calmly, ‘Let’s use the spike then. That’ll have to do.’

Pushing her back against the tiller to hold it steady, she reached into the bag for a can and, holding it against her leg, tried to puncture it with the spike. On the third attempt the spike slid off and dug into her thigh. Hopeless.

God, she felt tired.

She put her hand into the bag to see if there was an easier can, perhaps a flat sardine-type with its own opener. She felt around and came out with a long metallic object – a can opener. She clapped her hand to her forehead and shook her head. It was, of course, where any intelligent person would have put it.

She opened a can of meat and one of pilchards. ‘When you’ve eaten, go and see if Monsieur Freymann wants anything, will you, Peter?’ He nodded, his mouth full of meat. Julie looked to the rail, but David wasn’t there any more and she saw that he was lying on the deck again. His face was sheet white; he wouldn’t want anything to eat. A drink, maybe …

Where was that water Michel had talked about? Heaven only knew.

She stuffed a pilchard into her mouth and was surprised to find how hungry she was. She ate ravenously, then opened a can of potatoes and ate most of that, too, before passing it to Peter.

Crump!
The water was flying over the bow more frequently now. Did it matter, all this water? She remembered how wet it had been on that large fishing boat when she and Peter had tried to escape before, yet the crew hadn’t been worried.

Peter got a face full of water and she made him move to the uphill side of the deck where there seemed to be less spray. She moved across to the same side and took the tiller in her other hand.

As soon as she moved across she realised just how much the boat was tilting over on to one side. The deck was at a considerable slant and the mast was leaning over at a distinct angle. Each gust of wind made the tilt worse. What was there to stop the boat going right over?

She had a sudden memory of another time … With Richard all those years ago. The boat had tipped over then, quite far. She remembered clinging to the side, terrified. But
he
hadn’t been worried, not in the slightest. She whispered, ‘Oh Richard, why the hell aren’t you here!’

There was a whoosh and a swishing sound. Water was racing along the downhill side of the deck. Julie felt a rush of fear.
Where had it come from?
Immediately she thought: We’re sinking!

She clutched at Peter. ‘Oh God, darling!’

‘It’s all right, Mummy, it’ll go out through the scuppers.’

Julie stared at him in amazement. ‘The scuppers?’

‘Yes. Richard told me when we were carving the model. They’re the holes in the sides, down there. For letting water out.’

‘… for letting water out …’

She watched, fascinated, as the water gurgled away through the small slits. A moment later the boat tipped again and the water came back, only to gurgle harmlessly away as before. She turned to Peter. ‘What else did Richard tell you?’