Night Sky (73 page)

In the meantime …

She searched the deck carefully. There had to be a way of getting the water out. ‘Manning the pumps’, that’s what they used to do in the stories she’d read. But was this boat big enough to have a pump? And if so what would it look like?

There was nothing on the deck that looked remotely like anything that might be a pump.

Nothing for it then …

She stared for a while at the gaping hold then, taking the torch, lowered herself over the edge and down into the darkness. She found a foothold and stepped down into the swirling water up to her calves. Immediately, she wished she’s taken her shoes off and left them on deck. Too late now.

The torchlight revealed an empty shell. Julie stooped down and shone the light right into the bow. Nothing: just the timber frame and, halfway down, the mast coming through the deck above. Behind, nothing either.

Crouching, she climbed forward and shone the torch into the bow again. The water was surging round something heaped on the floor – the anchor chain.

No sign of any kerosene. No sign of a pump.

The boat lurched and she grabbed for the mast. The nasty feeling began to rise in her throat again. She knew she must get out, and fast!

As she let go of the mast something cold touched her hand.
Must get up on deck
… Swallowing fast, she shone the torch back on the mast, to where her hand had been. A pipe. It ran parallel to the mast, down into the bottom of the boat where it was lost in the murky water.

She gulped hard and pointed the torch upwards. The pipe followed the mast until the spar disappeared through the deck, then it ran horizontally for a short distance until it stopped at a large metal object suspended from the deckhead.

I’m going to be sick
.

She rushed for the open hatch and hoisted herself quickly over the edge of the coaming onto the deck.

She fell against the downhill rail and knew that nothing would stop it now. She heaved miserably for several minutes then began to feel better. She staggered back to the helmsman’s seat and, resting her head against the compass, waited for the faintness to pass. It would be so easy to sleep now, to let go.

After a few minutes she stood up and, still shaky, made herself go forward to the mast. She looked to one side of it, to where the metal thing must be just under the deck, and there, set into the planking, was a short thick metal post. She’d thought it was some kind of bollard, but now she could see it was mechanical: it had a socket thing, and bits that obviously moved.

Spray shot through the air and struck her coldly on the cheek. She dropped on to her hands and knees and looked more closely at the mechanical post. The socket was clearly designed to take some sort of handle. Then it could be moved back and forth.

A handle. She was getting tired of looking for things …

She glanced around half-heartedly and saw, right beside her, attached by a clip to the mast, a long straight piece of pipe iron. A handle.

It fitted the socket.

She pulled the cover across the open hatch so that no more water should get in from above, and, sitting on the edge of the hatch, started to pump. At first the handle went back and forth quite easily then, suddenly, it became stiffer and she realised it was only now beginning to draw up water. She settled down into a rhythm and wondered how long it would take to empty the hold.

The pump was situated in what was probably the wettest part of the deck, where the spray was at its thickest. Water dribbled down her neck and into her clothing, which clung damp and sticky to her skin. But the action of the pumping was, at least, getting her nice and warm. She gave a small snort of amusement – you could make anything sound good if you tried.

After half an hour or so, she lifted the hatch cover and shone the torch down. Still tons of water. She’d half expected it. She settled back into the pumping, trying to clear her brain of everything but the necessity to pump. But her mind kept wandering; thoughts of home, and Jean, and Tante Marie, and
him
…

She made herself sing, and quite enjoyed it for a while, until she ran out of songs.

Her back began to ache. She took a rest, but it was a mistake: her back ached twice as much when she started pumping again.

After a while her hands blistered and she had to stop because of the pain. Wearily she lifted the corner of the hatch cover and shone the torch down. The water had almost gone. She nodded with satisfaction. Wrapping her hands in rags she pumped again, more quickly, desperately, until at long last there was a sucking noise and the pump was dry.

She put the handle back in its clip on the mast and slowly, shakily, made her way back to the tiller seat.

The course read North-west.
Too far west
. She rested her head against the glass bowl and closed her eyes.

‘Mummy …’ A small hand was placed on her arm. ‘Mummy, are you all right?’

‘Yes, darling, I feel fine.’ It was about the last thing she felt.

‘I opened another tin. I thought you might be hungry after all your pumping.’

She put her arms round his small waist and her head against his chest and said in a tight voice, ‘Thank you, darling.’

A faint cry sounded from the bow. Julie looked round. It was David. His hand was raised as if to wave. She’d quite forgotten about him. He must want water.

Wearily, she got to her feet and began the long wet journey down the deck.

She was coming back at last!

David watched her fervently, willing her to complete her uncertain passage along the heaving deck. She paused halfway and for a moment he feared she’d changed her mind, but after waiting for a break between waves and ensuing spray, she came on, staggering slightly as the boat gave a sudden lurch forward.

As soon as she’d dropped on to her knees beside him, he grasped her hand. It was very hot. He was rather surprised because she looked so cold: her hair clung damply to her forehead and dropped in long wet strands around her shoulders. She looked worn out. Her face was very pale, apart from two bright patches of colour which burned on her cheeks, and her eyes were red and swollen, with dark smudges underneath.

David patted her hand. ‘My dear, you must rest … Some time.’

She squeezed his hand and smiled. It quite transformed her face. ‘Don’t you worry about me. I’m fit and healthy. It’s you who must take care. Would you like some water? You must be desperate for some by now.’

She reached over for the large glass bottle and, removing the stopper, held it to his lips. He drank greedily. It tasted good.

As she replaced the stopper he opened the bag he wore round his waist and, reaching in, took out the small package.

He took hold of her hand and, concentrating hard on the words, said, ‘You remember … in the field. When you came back for me. I want to thank you.’

She smiled. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course I came back for you. I couldn’t leave you, could I?’

‘At the time … Well …’ He coughed and breathed deeply to regain his breath. ‘… I wanted to give up. But I’m glad I didn’t. You see—’ He waited for a spasm of pain to pass.

She was patting his hand. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes …’ As soon as he could, he went on. ‘You were right … about them making me work. They would’ve got hold of my Cecile … they would have threatened things. This way I’m
protecting
her. Just like I promised. Thank you for that, thank you.’

She almost spoke, but he interrupted quickly. ‘Look … this package. It’s got everything … about my ideas. The drawings. The specifications. Please, you must take care of it. In case anything happens to me—’

‘It won’t!’

He shook his head irritably. ‘You will promise,’ he went on slowly, ‘that you’ll take care of it … and hand it to the right people. It must be the right people … Do you understand?’

She still seemed unhappy about it, but nodded gently and, looking down at the small flat package, weighed it thoughtfully in her hand. She appeared to come to a decision and, turning slightly away, pushed the package down inside her jersey and buried it somewhere in her underwear.

David relaxed. He was free at last. It was like a weight off his shoulders. Now he could
really
sleep. He squeezed her hand. ‘You’re a good girl.’

She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. Then she stroked his forehead and asked, ‘What about taking some of your pills?’

‘Pain’s not so bad now … Anyway … Make me sick. Better not.’ It was a lie about the pain, it was as bad as ever, but he didn’t want to bother her with it.

She was regarding him thoughtfully. ‘You know, I should thank you too. For snapping me out of it when we were hiding on the beach. If you hadn’t – well, I would probably have stayed in a daze … I only wish I hadn’t got you into
this
mess.’ She sighed and looked away.

She didn’t understand at all. She thought she was failing.

David said desperately, ‘No … No, we’re
trying
. And that’s worth
everything
!
Everything
! You must realise that
trying
is the most important thing of all …!’

She nodded uncertainly. ‘If you say so. Now rest. Please. Try to sleep.’ She leaned forward once again and kissed him softly on the cheek.

‘Remember,’ he murmured. ‘Trying is the most important thing.’

‘Yes!’ She gave a small laugh and, touching his hand, got to her feet and set off towards the stern.

David lay back and closed his eyes. His mind was at rest, he had done what had to be done; now, at last, he could sleep in peace.

Her body was seizing up like her mind. As she moved back along the deck she felt her whole body complaining. Her neck was almost unmovable and every time she turned her head a sharp pain shot through her temples.

Peter’s face lit up at the sight of her. ‘Mummy, here! You still haven’t had any lunch. I’ve kept some for you!’

She sat down beside him, under the bulwark, and tried to eat. She didn’t feel very hungry.

‘Mummy, are you going to be better now?’

‘I expect so. I’m … just tired, that’s all.’

‘Why don’t you sleep and then I can keep watch?’

Sighing, she began, ‘No, Peter, it—’ Then she thought: Why not? The boat was sailing itself. Peter would probably keep a better lookout than she would. Yes: why not?

She finished her mouthful and looked at him. It was an awful responsibility for a six-year-old. But it would be night in a few hours. She’d have to be awake then and, without sleep – well, she’d never do it.

She said carefully, ‘Darling … Would you promise to tell me the
moment
you saw anything?’

The small head nodded.

‘Or the moment the weather changed … black clouds or more spray … or rain …?’

‘Yes, Mummy.’

‘If you saw a ship or … anything floating, or a plane … You’d wake me then too, wouldn’t you?’

‘I promise, Mummy.’

‘Anything at all …’

He nodded again. ‘Don’t worry, Mummy. I’ll keep a really sharp lookout!’ He smiled excitedly and pulled himself up onto the helmsman’s seat.

Julie stood up and took a long look round. The sky was still clear, but now there was a slight haze around the horizon. The sea appeared as vast as ever – and as impossible to cross.

A sharp lookout … She lay down on the deck with her head on her arm and wondered if Peter had learnt that one from Richard too.

Richard. He must have been through this sort of thing countless times – the wet, the cold and the tiredness. The thought gave her comfort. Then she saw him in another setting – in a prison cell, hungry, cold, raging to be free, and hastily tried to shut the picture out of her mind before worse things appeared.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but for a long time her body refused to relax. When she finally drifted into an uneasy doze a series of disconnected thoughts rampaged around her brain and several times made her wake with a terrible start. After a while her brain began to slow down. Only one thought remained. Something she should have done. What was it? As she drifted off into a deep sleep, she remembered at last. The course. It was still wrong. She hadn’t reset the course.

A
NEEDLE IN
a haystack.

And yet, and yet …

With his finger Fischer traced the fishing boat’s course from Morlaix to the position the plane had reported, then followed the pencilled line on, in a straight projection. His finger arrived at a point midway between the Scillies and Land’s End. It was the fifth time he’d checked the projection, but the result was always the same.

He still couldn’t understand it. Where was the boat making for? Why go all the way round Land’s End and then be faced with a long trek up the north coast of Cornwall, against the wind? The alternatives were – what? Wales or Ireland. Wales – again why bother? Ireland then. Now that
was
a possibility, particularly if the occupants of the fishing boat were seeking the safety of a neutral country. When one thought about it, the whole affair did smack of politics … Fischer decided that it was the most likely destination.

However there was still one thing that didn’t make sense.