Run Before the Wind (6 page)

Thrasher handed me a card with nothing on it but his name and a telephone number, then turned, made his goodbyes to Mark and Annie, and walked quickly toward a dark blue Mercedes parked across the street. The heavy who had been following us earlier leapt from the car and opened the door for Thrasher. The contrast between the two men was almost comical--Thrasher, the urbane, mannered, perfectly turned out gentleman, and his chauffeur, who was a real blunt instrument. I wondered why Derek Thrasher needed a bodyguard. We all watched as the car glided toward the ferry. I noticed that the skinny man watched, too, from the entrance to a news shop opposite us. Mark and Annie accompanied me into Morgan & Sons. We spent half an hour finding jeans, underwear, sweaters and a blazer that fit.

"Don't stint," Annie said, piling another sweater onto the counter.

"Believe me, he can afford it."

When we came out, the skinny man was nowhere in sight. I picked up some shaving gear at a drugstore, and we continued toward the marina.

Mark put his arm around Annie. She did not respond.

"Well, what do you think of our sponsor?" he asked her.

She shrugged.

"He's very smooth, isn't he?" She made the remark sound like an indictment.

"I understand he got his start wink ling little old ladies out of their houses in north London, then fixing them up and selling them for five or six times what he paid."

"Now, now, luv, he's the most respectable of businessmen." He turned to me.

"You've seen all the signs along the roads?" I nodded; I hadn't made the connection before. The huge signs with the single word "Thrasher" marked construction sites--motor ways industrial parks, all large projects.

"I was very impressed with him," I said.

"And you're sure lucky to be getting all that money for a boat."

"Oh, it's not a gift, you know. You heard his reasons; he's no fool."

"Certainly not," said Annie. I thought I detected a touch of acid in her tone. I couldn't understand it; I had found Derek Thrasher to be completely charming and even unassuming, apart from his expensive clothes and chauffeured car, both of which seemed perfectly natural accoutrements to a man of his position. He didn't strike me as the captain-of-industry type and certainly not as the sort of man who would build a career on kicking old ladies out of their homes. I wondered if Annie knew something that Mark and I didn't.

MARK SHOOK ME awake. It was half past four in the morning, and I responded slowly. We had dined aboard Toscana and had drunk two liters of red wine among the three of us. Mark had had the best of it, I thought, but while he seemed cheerfully awake, I was extremely fuzzy around the edges. I struggled out of the sleeping bag, struggled into my clothes, and struggled from the forepeak, the forwardmost part of the boat, into the head, where a toothbrush and a splash of cold water in the face made me feel more human. In the saloon Annie stuck a mug of steaming tea in my hand and put a plate of bacon and eggs before me. I ate ravenously.

Hangovers always make me feel weak, and I always believe I need to eat to build up my strength.

Fortified by breakfast, I joined Mark on deck and helped cast off from our marina berth. The diesel engine chugged quietly as we motored out, past dozens of other sleeping yachts. Another boat or two departed with us, apparently to catch the tide, as well. Annie tossed up my new nylon jacket, trousers, and sea boots all attributable to the gratitude of Derek Thrasher.

"Better get into these," she called.

"It's going to be cold until the sun comes up."

She was right, there was a breeze blowing, and I felt the chill.

Clear of the marina Annie switched on lights fixed to the mast, illuminating the deck, then I began to get to know Toscana. All yachts, even ones of identical design, have their own idiosyncrasies, like people. I had a look at the engine controls and the deck layout, which was arranged so that all lines came back to the cockpit, making things easier for a single hander I noticed that there was a steel bracket fixed to the stern.

"Where's the self-steering gear?" I asked Mark.

"Oh, it's stowed. Didn't want to tempt thieves in the' marina and I don't think we'll use it on the passage."

Shortly we were in the Solent. Mark seemed to be watching me closely, as, I suppose, I would have done in his place. I used to watch my campers the same way.

"Okay, luv," he said to Annie, "you'd better get your head down for a while." Annie obediently went below. She was already looking not very well.

"She'll sleep for a few hours and then feel a lot better. How are you feeling?" He looked at me closely.

"As well as can be expected after all that wine last night."

He laughed.

"Ah, mate, wine is the oil that lubricates the sailing man. Couldn't go to sea without it; better get used to it." He pointed over the land.

"Nice northwesterly blowing; give us a good close reach down the Channel. Couldn't ask for better."

The stars gave way to a predawn light, now, and I could see both shores of the Solent. The scattered clouds behind us reflected a gorgeous array of colors as the sun struck them from below the horizon. I glanced at the shoreline.

"Hey, we're really moving, aren't we? What son of tide have we got in here?"

Mark laughed.

"We've got about four knots under us. That's why we sailed so early. The boat's doing five and six knots through the water, and with the tide to help we're making nine and ten over the ground. That's The Needles coming up to port."

I looked out and saw the rising sun strike the group of white, vertical rocks that marks the eastern tip of the Isle of Wight. We were soon in the Channel, the risen sun feeling warm on our backs.

I found that I was sweating and shed my slicker.

"We'll bear away to port a bit, now." He pointed to the chart on the seat next to me.

"We'll want to head out a bit to give the Bill of Portland a wide berth. There's a strong tidal race there, and by the time we're that far along, the tide will be against us."

I found the promontory on the chart. As we sailed into the Channel the boat's motion became more pronounced, and I began to feel dull and groggy again, almost as I had felt on rising. Mark glanced at me occasionally.

"Want to get your head down for a while?"

I shook my head.

"I think I prefer the fresh air."

He nodded. I began to feel distinctly awful, now. Mark pointed to port.

"Right over the rail there, mate."

I lunged across the cockpit and emptied my fine breakfast into the English Channel. My head cleared, and I felt immediately better.

"I expect it's the hangover," Mark said.

"Best watch how much you put away the night before a passage."

A lesson well learned.

By early afternoon we were abeam of Portland Bill, some five miles offshore. We had a glorious day for our passage--sunshine, a pleasant breeze and a kind sea. Annie came on deck with sandwiches and beer, looking much better. I felt better myself and ate greedily.

Mark and I stripped off our shirts and enjoyed the sun. Annie went below and came back in a bikini. I could only afford quick glances at her; Concepta Lydon had been relegated to some distant corner of my memory; my mind was all too occupied with the outrageously alluring young woman sleeping in the sun on the deck of that neat little yacht.

Mark gave me the helm and a course to steer and went below for a nap, giving me instructions to call him if needed, and I was left alone with an oscillating compass, my concentration repeatedly shattered by the sight of Annie Robinson, lying on her back, the straps of her bikini loose, dozing, with a little smile on her wide, full mouth. I was relieved when she stirred and came to spell me at the helm.

I gave her the wheel gratefully. My neck and shoulders were aching with the effort of keeping the boat on course with the constant distraction of the supine Annie. It was easier to let her steer while I looked out over the water.

"You know all about me," I said, popping another beer.

"What about you?"

"Mark and me or just me?"

"You, first."

She smiled.

"Oh, I'm a Londoner, born and bred. Daddy was a barrister; good one, too. He died last year. My mother is still there, thriving on her own. We spent our summers on the Isle of Wight--not Cowes, the other side, Bonchurch. Boys used to ask me sailing from Cowes, though, that's where I started."

"School?"

"Grammar school in London. Took my degree at Oxford in literature. Worked in an advertising agency in London afterward.

Bored me silly."

"Is that where you met Mark? In London?"

"Nope. Cowes, during Cowes Week, two years ago. Where else? He was a captain in the Royal Marines and was skippering a service yacht in the racing. Very dashing, he was."

There was something sad in her voice.

"Still seems to be," I said.

"When did you marry?"

"Not long after. Whirlwind courtship and all that. He took leave and we went to Italy together. Incredibly easy to get married in Italy. We did the deed in Florence, that's why the yacht got named Toscana."

"Sounds romantic."

"Oh, it was." Still the sadness.

I didn't have to ask why Mark, at thirty, was no longer in the Royal Marines. He came on deck with a bottle of cold wine and three plastic glasses, wearing only a pair of khaki shorts. He had an extraordinary physique, heavily muscled, but well-balanced, except that his left knee was a mass of pits and scar tissue, and the calf was only half the size of the right. Seeing it, I was astonished that he had never shown the slightest sign of a limp, had never favored the leg at all.

Mark poured the wine, and as I was about to sip from my glass, he threw up a hand.

"Not yet, mate, not 'til the sea has had his."

He tipped his glass over the side and spilled a dollop of the clear, golden liquid into the salt water.

"Can't be mean with Poseidon," he grinned.

"Give him his sip of your wine, and maybe he won't want you."

It seemed a small price to pay for this golden, summer afternoon, sailing down the English Channel into a setting sun with these two attractive people. I could not know then how very much more the sea would demand from me.

"What happened to the leg?" I asked. It was four o'clock in the morning. I had come on deck to relieve Mark at the helm; he stayed on in the cockpit to get me settled with the boat and didn't seem anxious to get below and into a warm bunk. A brilliant night sky burned over us. In the distance. Start Point lighthouse flashed three times every ten seconds.

"A shotgun happened to it," he said lightly.

"Sawn-off, twelve gauge, double-naught buckshot."

I was about to ask if it were a hunting accident when what he had said sank in.

"Sawn-off?"

"Just a pleasant evening with the lads in a pub. Trouble was, the pub was in Belfast."

It took me a moment to add it all up.

"You were stationed there with the marines?"

"Right." He smiled.

"Only war we've got, you know. Bit like your Vietnam." From anyone else his tone would have been too like the way the British sound in old movies. From Mark it seemed offhand, natural, even shy.

"I guess if you're a professional that's what you want."

"Not want; need. Careers are made in a war, not least because a number of one's competitors drop out of the competition. I welcomed the opportunity, even enjoyed the work."

"What was the work like?"

"Street patrols, searches for weapons caches, an occasional patrol in the countryside around the border. Very tense, very exciting.

Snipers out there all the time. One kept one's flak jacket buttoned to the chin. The old adrenalin was constantly pumping. Except in' the pub."

"What happened?" Talking about this didn't seem to cause him any pain; if anything, he sounded nostalgic. I wanted to know.

"It was early on, after the thing blew, in sixty-nine. We felt safe in some of the Protestant pubs. Dreary places, but one had to get away from it, you know. We'd got outside a few pints, some of the lads were singing; I heard car doors slamming outside--if I'd been sober that would have made me sit up and take notice--it was the singing lulled me, I think." He slouched, propped his feet up on the opposite cockpit seat and gazed at the millions of stars.

"They kicked the door in and opened up on us. One of my platoon sergeants was sitting next to me; the first rounds fairly cut him in two. Fortunately, my cowardly streak surfaced through the booze and I dove over the bar. I think I must have been in midair when I was hit."

"Did it hurt a lot?" I had to know everything.

"Not a lot, not immediately, anyway. I was spun around sideways by the blast; it was like being hit in the knee with a punch. I landed on top of the landlord, who'd quite smartly hit the deck behind the bar. He had a weapon back there--an American army forty-five, it was, and I grabbed it and got off four or five indiscriminately aimed rounds. Hit one of them." He looked up.