Dolly and the Singing Bird (4 page)

I listened; I answered; I bade him goodnight; I saw him into the corridor; I returned and took, in due course, to my bed, having made my sole (as yet) gesture of explicit contempt.

I did not give myself the trouble of locking the door.

Next morning the sun was shining, but I had seen the sun shining in Scotland before. I dressed to my satisfaction, and had three calls to my bedroom before I was quite ready, at eight forty-five, to saunter downstairs.

The hall of the Yacht Club was full of pixie caps, turtle necks, stained denims and an inorganic culture of toggles. I was wearing my thin kid trouser suit in almond pink, with matching boots and knitted silk jersey. My hair was in a French pleat, and my dark cat’s glasses were bought in Miami. I wore a little scent by Patou, and on my right hand was a large uncut emerald.

As I descended the stairs, the noise abated; and Johnson, stepping forward, escorted me into breakfast in a silence almost complete. The bifocals shone with the most profound admiration. “The soft kill. Delicious,” he said, “and you’re not to worry. There’s some Thawpit on board.”

I was not worried, although a little surprised to find after breakfast that instead of Rupert, the girl Victoria had been detailed to row me to
Dolly
. She was, of course, the sole shipmate and crew of Cecil Ogden, the lugubrious remittance-man of yesterday’s encounter at the bar.

We were introduced, Victoria and I, on the jetty. I looked for a hockey player and I found one: a centre-forward, small, bony, and agile. The central zone of the face, revealed by the inner selvedges of long, hanging, mud-coloured hair, displayed large cow-like eyes under thick eyebrows, and a mouth much too big. She wore denims and a faded striped sweater and talked in a high, clear cordon bleu voice about the last thing I did for Stokowski. But she did not, at least, ask for my autograph.

Seawolf
’s dinghy I did not altogether appreciate. It was a light wooden, flat-bowed shell, known as a pram; and I, for one, was no baby. Victoria all too clearly knew I was about to get wet: she tucked oilskins, still talking, over my trouser suit as soon as I was seated, cast off, and took up the oars. Her arms were bare, and so were her feet. A little water at the bottom of the pram slopped over one of my kid boots. Between tugs, “Thank God there’ll be someone on
Dolly
with the glands to stand up to Johnson,” she said vaguely. “He’s done you an epic scene already, I bet, about the right clothes to take.”

“He has. I had a selected caseful of warm waterproof things fixed to go on board first thing this morning.” I paused. The strip of face between the almost united curtains of hair was mildly expectant. “However, to be on the safe side, I bribed the Club porter to row out three more cases before Mr. Johnson was up.”

I was rewarded by a large toothy smile. “I knew you’d be super,” said Victoria. “I adore Johnson: he’s so slow and so frightfully switched on; he gets his own way with everything, and of course Rupert worships him and now Lenny the Crew: if you visit
Dolly
it’s like coping with the Memphis Jug Band… The
épater la bourgeoisie
thing is marvellous, if you can bear to go on with it. But anyway you’ll love every second. They all do. The racing bit doesn’t matter much, although some of them make rather a thing of it. But the islands are absolute heaven. Do you know the Hebrides?”

I did not. I was prepared to suffer the Hebrides until I came to the one that was called Rum. The others might sink, plop, as of that moment. I shook my head.

“Oh, but how super! You’ll adore them. I like them when it’s
very, very
wet. It is, often. I walk about in my bare feet and the mud goes squidge. Do you know we’re going to pass Staffa?”

I knew. Staffa, which has an underground sea cavern and a rock formation superior to the Giant’s Causeway: I knew. I was sick of Staffa. It was beside Iona, the third call; that was all I was interested in. Then Barra and Rodel in the Outer Hebrides. Then the island of Skye; and then Rum. After Rum,
Dolly
could sink; assuming my portrait was finished. As Victoria prattled on about Staffa, I looked round.

The sea sparkled. On either side of the Gare Loch the hills were green, and above, the sky was a filmy, spacious pale blue. Just ahead of us, as Victoria, twisting round, picked her way towards the lanes between moorings, were the first of the yachts. Some were quiet, with bare poles, but most were bustling with people. There was chat, and the noise of generators and engines turning over, and the grating sound of ropes in pulley-blocks as sails were hoisted; all made thin and harmless by the unconfined water and air. As we began to pass them, Victoria did a very passable if libellous commentary about each.

Only twenty, I gathered, of the Club’s eighty odd members had entered for this particular race: in any case for reasons of safety (safety?) the smallest were barred. For the rest, there was handicapping of a fairly cursory sort over the two halves of the circuit: before the day’s sail to the Crinan canal which would give us access to the west coast proper, and again on Thursday, when we restarted from the far end of the canal. Everyone was forced to clock in at a checkpoint on each place to be visited, and only the actual sailing time between islands would count in the end. If the weather was bad, there was no reason, explained Victoria comfortingly, why one shouldn’t lie up in harbour until it improved: in fact everyone usually did. But if there was a good wind, for example, you might find yourself sailing night and day to make use of it. It depended.

“It seems an odd way of spending a holiday,” I remarked as we rowed past all these frantic small boats occupied, according to Victoria, by vacationing judges, doctors and chartered accountants, accompanied by their wives, friends and occasionally nieces. “But you and Mr. Ogden are awfully keen?”

“Cecil is. Cecil’s marvellous,” said Victoria. Her head screwed permanently over her shoulder, she was digging alternately with this oar and that, avoiding boats big and little. “That’s
Weevli
. That’s
Ballyrow
. they’ve got a super new record-player; you’ll hear it at Crinan; and there’s
Blue Kitten
, I’m afraid he practises piping. But
Nina
’s absolutely dreamy: he plays the Hawaiian guitar: he has a cousin in a Group. Crinan’s mad: they all get together and get sloshed. You’ll love it.” She turned round, her way being momentarily clear, and added, referring, I soon realised, to Ogden: “He built
Sea-wolf
practically himself. How many men could do that? With his own hands. On nothing, just about: his people are creeps and he’s got a thing about asking for help. You know. But people know the boat is his life, and they appreciate that, around here. He knows all the locals and the anchorages, and people are jolly good and help when they can. They know he’s genuine.” Suddenly, she tossed her hair back and before it was blown straight back over her face by the wind I saw a thin, bony, rather sad face, like a medical missionary who once addressed us at the Home. Victoria said, “He feels a bit spare at times: who wouldn’t, with the hard work and the loneliness. But he’s a rather epic type, really… This one’s
Binkie
.” She indicated the boat we were just about to pass, of a rather disgusting shade of dark red.

“What does
Binkie
do?” I asked gloomily. Johnson. And Ogden. And Hennessy. My God. This particular racehorse of the seas was smaller than most of the others, and was engaged in washing up its breakfast dishes on three inches of deck. As I spoke, a small round person in a knitted cap lifted and emptied the washing-up bowl, to a screaming of seagulls and a man’s voice crying, “Nan! Nan! Did ye feel for the teaspoon?”

It was the man and wife seen last night in the bar, their arms full of bottles of tonic. “Bob and Nancy Buchanan. He runs a garage in Falkirk.” said Victoria, rapidly, and hailed them. “Hallo! This is Madame Rossi: I’m taking her out to the
Dolly
. Well, are you cosy, Bob? How’s the Wee Stinker?”

The face of the man Buchanan split into an affectionate grin. “Fine. Grand, absolutely. You can hang your socks on her and they’re dry in ten minutes.”

“They’ve got a new stove,” explained Victoria. “
Binkie
’s got everything, haven’t you Bob? Wee Stinker’s their stove, and their engine’s called Buttercup: an absolutely stunning great object by Kelvin. And they both eat out of dog dishes: a perfectly super idea because they can’t tip even when you go about, and keep hot and everything. You’ve no idea the wrinkles they have.”

The woman had joined the man. Both their faces were mahogany with weather and flattery. The man Bob said, “Well, you know. A tidy ship is an efficient ship. And an efficient ship is a happy ship. We keep the Good Book handy and do what we can.”

The woman Nancy hit him on the arm. “Bob, Madame Rossi will be wondering. That’s just the name we give the C.C.C. Sailing Directions; don’t heed him.” She suddenly knelt. During all this, Victoria was attaching the entire dinghy to
Binkie
with one calloused hand on their gangway. We bobbed up and down but she showed no signs of discomfort. The woman Buchanan addressed me at close quarters.

“I’m not meaning to be cheeky, but Bob and me and the others at the Clubhouse think your coming with us is great. And in a good working boat:
Dolly
’s been up here a few times before, and she’s a good boat with good people in her. We get the carriage trade slumming up here from Formentor and Alghero with their wigs and their fancy men and their beagles doing the bathroom at every lock gate west of Cairnbaan, but it takes a real lady to try her luck in the Minch. Not that I’ve anything against dumb animals: I’m a vegetarian and a member of the R.S.P.C.A. and I’ve never worn an animal’s fur in my life, but it’s the principle… Are you a good sailor, Madame Rossi?”

“I don’t know yet. I hope so,” I said. I was fascinated.

She clicked her small, blackened teeth. “Tell Johnson to give you a pill. And remember, we’re vegetarian but we’re not a dry ship. If yon debutante’s dream Rupert’s forgotten the booze, there’s enough here lying snug in the bilges to see us both right.”

I thought of it; and I was still thinking of it when, having made out suitable farewells, we left the Buchanans and arrived at last at Johnson’s yacht
Dolly
.

She was bigger than I had feared. She was a long white boat, with two tall masts, brass rails and a polished wood companionway. At the top of this, two heads emerged in welcome. One was Rupert Glasscock’s, tousled and blond, above glittering chrome yellow oilskins. The other belonged to a small, middle-aged man with large ears and an old navy yachting cap whom Rupert, blowing kisses to both of us, introduced as Lenny Milligan from Golders Green, ex-Royal Navy, ex-Royal Yacht, ex-a very fancy job with a millionaire’s steam yacht in Monte. “Signed on for a season to slum it in Britain,” said Rupert as Victoria flung up the painter and planted a prehensile bare foot on
Dolly
’s gangway, ready to board.

“Good show,” said Victoria absently, turning to lend me a hand. “It won’t take him a season to find out there’s nothing wrong with British yachting but lousy old British weather.”

“Lousy weather and herberts like Cecil,” said Rupert, helping us aboard and down into a large and well-cushioned cockpit. “You’re dotty, darling. You know that you’re dotty. Your soul-mate’s an incurable nut. He got
Seawolf
from Santa in a polythene bag with a tube of soluble gum. He did. I swear it.”

“You’re just jealous, my Rupert.” Victoria was unperturbed. “My God, new bedspreads.” She withdrew her head from the aft cabin. “I wish I had Johnson’s income tax to live off, that’s all I can say. How’d you like it?”

This to me. I didn’t answer. I was still looking.

This, I was glad to find, was quite a suitable boat for Tina Rossi. To luxury yachts, of course, I was no stranger. But the small kind one sees at Monte and St. Jean and Gibraltar—I have observed them. This was different. She had aft a double cabin, with bathroom and shower, which would be mine. Through the cockpit, one descended into the saloon, by way of various amenities, including good lockers. The saloon, with bedcouches and hammocks, would sleep four, but was shared, I was told, by Johnson and Glasscock. Beyond was the galley and Lenny’s quarters, with a central passage leading through to the forward cabin which had its own hatchway, and thence to the fo’c’sle.

The steering was done by wheel or by tiller from the cockpit, from which one could reach winches on either side deck for working the sheets. Round the wheel was a mass of dials to do with the big Mercedes Benz 60 B.H.P. 6-cylinder diesel engine (said Rupert), which was located under the cockpit. There were seats fitted on either side, and Victoria and I reclined there, until Rupert ceased demonstrating. Eventually, “Gear, eh?” he enquired.

“Very,” said I. I had seen my four cases out of the corner of my eye. “By the way, I’ve brought you a little champagne. Where do you keep it?”

“With the caviar,” said Rupert. “In the bilges. My God, have you really, Madame Rossi? It’s a privilege to sail with you. Here, quick, before the skipper louses it up. If
Symphonetta
beats us into Tobermory I’ll need it more than he does.”

“Will she beat you?” I asked. I had seen
Symphonetta
not far away among three or four of her own kind. She was coloured black, tall and stately and shining with brasswork and paint. Three nimble figures in snowy white oilskins had just taken off her sail suit and were preparing to get her mainsail pulled up.

“Poor bastards,” said Milligan. They were the first words he had spoken, but he made himself clear. “Would’ve bedded down on that boat last night with nothing but some crimpy crisps and a shandy between them if the Buchanans hadn’t stood them a beer or two each in the bar.”

“They are Hennessy’s paid crew?” I enquired. It seemed an unfair advantage.

Victoria shook her head. “In Scotland, he has students mostly. They’re loopy on sailing, and there aren’t many boats like
Symphonetta
up here. He leaves his paid hands at Cowes, and economises with a few bob and free smokes for the boys. Talking of which, what’s the current bit about some crazy, lush bet? Rupert, you’re bonkers. And a bit of a twit to expect Johnson to knock up
Dolly
winning the race against Hennessy for you.”