The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(182)

‘Got a dinner engagement at eight,’ said Sam.

‘I meant nine a.m.’ said George.

We stared at him. Finally he settled for immediately after luncheon and, later still, agreed that this should be construed as 2.30 p.m.

By an excess of zeal, I was at Ouaisné Bay at three minutes short of 2.30 p.m. Clearly, the thing to do was look in at the pub on the shore and seek a fortifying drop of this and that. Sam was already there, fortifying himself diligently.

We grunted, then sat for a while in a silence broken only by the steady sip-sipping noise of two born landsmen about to embark on a sixteen-foot boat captained by another landsman with a Nelson-complex. George stamped into the bar and stared rudely at us.

‘Hullo, sailor!’ we cried in unison. We had not expected him to smile, so we were not disappointed.

‘Waiting for you for five minutes,’ he said. ‘Can you tear yourselves away? Got any dunnage?’

Sam’s dunnage consisted of a slim volume of verse wrapped in a plastic bag to keep typhoons out. Mine was a sou-wester and full oilskins (because the meteorologists had predicted calm, sunny weather), one flask each of hot soup, hot coffee and the cheaper sort of Scotch whisky, my sandwich-case and a pot of cold curried potatoes in case of shipwreck or other Acts of God. George carried a battered, professional-looking ditty-bag full, no doubt, of sensible things.

The boat, I must say, looked splendid in all its beginning-of-season paint and varnish and carried a huge, new outboard motor. George’s ubiquitous Plumber, who also acts as his waterman, helped us to launch; the new motor started without trouble and we sailed away across little dancing blue waves which stirred even my black heart. There was a light haze which was probably thicker further out, for the doomily-named La Corbière (‘The Place of Ravens’ – our friendly neighbourhood lighthouse) was giving out its long, grunting moan every three minutes, like a fat old person straining at the seat. We recked not of it. In no time we were the best part of a mile out and George bade us troll our lines for mackerel. We trolled, if that is the word I want, for half an hour, but to no avail.

Puffins, shags and smews passed overhead, puffing and shagging and doing whatever smews do, but they weren’t interested in that bit of water. Moreover, there were no gulls feeding, and no gulls means no fry and no fry means no mackerel.

‘There are no mackerel here, George,’ I said, ‘moreover, we are going too fast for mackerel; two or three knots would be better.’

‘Nonsense,’ he replied.

I kneaded a piece of Marmite sandwich and a piece of cheese ditto into a lump on a larger hook, added a heavier weight to my line and almost at once boated a fine big pollock. George glared. I slipped Sam a lum of my mixture and soon he, too, had a good pollock.

‘Keep it up, George,’ I said, ‘this is the perfect speed for pollock.’

‘Mackerel obviously not in yet,’ he grated. ‘Going to bear in a bit, find some broken water and try for bass.’

La Corbière groaned, muffling deeper groans from Sam and me. There’s nothing we like better than broken water, of course, but we prefer to brave it with a professional boatman at the helm. In we went, though, and found a stretch of the stuff which looked as though it might serve, although it was unpleasantly close to a razor-edged miniature cliff at the shoreline. Worse was to come.

‘Going to step the mast,’ said George; ‘run up a scrap of sail, then we can cut this engine, get a bit of quiet.’

I am nothing of a mariner but this appalled me. I looked at Sam. He looked at me.

‘George,’ said Sam gently, ‘are you certain that’s wise? I mean, isn’t this a lee-shore or something?’

‘Rubbish,’ he said. ‘A shore is only a lee-shore if there’s an on-shore wind. There is no wind at present but at this time of a warm day we can depend upon some light off-shore airs. And I must remind you, Sam, that there can only be one skipper in a boat: disputing an order can kill people.’

‘Aye, aye,’ said Sam, in a puzzled, insubordinate voice.

I started to remember that I hadn’t heard La Corbière for some minutes, wondered whether a breeze had got up to dissipate the haze, but too late now. George had raised and locked the little mast into its tabernacle and was halfway up it, wrestling with the daft little leg-o’-mutton sail, when the first gust out of the South-East hit us.

Over we went on to our beam-ends, the outboard motor screaming as the screw found no water to bite, George dangling then vanishing overside amidst a raffle of canvas and cordage. In we drove to the murderous rock, beam on, until a fearful gnashing noise told us that the mast had gone and we felt our craft strike – not with a crash but a nasty, mushy sensation. Bubbles came up from where George must be. I seized an oar and fended us off as best I could; Sam grabbed the gutting-knife and slashed and hacked us free from the raffle of wreckage overside. We caught one glimpse of George, face up, an arm flailing, then the undertow seemed to catch him and he vanished under the boat. He reappeared after a minute, twenty feet to seaward, still with one arm thrashing the water; we ground against the rocks again and again. I fended us off with one oar. The motor coughed and died. Like the fools we were, none of us was wearing a life-jacket, nor was there visible a length of casting-line to throw to George. As I battled with the oar Sam crawled to the little forepeak and rummaged frantically, dragging out our dunnage in search of anything useful; then kneeling, frozen, staring at what he had ripped out of George’s sea-bag. It was a tight ball of cloth, wrapped about with ?? line. Sam raised this to his nose and made a face of loathing.