Sarah Caudwell - The Shortest Way to Hades

“The effect of this interesting maneuver,” said Lucian, “was to remove Cindy and myself from our comfortable bunks and to throw us against the ceiling of the main cabin. That was how I broke my arm. At the same time, various objects lying about in the main cabin suddenly got all spiteful and began to attack us — there was a bottle, I remember, which had formerly contained Nuits St. Georges and which definitely seemed to have something personal against Cindy.”

“And there was a lot of wetness about,” said his sister. “One expects things to get fairly damp on a sailing-boat, but three inches of water in the main cabin is a bit much. So we thought we’d better go upstairs and help chuck some of it back where it came from.”

Their first thought, on learning that Camilla was missing, was to start the engine, with the object of returning under power to the place where she had gone overboard. The engine behaved as any true sailing man would expect a first-class engine, properly maintained, to behave in an emergency — it refused to start.

Recognizing the futility of looking for Camilla on their own, they decided to send up a distress flare, in the hope that there might be some more powerful vessel in the area which would assist them. It was little more than a pious gesture: the chances were minimal of the flare being seen, and almost non-existent of anyone finding Camilla — by this time, after all, she had been missing for seven or eight minutes.

“I did my best to look on the bright side,” said Lucian, “by reminding myself that if I’d lost a cousin I’d gained several thousand acres of agricultural land in an area ripe for development — if Millie snuffs it before Grandmama, you know, I’m next in line for Grandfather’s estate. But even so—”

“Honestly, Lucian,” said Camilla, not seeming at all put out by this remark, “you really are the most frightful rotter.”

“—even so, this didn’t comfort me as much as you might expect, not only because I’m quite fond of Millie but because I started thinking the prospects for the rest of us weren’t too healthy, either. The Sycorax was still bucketing along at about twice the speed intended by the designer and shipping so much water we didn’t dare stop baling long enough to reduce sail. Mind you, we probably couldn’t have got any of the sails down anyway — conditions on the foredeck were fairly rumbustious, and we wouldn’t have wanted any more of us going overboard.”

“Another thing that was a pity,” said Lucinda, “was not knowing where we were. Leon said we must be somewhere off the west coast of Corfu, but he couldn’t think how we’d got there.”

“Still,” said Lucian, “we were quite pleased at the idea that that was where we were. We thought that with any luck, as long as the Sycorax didn’t simply fall to bits, we could just keep running north until the gale blew itself out — there’d have been quite a long way to go before we bumped into any land.”

“Which was sound thinking,” said Lucinda, “while there were only lights on the starboard side.”

“Yes, absolutely sound. But then we saw that there were lights ahead of us — ahead and to the left. The lights of Parga, as it turned out. And that’s when we started feeling a bit despondent.”

Under the heading “What to do when running on to a lee shore without power in a gale” the advice given by the better sailing manuals is “Do not allow such a situation to occur.” Bearing in mind the savagery of the Parga coastline, one would have described the Sycorax as being at this juncture on a very direct course for Hades.

“And then this lovely fishing-boat turned up,” said Lucian.

“With this lovely fisherman on board,” said Lucinda.

Their account of the rescue was substantially the same as that I had heard at Mourtos. They spoke of the fishermen with the warmest admiration — Lucian for their seamanship, Lucinda for the personal attractions of young Andreas. He had made her, she said, feel small and vulnerable — for a girl of five foot ten, amply proportioned, it would no doubt be a novel experience.

Soon after this Dolly joined us, and we talked of other matters; but her husband and Sebastian continued their conversation until an hour at which she easily persuaded me that it would be “simply too ridiculous” to go back to the Kymothoe when a spare room and a comfortable bed were available at the Villa Miranda. They were still talking when the rest of us went to bed, and I have no idea when they adjourned — late enough for Sebastian still to be sleeping at half past nine this morning.

I, on the other hand, woke early and could not get to sleep again — I would not otherwise be writing at such length. We shall spend the day, I suppose, looking at the art and antiquities of Corfu — I will give you in due course a full and instructive account.

Lighting a cigarette is one of those simple tasks which even Julia can usually perform with moderate competence. I perceived, however, that she was now making her fourth attempt to light her Gauloise with one of the spent matches which it is her custom, in an attempt at tidiness, to return after use to their box.

“My dear Julia,” I said, gently taking the match-box from her and selecting from it one better suited to her purpose, “is something troubling you?”

“I was just thinking — oh, thank you, Hilary.” She seemed pleased, though baffled, by the superiority of the new match over its predecessor. “I was just thinking about Leonidas. He is an adorable creature and one would not willingly believe ill of him.” She drew deeply on her Gauloise. “But I was thinking — I was thinking of him alone there at the tiller of the Sycorax. Quite wide awake, I suppose, and in control of things, while his brother and sister and cousin were all fast asleep in their bunks. And steering them through the night on a course quite different from the one they were supposed to be on — on what Selena describes as a direct course for Hades.”

“Himself along with the rest.”

“An agile boy with sound nerves would no doubt calculate that he could swim clear, with the advantage of knowing where he was and what was going on.” She drew again on her Gauloise. “If Leonidas wanted to inherit the Remington-Fiske estate, he would have to dispose of both Camilla and Lucian. If we weren’t quite sure about Deirdre—”

“But we are quite sure about Deirdre,” I said, a trifle peevishly. “Do stop talking nonsense, Julia, and buy another bottle of wine.”

She did as I suggested, for she is a docile creature; but it was still with an anxious expression that she resumed her reading of Selena’s letter.

Same place.

Tuesday evening.

No art, no antiquities — our host will hardly admit, indeed, that there are any worth visiting: “If you see something in Corfu which looks like a Greek temple,” he says, “you’ll find it’s a church built by the British.”

I thought it reflected rather well on us, when we came across a Greek island with no Greek temples on it, to have tried to make good the deficiency; but the great poet’s smile of Olympian melancholy indicated that he did not share this view.

When I asked if there was nothing at all of historical or artistic interest, he answered vaguely that we must go to the Archaeological Museum to see the famous Gorgon, and some inscriptions which would interest Sebastian — yes, certainly; and we must not miss visiting Corfu Castle — no, of course not; but we could do these things at any time, someone would drive us to the town whenever we liked.

It seemed to be understood, however, that “whenever you like” was not exactly to be taken to mean “now”; and to have been settled, I don’t quite know how, that we would be spending a further night at the Villa Miranda.