Bernard Cornwell - Wildtrack

Melissa went to Paris for a fashion show and sent the children down to Devon for the next three days to get them off her hands, and I borrowed a Drascombe Dabber to potter about off the river’s mouth where we caught mackerel on hand lines. Their nanny came to fetch the children back to London in Melissa’s new Mercedes.

“Mrs Makyns says the children are in need of the summer clothes, Mr Sandman.” The nanny was a lolloping great Swede with a met-ronome voice.

“Tell Mrs Makyns that there are shops which sell the children’s clothes.”

“You are yoking, I think. She says you are to give me the money.”

“Tell her I will send her a cheque.”

“I will tell her. She will see you next week at Mr Bannister’s party, I think.” It sounded like a threat.

That same afternoon a crane arrived ready to lift Sycorax into the water. The launch was scheduled for the next morning and I had a bottle of champagne ready to break over the fairlead at her bows.

Preparations for Bannister’s party were also well advanced; caterers were setting up tables on the terrace, florists were delivering blooms, and gardeners were tidying up the lawns. Matthew arrived that evening and found me still working. The newly-laid copper reflected the dying sun so that Sycorax looked as if she had been cast in red-gold.

“She looks good, Nick,” Matthew said.

“She is.” I was dressed in swimming trunks and felt happily filthy with tar, paint and varnish stains. I was on Sycorax ’s deck, varnishing the boom-gallows. “One month for rigging, then she’s finished.” Matthew lit a cigarette and helped himself to a beer from the crate I kept by the sheerlegs. “I’ve got bad news for you.” I peglegged down the ladder and took a beer. “Tell me.”

“Medusa wants you out of the house by tomorrow night.” We had nicknamed Angela ‘Medusa’—the snake-haired female with the basilisk gaze that turned her enemies to stone.

“That’s fine,” I said.

“She says it’s only till next Tuesday. Because they’ve got weekend guests staying, you see. I’m sorry, Nick.” Matthew sounded miserably embarrassed at having to make the request.

“I really don’t mind, Matthew.” I was getting too used to the luxury of Bannister’s house and would happily move into a relaunched Sycorax . She had no berths yet, no galley and no lavatory, but I had a sleeping bag, a primus stove and the river.

“And Medusa also asked me to tell you not to use the swimming pool till all the guests are gone.”

I laughed. “She doesn’t want a cripple to spoil the decor?”

“Something like that,” Matthew said unhappily. “But, of course,” he went on, “you’re invited to the party.”

“That’s nice.”

“Because Bannister wants to announce that you’ll navigate Wildtrack for him.”

For a second I did not respond. I was watching the shining-hulled Mystique that had suddenly appeared at Sansom’s Point. The boat had been absent for the last two months and I presumed the American girl had been exploring the harbours she would describe in her pilot book.

“Did you hear me?” Matthew asked.

“I heard.”

“And?”

“I’m not bloody doing it, Matthew.”

“Medusa wants you to do it,” Matthew said warningly.

“Sod her.” I was watching the American girl who was motoring Mystique against the tide with just a jib to stiffen her. She had chosen the eastern channel which was both narrower and shallower than the main channel, and which would bring her close to where Matthew and I stood.

“Medusa’s set her mind on it,” Matthew said.

“She never mentions it to me.”

“She will, though.”

“I’ll say no again.”

“Then she’ll probably refuse to pay for Sycorax ’s rigging.”

“Sod her!” I said again. “I’ll buy the rigging wire out of the fee you’re paying me.”

“What fee?” Matthew said. “Medusa says you’ve been living in Bannister’s house, so he ought to get some rent out of you.”

“He wrecks my boat, now I’m paying him to mend it? You’re joking!”

The misery on Matthew’s face told me that he was not joking. He tried to soften the blow by saying that perhaps it was just a rumour, but he was not convincing. “It’s Medusa’s fault,” he said at last. “She was nothing till she started screwing Bannister. Now she virtually runs the bloody programme.” He sounded envious that such a route of advancement was denied to him. “Bannister insisted she was made a full producer before he signed his last contract. Never let it be said, Nick, that you can’t get to the top of British television by lying flat on your back. It is still the one certain, well-tried and infallible method of success.”

I felt somewhat uncomfortable with the criticism, even if it was true. “She seems good at her job?” I offered mildly.

“Of course she’s good at her job,” Matthew said irritably. “It doesn’t take much intelligence to be a good television producer. It’s not nearly so demanding a job as teaching. All that being a producer takes is a capacity for expense account lunches and the ability to pick the right director.” He shrugged. “What the hell. Perhaps she’ll marry Bannister and leave us all in peace?”

“Do you think that’s likely?” I asked.

“With all his money? She’d love to marry him.” He drew on his cigarette. “She’d like to get her hands on his production company.” Bannister’s company, as well as making his own summer films, also made rock videos and television adverts. It was, I gathered, a most lucrative business.

“Hi!” The voice startled both of us and we turned to see that it was the black-haired American girl who had hailed us from Mystique’s cockpit. She was standing by the tiller. She was only a stone’s throw away now, but the setting sun’s sheen on the rippling water made her face into an indistinct shadow. “Can I stay in this channel for the pool?”

“What do you draw?” I asked.

“Four foot three.” Her voice was businesslike and quick. As she glanced forward I had an impression of bright eyes and a tanned, lively face.

“When you get alongside the perch,” I pointed, “steer 310.”

“Thanks!”

“Been far?”

“Far enough.” She tossed the answer back. I stared at her silhouette and I suddenly very much wanted to be in love with a girl like her. It was a ridiculous wish; I hadn’t seen her face properly, I didn’t know her name, but she was a consummate sailor and she had nothing whatever to do with the writhing jealousies and greed of television.

I crouched for a bottle, noting how the pain in my back was almost bearable. “You want a welcome-home beer?”

Her black hair lifted as her head turned. “No, thanks. ’Preciate the help, though. Thanks again.” She stooped to push the throttle forward and Mystique ’s exhaust blurred blue at the transom.

Matthew chuckled. “Not your day, Nick.”

“Take me to the pub,” I said. “We’ll get drunk.” So we did.

We got drunk the next day, too. We put Sycorax in the water at the tide’s height and we broke champagne across her bows, then we raided Bannister’s cellar for more champagne. The cameraman was ceremoniously thrown into the river, then Matthew, then me. The American girl watched from her cockpit, but, when Matthew shouted at her to join us, she just shook her head. An hour later she hoisted sails and went downstream on the tide.

Sycorax looked much smaller now she was in the water. She floated high so that a wide belt of her new copper shone above the river.

Jimmy had tears in his eyes. “She’s a beauty, Nick.”