17

Port and Starboard Miss Their Ship

AT THE MOMENT when the Teasel was sailing down the river past their house, and Tom was looking at the windows and thinking they were still asleep, Port and Starboard were lying awake in bed. They were both thinking of the voyage of the Teasel, and had been awake for some time.

‘They’re sure not to get off as early as they meant to,’ said Starboard.

‘Nobody ever does,’ said Port.

‘It’d be awful hanging about to see them go,’ said Starboard.

‘We’ve said goodbye once,’ said Port.

There was a long silence, except for the birds and for a growing rustling noise in the trees.

‘Which way is that wind?’ said Port at last.

Starboard rolled out of bed and ran to the window. One moment earlier and she would have seen the Teasel sailing by. She leant out so that she could see Dr Dudgeon’s roofs beyond the dyke and willow bushes, and, high above the nearer gable the big flat-sided golden fish he had set up there for a weather vane.

‘North-west,’ she said.

‘Um,’ said Port, propping herself on her elbows. ‘Fair wind. They won’t have to hurry. That’ll blow them down to Stokesby in no time. It’ll be ages before they start.’

‘Let’s go to sleep again,’ said Starboard. She got into bed and pulled the sheets in under her chin, but found that running barefoot across the bedroom floor had made her less sleepy than ever.

‘Bother, bother, bother,’ said Port suddenly. A new idea had come into her head. ‘Won’t they think it rather funny if we don’t turn up to cheer?’

‘I wish they’d gone straight on yesterday,’ said Starboard. There was another long silence. It was broken by Mrs McGinty coming in with a big can of hot water. The twins after lying awake so long had got to sleep again just before she came to call them. They pushed their noses into their pillows. The hot water stood there cooling. The next thing they heard was the banging of the breakfast gong, when they shot out of their beds, one to port and the other to starboard, tubbed and dressed without more than half drying, and raced downstairs.

‘Good morning. Sorry we’re late.’

But the A.P. was not there.

‘An’ well you may be sorry,’ said Mrs McGinty. ‘Mr Farland’s had a letter the noo and I’ll be keepin’ his buttered eggs warm. … So help yoursel’s while ye can.’

‘Good old Ginty,’ said Starboard. They both knew that Mrs McGinty was never as cross as she sounded.

‘A letter?’ said Port, looking at the pile by her father’s plate. ‘But he’s had lots.’

‘Well, he’s ta’en this yin to the telephone,’ said Mrs McGinty, and then they heard their father’s voice through the open door of the study.

‘Never mind about keeping things hot, Mrs McGinty. I’ll have to be gone in a minute. … Hullo! Hullo! Hullo! Is that Norwich Ten-sixty-six? Norwich. … One-owe-double-six. … Hullo! Yes. I said so. Engaged? Can’t be engaged. Private exchange. Please ring them again. Give them another ring. A long one. Hullo! Hullo! Is that Norwich One-owe-double-six? Oh. Wrong number. Ring off please. … Hullo! Exchange? Oh, please ring off. Exchange? … Hullo! Hullo! … Bring me a cup of coffee out here, somebody. … Hullo! Exchange! Gave me a wrong number. No. No. Not One-double-six. One-owe-double-six. Thank you, Bessie. Take care, Nell. Don’t make me take too big a mouthful. I’ve got to be able to talk to these dunder-headed nincompoops. Hullo! Oh, is that you, Walters? Thank goodness for that. Nip round to the office and get me all the papers in that Bollington business. Consultations on it this week. Yes. … All in the folder. And the deeds. … Yes, yes. Bring the whole lot down to the station. Coming in by car. You’ll get it garaged after I’ve gone. I’ve got to catch the nine-one. Right. Good man. Everything on the case. …’ He hung up the receiver, took another mouthful of buttered egg from Starboard, washed it down with a drink of coffee offered him by Port, and hurried back to the dining room.

‘What is it, A.P.?’ asked Starboard.

Mr Farland looked at his watch and compared it with the clock on the mantelpiece, a clock won by the Flash at Wroxham Regatta the year before.

‘Seven minutes for breakfast. … Yes, Mrs McGinty, if you will be so good. The small suitcase. Everything for a week. …’

‘You aren’t going away?’ said Port.

‘These things will happen,’ said Mr Farland. ‘I didn’t expect this business to come on for another two months at least. …’

‘But what about Flash and the championship? Couldn’t you put it off for a week?’

‘Impossible,’ said Mr Farland, scooping the last of the buttered egg off his plate. ‘Better peddle whelks and mussels than follow the law. At least you’re your own master.’

‘But the first race is tomorrow.’

‘I’ve got to scratch for it,’ said their father. ‘I’ve got to scratch for the lot. And with old Flash properly tuned up she’d have shown them her heels in every race.’

‘Oh, A.P. How awful! And when you’d got everything ready.’

‘I’ll have to telephone to the secretary right away, and get him to explain to the others. Never mind, Flash shall challenge the winner as soon as I get back. I’ll tell him so at once.’

‘Are you going today?’

‘Didn’t you hear me say so? Going this very minute. Pass that toast-rack, will you … and the marmalade.’

Somehow, with the head of the house galloping through his breakfast, his daughters did the same. It was as if all three of them were off to catch that early train. Overhead, they could hear drawers being pulled out and pushed in, and the steady murmur of Mrs McGinty loudly remembering the things that must not be forgotten. ‘Half a dozen collars for the blue. … Bless the man, if he hasna been stirrin’ a puddin’ wi’ the ties … an’ where’s the sense in a body layin’ out shirts braw an’ neat if …’ Mr Farland, his mouth full of bread and marmalade, caught his daughters’ eyes and winked solemnly at the ceiling. ‘She doesn’t mean exactly “Bless”,’ he said.

In the hurry and bustle of getting him off, it was not until the very last moment that the thought came to Starboard that the A.P.’s going changed everything, and that now there was nothing to keep them at home.

‘I say, A.P.,’ she said. ‘If you’re going away, and Flash won’t be racing, what about us sailing in the Teasel with Tom and Mrs Barrable and those two children?’

‘But you haven’t been asked, have you?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Port.

‘We said “No”,’ said Starboard.

‘But if Flash isn’t racing we’d like to.’

‘Consolation prize, eh?’ said Mr Farland, stowing his suit-case in the back of his car.

Nothing was said by either twin in reply to that.

‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t, if Mrs Barrable’ll have you,’ he went on, throwing himself into the driver’s seat, and starting the engine.

‘Tell Ginty,’ said Port.

‘You’ll be quit of all three of us, Mrs McGinty,’ said Mr Farland, as Mrs McGinty came running out with a spare pair of chamois leather gloves. ‘These two are going off sailing with Tom and his friends. …’

‘Don’t say anything about clothes, Ginty. We shan’t want any besides what we’ve got on and sweaters. …’

‘Well, if a body mauna pit a worrd in …’ began Mrs McGinty. But the car was moving. Mr Farland had just caught sight of the clock on the dashboard.

‘Goodbye.’ ‘Goodbye.’

Mr Farland waved with his left hand, steered with his right, swung out of the gate and was gone.

‘Come on,’ said Starboard.

The two raced for the house and upstairs again into their bedroom. The knapsacks, unpacked with such melancholy last night, were taken once more from the hook behind the door. The twins’ packing was less orderly than Mrs McGinty’s. Drawers were pulled out and left out. Shoes were tossed under the bed and rubber sea-boots put on. Sweaters, sandshoes, washing things and night clothes were crammed into the knapsacks, rugs rolled up, and, by the time Mrs McGinty had climbed upstairs, the twins were already rushing down.

‘But look at yon room,’ said Mrs McGinty.

‘Fair awfu’,’ said Port. Starboard was already leaping down the last flight of stairs. ‘Leave it till we come back, Ginty. We’ll tidy up then. There simply isn’t time now. We’re in a worse hurry than Father.’

‘Ye’re aye that,’ said Mrs McGinty.

They kept up a steady trot all through the long lower street of Horning.

‘We’ll be in time to help them up with the sails,’ said Starboard jerkily. ‘Those two … not very strong.’

‘Shan’t have any breath,’ panted Port.

‘Keep it up,’ said Starboard.

At last they swung round the corner at the end of the boatyards and came out on the staithe where, last night, they had said goodbye to the Teasel.

The Teasel was there no longer.

‘They’ve shifted her,’ said Starboard.

‘They’ve gone,’ said Port.

The staithe was deserted. Even the old Death and Glory that had been tied up close by the Swan had disappeared. The twins ran to the water’s edge, and looked down the river. Not a boat was stirring.

‘Too late,’ said Starboard.

‘And with this wind there was no need,’ said Port. ‘They’ll be at Stokesby with hours to spare before the tide turns against them.’

‘Of course, they didn’t think we were coming,’ said Starboard.

An old wherryman, Simon Fastgate, came to the end of the staithe with his arms full of parcels, and a big bottle of milk. He untied an old boat that was lying at the end of the boatsheds, dumped his parcels into it, pushed himself off, and paddled away upstream.

‘Ask Simon,’ said Port.

‘Hullo, Simon. Do you know when the Teasel sailed?’

‘Been gone before I come ashore,’ said Simon. ‘And that’s an hour and more.’ He pulled away as hard as he could.

An hour already. Perhaps more. If only Tom had not been in such a hurry. The twins looked miserably at each other. It was one thing to give up a voyage to Beccles in order to help the A.P. to win his races. It was a different thing altogether to miss it for no reason at all. A whole week’s voyaging lost for nothing. And after the A.P. had himself given them permission to go.

‘We can’t do anything,’ said Starboard.

‘Go back to Ginty,’ said Port.

And just then, they heard the splash of a quant, and looked up the river. A wherry with mast up and sail ready for hoisting was coming into sight round the bend. They knew the wherry, Sir Garnet, and they knew the skipper, Jim Wooddall, when they heard him shout at his mate, who was already scrambling aboard and making fast his boat to a bollard in the stern.

‘Simon, ye gartless old fool. Ye’ve missed us this tide. We should’a been gone two hour since.’

There was no reply. Simon was already hurrying to the winch and the big black sail of the wherry began to lift. Jim Wooddall had indeed been in a hurry, to start quanting his wherry round to the staithe to look for his mate, and old Simon knew that hoisting sail was better than excuses.

Suddenly Starboard dropped her knapsack and her rug and shouted at the top of her voice.

‘Jim! Jim Wooddall. Sir Garnet! Ahoy! Jim. JIM!’

The wherryman waved a hand to her. He was already laying his quant down, and going aft to the tiller. Sir Garnet would be sailing in a moment.

‘Jim!’ shouted Port.

They both waved their arms at him, until Jim Wooddall, in a hurry as he was, saw that there was something urgently needed.

‘Half a minute, Simon!’ he called. The clanking of the winch pawl stopped. The gaff had been lifted not more than a couple of feet. Sir Garnet was hardly moving, except with the stream. But she had steerage way, and Jim brought her round close by the staithe. The twins, picking up their knapsacks, ran along the staithe to meet him, and then walked with the wherry, explaining as she drifted down.

‘Can’t wait,’ said Jim. ‘Simon’s lost us a tide down to Gorleston.’

‘But we want to get to Stokesby,’ said Starboard. ‘Tom’s taken the Teasel down there, and they’re going on tomorrow.’

‘We’re going too,’ said Port. ‘Only we missed them.’

‘You see, we didn’t know till this morning we could go.’

All this time the wherry was moving. Another few yards and they would be at the end of the staithe, so that they could walk no further.

‘Ah,’ said Jim. ‘So Tom don’t know he left you.’

‘That’s just it,’ said Port.

‘Ain’t supposed to take passengers,’ said Jim Wooddall. ‘Let’s have them bags. …’ The knapsacks and rugs were swung aboard. ‘Now then!’ Port and Starboard leapt from the staithe after their knapsacks. ‘Pierhead jump,’ said Jim Wooddall. ‘I’ll take you down to Stokesby. But you’ll have to work your passages. Peelin’ potatoes. Now then, Sim!’

The winch clanked again. The huge black sail climbed up and spread above them, and the wherry, Sir Garnet, late with her tide, gathered speed and stood away down the middle of the river.