CHAPTER FOURTEEN

England

They enjoyed that breakfast. Mary demonstrated her skill at French toast and used their last six eggs. It was a joy to see Natasha tuck in. The sleep had clearly done her good. They told her they were going to catch up on their own sleep before heading for the mainland when the tide was right.

Mary felt that Natasha had spent enough time on her own. She suggested that she would join her on the other bunk up forward so that they could chat.

Natasha’s face lit up as she nodded approval and said, ‘Yes, please.’

Greg lay down on the seat opposite the galley and went out like a light to the sound of the two of them quietly talking behind the curtain.

Greg awoke as Mary came aft and held her forefinger to her lips.

‘She’s fallen asleep again,’ she whispered.

They climbed up into the cockpit, started the engine, hauled anchor as quietly as they could, and motored out from the little bay. The sun was high enough for its warmth to be felt as they cleared Bembridge Ledge and set sail for Chichester Harbour on the flood tide.

The sound of powerful engines and the slapping of a hull hitting the waves caught them by surprise. One moment they were sat sleepily in the cockpit close together, happy at the sight of Chichester Harbour entrance only a few miles ahead; the next, they were frozen with fear at what they heard coming from astern.

Memories from two years previously in the Solent came back to Greg - memories of the sound of a powerful launch and detention by HM Customs.

‘Keep looking ahead, and take the helm,’ he shouted at Mary.

His brain told him to appear casual as he slowly turned his head to see what was coming up from astern. His heartbeat quickened. The bow of the fast-approaching craft threw foaming white crests to either side. It was only about fifty yards away when recognition dawned on Greg as it altered course to overtake them.

A dark blue hull and orange topsides: the Bembridge lifeboat. A cheery wave from a crew member on deck. The throaty roar of the engines faded as it powered past and away from them.

The strain of the last twenty-four hours showed on their faces as they put their heads together and Greg muttered, ‘Thank God.’

He expected Mary to admonish him. She didn’t. Her relief also showed.

An hour and a half later they were through the harbour entrance and headed for a little used narrow creek, known to Greg but few others, where they anchored.

Away from prying eyes, they caught up on some more sleep and had time to learn much from Natasha about life in the Soviet Union and why she and her husband had decided it was not the country in which they could bring up their child. Her eyes became moist at the mention of the baby they had now lost. Her husband had met many American government officials during the course of his work at the Soviet embassy in London and from that had come the invitation for him and his wife to join the Metropolitan Research Corporation (MRC) of Iowa, USA.

This company was mainly engaged in the design of nuclear power stations. As a nuclear physicist of the same discipline Natasha could be a valuable member of their team.

Natasha’s husband was a highly qualified statistician as well as a diplomat. MRC was convinced that the political scene in Russia would soon move away from the old communism and that there would be cooperation between the USA and Russia over the peaceful use of nuclear power. The two of them had been promised asylum from the US government, well-paid jobs, and a house from MRC of Iowa. Maybe one day they would be able to return to their country as free people. That was their hope.

Greg made his final call to David.

‘The honeymoon is going well. We are pleased to be back to old haunts in the Solent. Arrange the taxi as you promised. Your girl has promised to be on time.’

They cleared away after a supper which had been almost without conversation as the importance of the next few hours was on their minds.

At ten they hauled in the two anchors, one forward, one aft, that held them in the middle of the narrow creek and motored out into the main channel. From there they headed northwards towards the marina. Greg was familiar with the navigation marks in the Emsworth channel that led through the moorings. He had kept a boat there himself for many years.

As one approaches Emsworth, some five miles inland from the harbour entrance, the many shore lights help to show the way into the marina. Once inside, the pontoon lights are the only guide to the fuel quay, where they were to disembark their guest. They called Natasha to come into the cockpit as they approached the quay. She had no baggage.

All was in darkness as Greg came alongside the narrow floating pontoon attached to the refuelling quay. Mary was on the side deck guiding her skipper with the powerful torch. It was a rerun for Greg of the time he dropped Troag in Dartmouth. Several shadowy figures held Amity firm against the pontoon as Greg gave the boat a touch astern from the engine to stop the forward movement.

Natasha just had time to whisper, ‘Tank you, I will always remember,’ and after hurried kisses from her crew she was helped over the side and up the vertical iron ladder by those ashore.

Greg felt the boat being pushed away from the quay and a few seconds later heard the car, which had been waiting on the quay, depart.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Greg as he turned the boat round and retraced their way back out into the main channel.

Once clear of the moorings they headed down the channel and dropped anchor about a mile from the harbour entrance. Mary hung the anchor light on the jib sheets over the foredeck.

‘Mission accomplished,’ said Greg.

‘I’ll tell you what I think, my darling Greg, in the morning.’

The tone of Mary’s reply was not only wistful but cynical, thought Greg.

‘We both need some sleep, my dearest Greg. When I say “in the morning” I mean “in the morning”.’

Greg knew not to push her further. They put the infill in place between the two bunks in the forecabin and thus, snuggled up together without undressing, they were soon asleep. It was daylight when they woke.

‘Do you realise’, Greg said to his wife, ‘we have not been out of our clothes for three whole days?’

‘As far as I am concerned we can stay here in this bunk for another three days. I’m shattered.’

‘Well, I am hungry,’ said Greg as he made his way aft into the galley and put the kettle on.

Mary joined him a minute later.

As they sipped their tea in silence, Greg finally spoke: ‘Mary, my lovely Mary, something is on your mind - please tell me what it is.’

‘It’s Thursday, isn’t it?’ she said.

Greg nodded.

‘We don’t have to be back in Dartmouth until late Sunday, do we?’

Another nod from Greg.

‘May I make a suggestion?’ questioned Mary. ‘I’m tired, dirty, and could do with a shower and a good meal. Yes, I do have a lot to say. I need a little more time to think. Would you mind if we sorted ourselves out first today, and then found somewhere quiet to hole up on our way home tonight? Then I will tell you what’s on my mind.’

At this point they heard the sound of an engine followed by a bump. Looking out of the window they saw that a launch strung with fenders was alongside and a young man was leaning over to tie up to their cleat amidships.

‘Harbourmaster!’ came the call from the young man.

Mary looked distinctly frightened as Greg made for the cockpit and nonchalantly bade him good morning with a smile.

‘Did you stay overnight?’ said the young man as Greg caught site of his own anchor light still hanging in the foresheets.

No arguing there. Greg indicated in the affirmative.

‘Just the one night, sir?’ went the questioning. ‘What is your overall length?’

Greg knew what was coming and despite his belief that to be charged for laying to one’s own anchor was a racket this didn’t seem to be the occasion to protest, so he paid up. At least he received a piece of paper that said he’d paid his harbour dues in Chichester Harbour for Amity, and, better still, the lad had forgotten to date it. He had evidence of having gone east as announced.

And so it was that they hauled up the anchor after a rather meagre breakfast of what little food they had left. Once clear of the bar beacon they had the tide in their favour and four hours later they tied up in the marina just inside the entrance to Cowes. Mary had said little about anything other than the sailing.

They felt a whole lot better after hot showers in the marina and lunch in the restaurant opposite. Then they renewed, rather extravagantly, their depleted ship’s stores from the local shops. All through this Mary remained unusually quiet.

Greg suggested, ‘Let’s motor up the river to the fuelling barge. We need to refuel, then head further down the Solent to Newtown River. It’s only an hour or so out of Cowes.’

Mary pursed her lips and nodded her approval. Newtown is on the Isle of Wight, and here there is a series of creeks, the tops of which mostly dry out at low water. It is owned by the National Trust, isolated and quiet at that time of the year. Greg felt it would be the right atmosphere for Mary to tell him what was on her mind.

‘Yes, that will be lovely. I used to go there with my father. We’ll cuddle up together, feed the ducks and I’ll tell you what’s bothering me - and don’t frown like that!’

The entrance to Newtown River is narrow and not easy to spot against the low cliffs along the coastline and high hills in the background.

Once inside they followed the channel hard to port and dropped anchor at the farthest point permissible in Clamerkin Lake opposite the old saltings. With the rolling Isle of Wight hills as a backdrop, amongst the nesting seabirds on the muddy banks, and farmland right down to the water’s edge the anchorage was a haven of peace: no roads, no people. As they settled in the cockpit that peace was broken only by the ducks arguing amongst themselves, the gulls more vocal about their disagreements, and the inimitable twittering of a skylark as it rose from a nearby field and then dived back down into cover again.

‘Which would you prefer first,’ said Mary gravely, ‘the good news or the bad?’

‘Bad’ came Greg’s reply as they drew closer together.

‘I have decided that I will not take part in any more covert operations. That is not to say that I will fight against you should you wish to continue on your own. You are entirely responsible for your own conscience and I will love you until my dying day whatever you do.’

There was a long pause as Mary waited for Greg’s reaction. Greg digested this statement. There didn’t seem to be anything for him to say. He knew she had thought long and hard before telling him. He knew that there was nothing to be gained by arguing.

All he said was ‘Like to tell me why?’

‘Yes, the baby’s body was in the bag that we dropped overboard in the Channel.’

‘Whoa!’ interrupted Greg. ‘Just a minute. I don’t believe it.’

‘You won’t be able to convince me otherwise,’ she said.

Greg found he just could not accept what had been said.

‘How do you know? What proof do you have?’

‘I don’t need any proof; I just know.’

Greg tightened his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek gently. He had to remind himself there was everything to lose by arguing.

‘I can’t agree with you, my love, but I promise I take what you have said seriously. What are you going to do about it? Or what do you want me to do about it?’

Mary shook her head from side to side.

‘Nothing. What is done is done. I have said my prayers and sought forgiveness. I shall never forget, but all the arguments in the world about what is in the national interest will not persuade me to take part in any such operations again.’

‘What about the Cold War, then? Are you not frightened by what may happen if we do not deter the Soviets from the use of their nuclear weapons?’

They sat there for some time in silence before Mary spoke again.

‘Greg, it’s politics, and you know it. In a shooting war, what we have done may be justified or sanctioned, but, in my book, not so because of a threat of war.’

‘How about prevention being better than cure?’

‘We’re not going to see eye to eye, Greg. Let’s agree to differ.’

‘Mary, my love, we must not let this come between us.’

‘It won’t’ was the reply as she looked up at him sadly.

‘What about the good news, then?’ he whispered into her ear.

Her grave look changed to a smile. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

Greg gave her a questioning look.

‘Yes, yes, really.’

‘Oh, you lovely, lovely wife,’ he cried as he squeezed her tighter.

She looked up at Greg seriously. ‘If it’s a boy, we’ll call him Alexander.’

‘And if a girl?’

‘If a girl we’ll name her Alexandra Natasha.’

Greg thought for a moment. He could see where all this came from but wasn’t sure where it might lead.

‘I know what you are thinking, my love,’ Mary said. ‘Of course you have as much right to name our child as I have. I’m not insisting, just suggesting.’

‘Mary, oh lovely Mary, it’s a great idea and the names are fabulous. What I’d like you to think of is that recent events have influenced your thinking. Could we just give it a little more time before we make up our minds?’

‘How about six months?’ Mary laughed as she said this, and the tension was broken.

They laughed and hugged and Greg said he was ravenous. So they went below to celebrate their good news and plan the future, now as a family.

Greg’s cellphone rang. It was David. He told Greg that Natasha and her husband had arrived in America. He wanted to know if they would be back to open the brokerage on Monday morning as he should return to Lymington immediately after closing the office at five o’clock on Sunday afternoon. Greg assured him that they were on schedule and asked him to hold the line for a few seconds.

He held his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Mary: ‘May I tell him the good news, my love? I’m busting to tell everyone I know.’

Mary looked delighted and nodded her approval. And so it was that within twenty-four hours everyone at the Curnow Yard also knew.

As they set about preparing their supper their mood became more normal. The conversation was all about the future with junior. Apart from telling her that the Russians had arrived in America Greg had decided that he would not say more about the Natasha affair unless Mary raised it. She did.

Replete from the steaks they’d bought in Cowes, accompanied by Greg’s sauté potatoes with onion, and fresh Isle of Wight asparagus, they took the last of the red wine into the cockpit to watch the flat lines of cloud turn to flames of orange then red as the sun dropped below the hills. The gulls dived for the scraps they threw over the stern and a pair of large, brightly coloured shelduck paddled up to compete with the coots for the snacks.

‘I guess Robbie’s Creek is a bit like this?’ questioned Mary.

‘Yes, you wanted somewhere away from the crowds where we could be with our thoughts.’

Mary was quiet for a moment, then: ‘I had quite a long talk with Natasha. I promised her that we would always be friends. The more we spoke the easier it became to communicate with her. She was very brave over the loss of her baby but was determined to find a new life with her husband. She confirmed that she was younger than me, and I said she was young enough to have another child. I told her to get a move on about it when she got to the States so that our two children would be the same age when they met!’

‘You told her before you told me?’ exclaimed Greg, teasing her.

‘Yes. Somehow sharing this with her at that particular moment gave her tremendous pleasure and strength. I am glad I told her. It was a gamble that could have gone the other way. I was guided by my father. He was always comforting people, and down in the cabin with Natasha I felt his presence. Will you promise me, Greg, that one day we will make every effort to see her again?’

‘I promise, my lovely Mary, that I will move heaven and earth to do just that.’

They were both dog-tired. With barely another word they tidied ship, frapped the halyards, hoisted the anchor light, and went below.

In the bunk, limbs entangled, Greg whispered into Mary’s ear, ‘Goodnight, you two.’

The next day, by silent mutual assent, the subject of the cross-Channel trip was not mentioned. Once out of the narrow river entrance with the wind north of west they took a south-westerly course down the Needles Channel. Close-hauled, this took them outside the race at St Alban’s Head. A change of tack brought them close to the sheltered anchorage in Lulworth Cove by late in the afternoon.

‘Let’s not go on to Weymouth as planned,’ Mary said. ‘I’ve never been into Lulworth; and anyway, you suggested that a caravan was not the place for a baby. Well, I want to talk to you about that, and the sooner the better.’

‘OK,’ agreed Greg. ‘The entrance is difficult enough to see at the best of times. Now we’ve found it, let me concentrate on getting us safely inside.’

Lulworth Cove is like a small oval lake surrounded by tall cliffs covered with scattered vegetation. Greg likened it to sailing into a crab’s mouth with large rocky claws either side as you enter. The pool inside is the shape of the crab’s shell. The only sign of life is the beach to the west and Lulworth village. It is like being in the middle of a volcano except for the narrow entrance. With a bit of north in the wind that day, the water inside was calm.

Mary had a mischievous grin on her face practically the whole of the time they took to anchor, tidy ship, and get the kettle on.

‘I’ve got it all planned,’ she said as they settled in the cockpit with their tea and biscuits.

‘Got what planned?’

‘You may think that I told everyone but you first, but it was not my intention. You see, I suspected more than a month ago. So I chose my moment to have a word with Chris. I did not mention anything at all about babies. I told him how much I loved being where we were, how I loved the terrific view across the river, the closeness to our work. I told him as far as I was concerned the whole set-up with the caravan was idyllic. “Get to the point Mary,” Chris said to me with a huge grin. “When are you going to come to the but?” So I asked him what the chances might be to have a bigger, more comfortable caravan on the same site. I showed him some brochures I had of really beautiful static caravans, as they are called. They have proper bedrooms and showers and toilets that can be flushed if ducted to a sewer.’

Greg interrupted: ‘But a caravan really isn’t the place to bring up a baby, my love.’

‘Of course it is,’ Mary nearly shouted. ‘Travellers and gypsies have been doing it for centuries!’

‘Ha,’ said Greg, ‘I bet Chris guessed what was up.’

‘Sorry,’ said Mary, ‘I think he did. He didn’t actually say anything about my being pregnant, but when he held his grin a bit too long and said he knew what I was getting at I think I blushed. I could feel the warmth in my cheeks. I’ll tell you something, Greg: after me, he’s your best friend.’

‘I know that, so what did he have to say?’

‘He was very sympathetic after he realised I’d been doing my homework. I told him about an elderly prospective customer who came to the office one day to enquire about selling his boat. This old boy talked to me about his childhood days just after the First World War. His father knew the man who owned a small boat-repair business which is now the Curnow Yard. When he was a young lad living nearby the old owner gave him the freedom of the place. He spent hours playing amongst the boats and sheds and along the riverbank.’

‘Mary, love, now I am going to say it: get to the point.’

Greg took her hand gently and kissed it.

‘Apparently, where our caravan is now, the old owner lived in a railway carriage. Behind that, where all the junk is dumped, was a cesspit. So I had a little scout around and found the remains of same. We could have a static caravan with proper drainage, and running hot and cold water. I gave Chris some brochures showing what I had in mind. He promised to look into it.

‘And how do you think we are going to pay for all this?’ said Greg.

‘Oh, ye of little faith. It was you who said that to me recently, my sweetheart, my lover, and father of our child. Surely you do not think I would be talking to you this way if I hadn’t known it was affordable?’

Greg was suitably admonished.

She continued: ‘I have some investments from my inheritance as well as the income from the flat in Southampton. The most important investment I can make now is in our future and that of our child. I can afford the cost of preparing the ground for our new home as well as the deposit on the new caravan. The bank hopefully can provide the rest and my income from the rent of the flat will help pay off the loan. If this plan works as Chris thinks it might, and if I’ve done the sums correctly, it will cost less than a quarter of what it would cost to buy a house. The price of houses around Torbay is ridiculous anyway.’

‘Don’t you think this is pushing Chris a bit too far?’

There was no damping possible of Mary’s enthusiasm.

‘We would have a residence with a view that people would die for. No travelling to work - and talking of work, I can be back in harness within a week or two of the birth. As well as the phone extension from the office we can have a babysitting intercom on the desk. One of us can move from the desk to the baby in the caravan in less time than it takes to run up the stairs in a house!

Greg remembered the money he had in his bank box and the fee that was to come from this latest exploit. His own contribution could be considerable. The brokerage was becoming profitable. They would soon be able to pay themselves more under the terms of the agreement with QC. It was time to come clean with Mary about his “pension fund”, as he called it. As he started to explain, Mary’s eyes narrowed.

‘Oh no, no, no!’ she exclaimed. ‘I will have nothing to do with your blood money.’

Greg was shocked - shocked at what she had said and shocked at the vehemence with which she had said it. She saw his look. She flung her arms around him.

‘I’m so sorry, my love. You said this must not come between us and I can see that it has.’ Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘This should be a time to be happy. It really is possible to do it my way.’

Greg was lost for words. Again he knew this was not the time to argue. He wiped away her tears.

‘This is no way to start a family, my love. Nothing will come between us. It just never occurred to me to even think about what you have proposed. It has all come as a complete surprise to me.’

‘Well, of course it has,’ she said. ‘You didn’t know. I have had weeks to think about it. Oh, Greg, it’ll be tremendous fun. We’ll have a new home, more room, modern amenities, no more having to go out in the cold and dark to the loos or showers. Just keep your fingers crossed that Chris can get permission. I know he wants it to happen for us. Please, please, leave it to me.’

‘I will, I will,’ said Greg.

‘When we get back,’ Mary continued, ‘I will show you a brochure of a static caravan named Bungalow by the manufacturers. It has a cold-water tank in the roof. It would be easy for a clever chap like you to run our cold water to this tank instead of having to use the tap outside. We have mains electricity already. The Bungalow has built-in electric heaters for hot water to the galley sink and to a shower. It has built in electric panel radiators, two bedrooms, plus lounge/diner and about five times the storage space we have now. The galley is a dream and there are insulated walls, floor and roof. Shall I go on?’

‘No,’ said Greg. ‘It sounds fantastic. As usual I am a complete idiot. Shall I speak to Chris about it when we return?’

‘Leave Chris to me’ was the reply. ‘You keep to the brokerage.’

Greg decided to chance his arm: ‘And who is going to tell the powers that be about your other decision?’

‘Me, of course,’ she said with a frown. ‘I told the Commander some time ago that I would never do anything against my principles. It is entirely my personal business. I do not have to give them the true reason I told you yesterday. That is between you and me. They are secretive; we shall be also. What happened about the baby is done and cannot be undone. There could be serious consequences for us both. For me it is a huge moral issue and I will feel guilty for the rest of my life, but, my dear Greg, I will not let it spoil our happiness or that of our child. In fact it is the total innocence of the child we are bringing into this world that has persuaded me to take this view. I have made my peace with God. Just think on this: what would we be inflicting on our baby if we were convicted of failure to report a death as well as disposing of the body and were sent to prison?’

Greg shook his head from side to side. ‘You are truly amazing, my love. I promise you I have the greatest respect for everything you have said. I won’t mention it again, nor am I trying to get the last word, but you should know that while I can see the reasons for your suspicions about the baby being in the bag I really do believe that he was buried in France.’

With that they hugged and kissed and went below to prepare their evening meal. The conversation was all about the new home they planned and hoped for. They bunked down early that evening and made a start for Dartmouth at dawn the next morning.

Greg hauled anchor and was on the helm as they motored out of the narrow entrance to Lulworth, while Mary busied herself in the galley. Greg put in a call to David to tell him they would be back a day early, which pleased him.

The wind was a touch north of west again, which gave them a long starboard tack toward Dartmouth and routed outside of Portland Race. They enjoyed that day. They knew it would likely be their last together on board for a long time. Just before dark, half a mile off the entrance to the Dart, they rolled up all sail and motored into the river. Enough room had been left for them to tie up on the visitors’ pontoon.

Tired but now happy to be back where they could begin an exciting new episode in their lives, they worked together to tidy ship and unload their gear and the food that was left over from the trip. They checked the office, which David had locked. He had left a pile of notes on the desk.

The top one read, “All this shows I’ve been busy in your absence. Don’t suppose you’ll want to tell me about your honeymoon! Regards, David.”