Sea Lord

in fact Sunflower simply became Charlie’s temporary office. He had a cordless telephone in his tool box and, if a problem would not yield to bullying on the phone, he would drop down from Sunflower’s gunwales and stride across to his real office. I was grateful for his continual presence; just to be with Charlie gave me a sense of being physically protected from Garrard and Peel, while working with him brought back memories of happy days.

The biggest difference between our old days and these new ones was the amount of money we now lavished on Sunflower. A new VHF radio was installed, one that was pre-tuned to all the American and European frequencies. Charlie wasn’t content with such a lavish toy, but insisted on installing a short-wave radio as well. “So you can listen to all those posh voices on the BBC.” He patted the panel which he’d made to house the twin radios. “Proper job, that.”

I had to dig my heels in and refuse some of his suggestions. I was tempted by a Satnav set, which snatched position reports from passing satellites, but I have a fear of too many electronic toys on a boat, so I wouldn’t let him buy one. He had a Decca set which he claimed to have taken off one of his old boats and which he insisted on installing over Sunflower’s chart table. I couldn’t refuse the gift, but as Decca will only give positions in a limited number of waters I did not fear that I would become too used to its electronic magic and forget how to use a sextant. Charlie wanted me to have a radar set, but I adamantly refused; they drain too much electricity and their aerials look too ugly. I won that battle, but Charlie won others: he insisted that the new mast should have an electronic wind direction and speed vane which would display on twin dials in the cockpit and above the chart table. He made new chart drawers, and filled them with brand new charts. He took a small boy’s pleasure in surprising me with new purchases: danbuoys for the stern; a radio direction finder; a stripper for the propeller; a sun awning for the hot latitudes; and bright red canvas dodgers with Sunflower’s name sewn large in brilliant yellow letters. Best of all he bought me a new fibreglass tender with a small outboard. “You can burn that scabby inflatable,” he said.

It all cost money. So much money. Embarrassing amounts of money. I tackled Charlie about the cost, but he simply dismissed my embarrassment. “I’m enjoying it, Johnny. That’s all that matters.”

“You must let me pay you back.”

“What with? Bottle tops?” He grinned. We’d been working till well past nine o’clock and had driven over to the Rossendale Arms for a good-night pint. Some hotel guests from Stowey sat at the bar and sneaked surreptitious looks at me; the landlord had probably told them they were staying in my ancestral home, but I could see from their faces that they weren’t sure whether to believe that the paint-stained scruff truly was a belted earl.

“What is Sunflower costing you?” I pressed Charlie.

“I’m not counting.” He leaned back on the settle and stretched his long arms. “I’m enjoying myself, Johnny. It’s been too long since I did a proper job. I spend too much of my time on the bloody phone these days, or in the office. I like working with these.” He held out his hands, big and scarred. “Besides, it’s a way of making up to you.”

“Making up to me?” I said with astonishment.

“Fetch me a pint, and I’ll tell you.”

I fetched two pints. That was something I’d miss, I thought, the good taste of proper ale instead of the gassy piss-weak lager that the Germans had persuaded the rest of the world to drink.

Charlie lit himself a cigarette. “I always felt guilty about deserting you,” he said in explanation.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s true.” He was entirely serious. “When we flew back from Australia I was really looking forward to going back to sea. We had some good times, you and I. But then I got Yvonne pregnant so, like a fool, I did the decent thing.”

He was speaking of the time after my brother’s suicide, four years before. It had been a bad time for me; trammelled with accountants, lawyers and bank managers. I had thought then that I would be trapped by all those responsibilities and, though Charlie and I had often talked of going back to sea, I had never been certain that it would be possible. I used to escape Stowey’s hopelessness by delivering yachts in the Channel, but I had doubted whether I could ever afford to sail far oceans again; Stowey’s problems were too comprehensive for such luxuries. Charlie felt guilty that he had abandoned me, but he had never known that I had been considering abandoning him. I confessed as much to him now, but Charlie shook his head dismissively. “Of course you were going back to sea! I knew that. You were never going to stay with all those pin-striped wankers for longer than you had to!” He laughed. “Could you see yourself living with your mother?”

I smiled. “No.”

“There you are, then. But I should have gone with you, Johnny, I really should.”

“No regrets, surely?”

“I’ve made some money, I suppose.” He sounded rueful. He looked at his watch. “We’ve got an early start in the morning, you and I, so drink up.”

A week later Sunflower was taken to Kingswear where she was craned into the water. Next day Charlie and I drove to the marina where one of his mobile cranes was parked on the quay. “Lower it now!” Charlie took competent command as soon as he stepped out of the Jaguar’s driving seat. He shouted up at his crane driver, “You take care, Tom! Gentle with her now!”

We were stepping Sunflower’s mast; a brand new foil-shaped beauty of extruded aluminium. Charlie had paid for it, of course, just as he had paid to have all the sails cleaned, and a new trysail made. He insisted on glueing a silver sixpence under the mast’s foot for luck, but after that ritual he was content to let the riggers get on with their job while he and I moved to the greater comfort of Barratry.

Barratry was Charlie’s boat. A few days earlier, in anticipation of these days on the River Dart, he had moved her to the Kingswear marina. She was a fifty-four-foot motor cruiser with a flying bridge, twin monster diesels, and the hot tub which had so impressed Rita. Her name was a pun on Charlie’s surname, but the word also meant any fraudulent maritime act. To Charlie it carried overtones of piracy, which he liked. “Mind you, I’d have preferred to call her Wet Dream,” Charlie laughed, “but none of the girls liked it.”

At midday one of those girls arrived on Barratry’s pontoon. Charlie introduced her as a business colleague, but offered me a broad wink at the same time. Her name was Joanna and she was ordered to make lunch on board. “A proper dinner, mind you!” Charlie warned her. “No bloody salads, girl. Johnny here’s going to sail to the West Indies in a few days so he needs feeding up.”

Joanna was a redhead, lithe as a whippet in skin-tight jeans and an expensive shirt. She seemed not to resent Charlie’s unbridled caveman chauvinism, but Charlie had always treated his women thus. It worked for him.

We ate lunch on Barratry while the three riggers tensioned Sunflower’s stays and shrouds. Joanna had carved two cold roasted chickens. One was solely for Charlie who, though he had the appetite of a horse, never seemed to put on an ounce of fat. “Are you really going to the West Indies?” Joanna had picked at a chicken wing, and now painted her fingernails while we ate.

“Probably.” In truth I was too late for a good trade-wind passage, but I might yet make the crossing before the hurricane season. “I’ll go south first, then make up my mind.”

“When will you leave?”

“As soon as he’s provisioned,” Charlie answered for me. “And no difficulties there, eh, Johnny?” Charlie had opened accounts for me at a half-dozen Dartmouth stores. Whatever I or Sunflower needed, we were to have: food, equipment, clothing, anything.

“Where will you go in the West Indies?” Joanna persisted.

“Probably one of the French islands. The food’s better.”

“And the girls.” Charlie was in high spirits. The sun was out, he was well fed, and Joanna had changed into a wispy bikini. “I’ve got half a mind to fly over there and join you,” he said. “We could have some good sailing, eh?”

“Do you still remember how to sail?” I teased him. “My God, Charlie, to think you’ve bought a motor boat!”

“It’s less trouble than rag-hanging,” he shrugged. “Mind you, I miss the sailing sometimes, but there’s a lot to