has managed to get itself caught up in the Jeanes DNA this quarter-century, the “No” will be coupled with a mumbled excuse concerning pressure of work, but this is not to be taken too seriously. The truth is that deep down in their collective unconscious, the members of the Jeanes tribe believe that the world outside the Yard is populated by werewolves, particularly if you venture out beyond Eype, and consequently they try to go out of the curtilage of their fastness as infrequently as possible. Once a week to the bank is plenty often enough, thank you very much.
“Right then.” Vanderdecker replies, “I suppose I’d better bring her in. There’s not a lot needs doing, actually,” he adds, “just a general looking-over, if you could manage that.”
This rarely gets a reply from a Jeanes, and Vanderdecker goes away and comes back with a sixteenth- century galleon. This is where the fun starts.
“Here she is,” Vanderdecker will now say. Jeanes will stare out of small, ferret-like eyes and say nothing. We have reached the unsolicited explanations stage, the trickiest part of the whole undertaking. The knack to it is not to look as if you have anything to explain, and it is best achieved by seeming to boast. The preferred gambit is something like “bet you haven’t worked on anything like
A flicker of a Jeanes eyebrow will communicate “no”, and we’re away. We explain that the
a film prop; or
a rich man’s toy; or
part of a ten-year project by the University of Chicopee Falls History Faculty to prove that Columbus was a liar; or
the entire naval strength of Monte Carlo; or
a fishfingers advertisement;
—depending on what this particular Jeanes is likely to believe. From then on, it’s just a matter of waiting for the work to be done and parting with an extremely large sum of money at the end of it.
The presence of so many Old Ships in West Bay dictated that it was rich man’s toy time once again, and Vanderdecker quietly rehearsed some patter about how he had been all set to wipe the eyes of those cocky Australian so-and-so’s with their fibre-glass hulls when the storm hit him, and now look at her. It wasn’t perfect, but it ought to do well enough to get him out of here in one piece. Another consistent feature of the House of Jeanes throughout the ages is a notable lack of intelligence, which probably explains why they are still in the boat- building business after all these years.
With that characteristic shrug of the shoulders that you see so much of among fighter pilots and professional lion-hunters, Vanderdecker walked towards the yard entrance and put his hand on the gate. As he did so, he saw a face that he recognised. Not an everyday occurrence for the Flying Dutchman.
The last time he had seen it had been in Scotland, on the A9 near Dounreay. The time before that, his memory rather irrelevantly informed him, was in a pub in Covent Garden. I never forget a face, lied his memory smugly, but he wasn’t listening.
The girl was staring, and Vanderdecker’s heart froze. It wasn’t a friendly stare. For a part of a second that only a scientist could accurately quantify there was silence and stillness. Then, very softly, the girl spoke.
“You’re standing,” she said, “on my foot.”
Many years ago now, when he had still been a force to be reckoned with in the jute business, Vanderdecker had been condemned to death. He couldn’t remember the details—something about exceeding the permitted tariff in a Hanseatic League town in election year but he could remember the flood of relief when the jailer came into his cell on what he had been led to believe was going to be his last morning on earth and told him that the sentence had been commuted to a seventy groschen fine. Ironic, really, when you thought of what was going to happen to him a few years later; but the feeling had been just like coming up after being underwater for rather too long. The same sensation caught Vanderdecker somewhere in the windpipe, while his brain registered the apparent fact that the girl hadn’t recognised him after all. When his respiratory system started working again, he apologised and lifted his foot.
“Sorry,” he said, “how clumsy of me.”
“That’s all right,” said the girl slowly. She was looking at him again, and as soon as her eyes met his, Vanderdecker realised how he would have reacted if on that cold morning in the 1540s the jailer had gone on to wink and say, “Sorry, son, I was just kidding.”
The logical thing to do, said a part of Vanderdecker’s mind that was still functioning, is to get out of here quickly. Vanderdecker noted this advice but took no steps to act on it. He was looking at the girl’s face. A nice face, if you like them slightly on the round side. Some words bubbled up into his mouth, like nitrogen into the brain of a diver with the bends.
“Is this Jeanes’ Boatyard?” he asked.
“I hope so,” said the girl. “I’ve been looking for it all morning.”
She had noticed the doublet. Perhaps, suggested the voice of optimism, she’s thinking what an idiot I look. Perhaps not.
Had Vanderdecker been able to get inside Jane’s mind, he would have seen a brief replay of her sixth-form History of Art classes, and heard the words “I’ve seen that shirt somewhere before.” Jane didn’t know it, but she had, in a painting by Tiepolo. A hint to people who are contemplating living for ever; never have your portrait painted, even if it only costs a couple of soldini, because there is always the risk that centuries later the scruffy- looking artist who did the painting will have turned into an Old Master and be studied in good schools.
Come to that, said Jane to herself, I’ve seen that face before; but where? Meanwhile, her voice started to work, out of pure reflex.
“They gave me a map at the tourist information place, but it can’t be very accurate. Or maybe it’s just that I’m hopeless with maps.”
“Me too,” Vanderdecker lied. “Let’s see.”
Jane fished the folded glorious Dorset leaflet out of her bag, and the two of them examined Mrs Price’s cartography with exaggerated diligence.
“If that’s the Post Office over there,” Jane started to say, then something fell neatly into the right place in her mind. The clothes he’s wearing, she said to herself, come from different periods. He looks like a tramp who’s robbed a theatrical costumier. Jeanes’ Boatyard. Different periods of history. Surely not…
“Well,” the man was saying, “if that’s the Red Lion, then that over there must be north. Try turning the map the other way up and then we’ll see.”
Jane thought for a moment. It was worth a try.
“So that’s the Red Lion,” she said. “I wonder what was there before.”
“A butcher’s shop,” Vanderdecker replied. Then he lifted his head and stared at her.
“And when would that have been?” Jane said. Her voice was quiet, slightly triumphant, and more than a little bit frightened. The Red Lion had been built, according to the smugly-worded inn sign, in 1778.
“Before your time,” Vanderdecker replied.
“But not yours.”
“No”, said the Flying Dutchman. “Not a lot is. Have you been looking for me?”
“Yes,” Jane replied sheepishly.
“Then,” Vanderdecker said through a weak smile, “you’ve made a pretty lousy job of it. This is the third time we’ve met. Small world, isn’t it?”
Jane seemed to shrink back from even this tiny display of aggression, and Vanderdecker suddenly felt a great compacted mass of fear sliding away from him. It was like having your ears syringed; you could perceive so much more without it. Jane said nothing for a long time, and then looked at him.
“I imagine,” she said carefully, “that someone in your position would think so.” She felt that she ought to add “Mr Vanderdecker” at the end of the sentence, but that would be too much like a detective story. She waited for a reply.
“Too right,” he replied, and the smile began to solidify, like wax dropped on a polished table. “Small and extremely boring.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Just to make sure we’re not talking at cross purposes, do you know who I am?”
“I think so,” she said. “I think you’re Julius Vanderdecker.”
For some reason, he had expected her to say “The Flying Dutchman.” It was a nickname he had always
