A Nice Cup of Tea

by Celia Imrie

  She recalled the name was on a list of emergency numbers hanging in her kitchen on the fridge door.

  ‘Presumably Mr Muffett can take control of the boat . . .’ Mervin continued. ‘And all will be well.’

  Theresa looked over the road at Roger Muffett, who in her opinion looked far from being in control of anything, let alone his own boat. ‘No, Mervin. He’s not on board. The kids took the boat without his permission. Thanks for the info. I’ll just tell his parents, who are frantic. Hold on.’

  She ran across to the Muffetts.

  ‘Neil!’ Cynthia had her phone to her ear. ‘Neil! Pick up the bloody phone.’

  ‘I’ve got the school’s tech guy on the line.’ Theresa spoke to Roger, who was pacing around, forever wringing his hands, like a domestic Lady Macbeth in some soap opera. ‘He’s been in touch with the boat. I’m going over there to my flat.’ She pointed. ‘It’s behind that parked van. The blue door. I’m going to call the French emergency services.’

  As she ran back across the road, heading home, she resumed her call to Mervin.

  ‘OK. Call this number again if you hear anything more. I’m going home right now to call the Gendarmerie Maritime. Bye.’

  Theresa had her finger resting on the red button to cut off his call when she heard his anguished cry.

  ‘Wait! Wait! Don’t go, Mrs S. I’m just getting another message from Neil. He says the boat has stopped now.’

  ‘That’s good news. Isn’t it?’ Theresa hoped that if the boat was not moving further away, they might have the chance to catch up with it.

  ‘Erm, it should be good news.’ Mervin’s voice had taken on a new, sinister tone. ‘Except that Neil says it stopped because they just hit some rocks . . . And there seems to be water coming in.’

  Theresa squeezed past the bumper of the little parked van, noticing that her front door was ajar and her lights were still on.

  She obviously had left so quickly she couldn’t have shut up properly.

  She shoved the door open, simultaneously slipping the phone into her pocket so that she would feel it vibrate if Mervin should call back. She walked briskly inside, heading straight towards the kitchen counter and the landline telephone.

  Quickly consulting the magnetic list of emergency services on the fridge, she picked up the receiver.

  ‘Theresa?’

  Theresa spun round, to see a man emerging from her bedroom.

  It was Cyril, and in his right hand was a large, sharp knife.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  When Sally turned around to look for Eggy, who was no longer holding on to her, she could see him on his knees, grabbing hold of the ropes along the side. He was heaving.

  She immediately slowed the boat down so that she could be heard.

  ‘Eggy!’ She waved her free arm at him. ‘Do NOT lean over the side. You could be thrown into the water.’

  ‘What can I do?’ he wailed. ‘Help me, Sally.’

  She cut the engine off. The boat was now floating on the rolling sea, bucking up and down worse than when they had the thrust of engine power propelling them over the crests of the waves.

  Sally looked around for a receptacle. It was usual always to keep a bucket on board small craft.

  ‘Here.’ Sally grabbed Eggy’s top hat, which he had jammed under the seat. ‘Use this!’

  From where she sat, the shore was now nothing but a speckle of tiny lights.

  ‘They can’t want us to go further than this,’ she shouted. ‘They have got to have captured their shot. I’m turning back.’

  She wasn’t sure whether or not Eggy had heard her. The noise from the wind seemed to swallow her speech.

  The RIB was now tossing from side to side, water sploshing over the transom.

  She had to get the engine back on and start moving. Then the boat would be once more under her own control rather than drifting at the whim of the sea. She tried to get a purchase on the saddle, but, with her long, tight skirt, now that the leatherette was covered in spray, it was impossible to hold on.

  ‘Sod this!’ Sally bent down, gripped the bottom of her dress and tore it up the seam to her waist. ‘They’ll have to make a repair for the other shot when we get back to shore.’

  ‘If we ever make it back to shore,’ Eggy whimpered.

  Sally managed to climb astride the wet saddle, and face the console.

  She turned the key to start the engine.

  It spluttered.

  ‘Not now, not now,’ she murmured to the controls. ‘Come on. Come on.’

  She turned again.

  The engine engaged for a brief moment then cut out.

  ‘Come on, old thing! COME ON! For God’s sake.’

  Once more she turned the key.

  This time a mere gurgle, followed by nothing.

  Sally took hold of the radio receiver. Now she knew she had to call at least a pan-pan signal, indicating to the local coastguard that their boat had a mechanical failure.

  She prayed that the radio was real and not a dummy stuck on by the props department.

  Sally looked to the east. The rocks were getting nearer. Simply on the power of the tide the boat was racing towards them at great speed.

  She switched on the radio and pressed the Urgency Alert button. She waited for the decreed fifteen seconds, pressed the transmission button and shouted into the microphone. ‘Pan-pan, PAN-PAN, PAN-PAN.’ She left a pause. She had no name for the vessel, nor an exact position. ‘Bay of Èze. Engine failure. Require a tow. Two persons on board. Pan-pan, pan-pan, pan-pan. Over.’

  As she slid the radio mic back into its holster, she realised that the nearest coastguard station was in Nice and, unless a ship happened to be already on a nearby call, they would be waiting out here a good half hour before anyone could reach them.

  She looked at her watch. She had forgotten that Wardrobe had taken her own watch and replaced it with an idiotic, female-sized minuscule evening thing, with a clock face which was impossible to read without a microscope.

  She guessed it must be about nine o’clock.

  She had another go at starting up the engine. When nothing happened she shouted a hail of curses up to the sky.

  And it was at that moment that, straight ahead, she saw the end of the white gin palace which bore the asinine name The Bitch Got The House.

  The words were clearly visible on the prow.

  The boat itself was on the rocks, slamming hard against them. The pointed white bow reared up out of the water, the aft end of the craft was submerged. The transom was obviously shattered.

  Sally could just about make out two human shapes, perched at the top of the only part of the boat untouched by water. The kids were clinging to the shining silver rails of the foredeck, screaming for help.

  Once more Sally grabbed the radio mic and made a call: ‘MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY.’

  Theresa dropped the receiver.

  Cyril took a step towards her.

  ‘Let me explain . . .’ He spoke slowly and in French. ‘I am here to save you . . .’

  Theresa put up her hands, though what defence could they provide against a knife?

  She could try to talk him down. But as her French was poor and his English even worse, she knew it would be too difficult.

  Then she had a better idea. She pulled open a drawer, reached inside and pulled out the very knife which he had sent her.

  She held it out before herself, gripping the handle with both hands. They stood still, facing one another like pistol carriers at a duel, looking one another in the eye, each holding steady.

  Nobody moved.

  ‘What do you want, Cyril?’ Theresa’s heart was pounding so hard she feared it would burst. ‘Why are you here, holding a knife towards me?’

  ‘A bad man is hunting.’ Cyril glanced down at the knife in his hand. ‘I came to tell you.’

  ‘Cyril! Please put the knife down.’ Theresa slipped slowly around the edge of the counter and took a few steps back towards the front
door. ‘Why are you pursuing me? What do you want?’

  ‘I am married.’ Cyril swung the knife down, dangling it at his side. He started speaking in a stumbling English. ‘My wife. I give you cake. My wife is drugged. But at Hotel Astra I have room of you . . . Lovely photos! Attention! I am love you.’

  Theresa was near the front door, which she had left ajar for Roger and Cynthia to follow her in.

  She took one more step back and was able to kick it wide open.

  ‘Theresa! Non! Non! Attendez! Attention!’

  Edging backwards through the door, Theresa yelled out for Roger, then turned and fled into the street.

  She physically bumped into William, strolling along with Carol.

  She pointed back towards her flat.

  ‘Cyril,’ she gasped. ‘With a knife.’

  ‘Oh God!’ Carol grasped Theresa by the elbow and dragged her along at speed in the direction of the brasserie. ‘Let’s get you somewhere where there are lots of people around you.’ She turned to William and told him that Cyril had gone mad and taken to stalking Theresa.

  ‘That’s not all, Carol, William. Please help me. I’ve lost Chloe again. This time she and Neil took his father’s boat and they’re out there, somewhere floating around in this rough sea. They’ve nothing to eat but those chocolate brownies—’

  ‘They’ve what?’ William stopped and dramatically put his face in his hands. ‘The brownies? You are joking?’

  ‘No. The ones you left me. They took them.’

  William’s mouth wiggled into about seven contrasting positions before he finally said: ‘The brownies are hash.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re dope brownies. Marijuana. Cyril’s wife left them for you. You got really high, remember, when you ate them? That night when Odile de la Warr deigned to grace us with her imperious presence.’

  ‘I was drugged?’

  ‘Well . . . sort of . . .’ William shook his head in exasperation. ‘Yes. But in a good way.’

  ‘God in heaven! Call the emergency services, NOW. I have to save those bloody children. They’re adrift, lost at sea, and, thanks to me, stoned out of their minds.’ Theresa staggered up the step on to the brasserie terrace. ‘Oh God. If only we had a boat, we could go after them ourselves.’

  ‘Theresa? Is something wrong?’ Marcel stepped forward to welcome them. ‘You should have come to me. I do have a boat, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ Theresa looked at him. ‘There’s too much going on to explain. Cyril has gone mad. And when she gets back from the ballet, my daughter will kill me. And . . . poor Chloe. Oh God.’ She teetered, feeling as though she might faint from sheer anxiety.

  ‘Come along,’ said Marcel forcefully. ‘You should take a brandy.’

  ‘No,’ Theresa replied firmly. She really wanted her wits about her until she had Chloe and Neil back on dry land.

  ‘Come this way, Theresa.’ Breaking into a run, Marcel led her across to the quay. He turned back and shouted to Carol and William. ‘We’ll find them. Have no fear.’

  Marcel’s vessel was a little fisher boat, not much more than a canopy over the helm and an open rear deck. He leaped into the well of the boat and held his hand up to help Theresa down.

  Once she was settled on the back seat, a simple white board across the transom, he threw her a life jacket and sprang up on to the jetty to untie the guy-ropes. Keeping hold of the last rope wrapped around the iron capstan, he stepped inside and moved under the canopy to get the engine going. Then he pulled in the rope and stowed it beside him at the helm.

  Just as the little boat started edging away from the stone quayside, there was a loud shout from the shore, and Roger Muffett leaped aboard.

  With the sudden weight balance the boat rocked violently.

  ‘Wait for me.’ Cynthia ran towards the edge of the quay, but, without turning around, Marcel opened the throttle and they sped away.

  ‘We should go back for her,’ shouted Theresa. ‘Her son is on the missing yacht.’

  But Marcel clearly did not hear her plea, for the boat’s speed increased. They pulled out of the sheltered harbour, heading towards the dark horizon.

  Roger stood up. He took mini steps towards the wheelhouse, until he was standing just behind Marcel.

  Theresa was still seated right beside the outboard motor, so couldn’t hear their conversation. But Roger was gesticulating wildly towards the shore, while Marcel shook his head.

  Roger shrugged and walked towards Theresa. He was pulling a grimace. They were not turning back for Cynthia.

  Then Marcel stopped the engine.

  Roger smiled and made a thumbs-up at Theresa.

  Marcel ran towards Roger and grappled him from behind.

  Theresa was so startled she had no idea what was happening.

  The two men struggled, causing the boat to rock perilously. Roger lost his footing and put out his hand to steady himself. At that moment Marcel gave him a sharp shove, toppling him over the side.

  Roger splashed into the black water.

  Theresa looked to Roger, then back up to Marcel, who made a gesture of wiping his hands and moved calmly back to the helm.

  Theresa was horrified. She looked around for something to throw after Roger – a lifebuoy or something, anything that he could grab on to, until they could fish him out. There was nothing.

  ‘Help! Help!’

  Roger was bobbing up and down, gasping for breath.

  ‘I can’t swim.’

  Theresa pulled off her own life jacket and tossed it into the sea. As it hit the water, it immediately inflated.

  ‘Roger! Grab that,’ she cried, hanging on to the side of the boat and leaning out.

  ‘Marcel,’ she called forward, ‘do you have a boathook or something to help pull Roger aboard?’

  But Marcel kept his back to her.

  He started up the engine again.

  ‘Watch out! Marcel!’ Theresa was anxious lest Roger get caught up in the current and pulled under, or, worse, cut up by the rotor blades. ‘Marcel! Turn off! Marcel! Coupez! Arrêtez!’

  But Marcel simply thrust forward the lever and the boat raced into the darkness.

  Theresa looked back, tracing the pale wake, trying to see where Roger was.

  If only he could swim.

  The nearest point of the quayside was a mere twenty metres away.

  She got to her feet and, hunched over to grip the sides, edged forward towards the wheelhouse.

  ‘Marcel?’ She stood as soon as she reached the canopy. ‘Why did you do that? Marcel?’

  Marcel continued to look straight ahead.

  Then he turned and glanced at Theresa.

  He twisted around to look back towards the shore, which was now simply a necklace of tiny lights.

  ‘Marcel! You can’t just throw people overboard.’

  Marcel cut the engine for the second time.

  Good, thought Theresa. Now he’s going to turn back and rescue poor Roger.

  ‘Why can’t I?’ He looked Theresa in the eye. ‘Roger was not invited.’

  Marcel stooped. It looked to Theresa as though he was about to tie a shoelace. But he flipped a handle in the blank wall.

  A hatchway opened.

  It led down into a tiny cabin.

  Marcel gently slid his arm around Theresa’s waist and edged her to the open hatch.

  ‘Don’t they say three is a crowd?’

  From the threshold Theresa could see that the space was completely filled by a bed.

  The bed was strewn with heart-shaped cushions.

  ‘Now, at last, Theresa,’ whispered Marcel, ‘we are alone together.’

  Shock froze Theresa to the spot.

  Every inch of the curving, white fibreglass walls of the boat’s hull was decorated with photographs of herself.

  ‘So many things have transpired to keep us apart, my darling. But, out here, no one can disturb us till dawn, my beautiful, beloved Theresa.’

  Sally let th
e little RIB drift close to the wreckage of the large gin palace.

  The wind was whipping her hair around her face, and when she tried to shout the gusts seemed to thrust the words back down her throat.

  ‘Come down with us, into this boat.’

  Chloe was sobbing.

  Neil leaned forward to shout down.

  ‘It’s too scary. What if we slip?’

  Sally looked at the remains of The Bitch Got The House and realised it would only take a few more large waves to break the bow completely away from what was left.

  Any wave coming in would also knock the two kids back and on to the rocks.

  Still astride the seat, Sally stretched out a hand. The rubber edges of her RIB were rubbing along the white walls of the larger boat, squeaking.

  ‘Come on.’ She tried to sound calm. ‘Come now. One at a time.’

  Neil shot Chloe a look, then, holding on to the back of her T-shirt, he edged her forward until she flopped down from the white boat and landed on the inflated side of Sally’s RIB.

  ‘Now you, Neil.’

  Scrambling, face up, on all fours, like a crab, Neil moved downwards, then jumped. In his anxiety to avoid colliding with the people inside the RIB, he missed his footing on the wet rubber, and slipped into the raging water.

  Together, Sally and Chloe reached out but he was too far away and being pulled by the swell.

  Sally was terrified another wave might slam him back on to the rocks or sweep him out to sea.

  She wrenched up one of the emergency oars which were fixed to the sides of the RIB, and thrust it out towards the rocks, resting the paddle end on the top of a crag.

  Neil stretched up, clasped it from below with both hands, then inched along, walking his hands forward as though dangling from a rope.

  When he reached the rubber side, he let go of the oar and, with Chloe’s help, hauled himself aboard.

  Throughout all this drama, Eggy was bent over at the rear of the boat, retching into his top hat.

  ‘OK, you two. Now we have to get this boat away from those rocks and on to the tide.’ Sally wrenched the other oar free from its clips and handed it to the two kids. ‘Do not let that oar wash away. It’s all we’ve got.’ Still holding on to the first oar, she angled it against the rock. ‘Get yours and do the same as me. OK?’