Harbinger of Spring

by Hilda Pressley

  ‘Hold the tiller in the centre while I lower the boom,’ Hugh said.

  She did as she was told, and as the boom was lowered gently until its weight stretched the mainsail she felt the tiller become alive and try to pull away from her. The yacht picked up speed and a rippling sound came as the sharp bow cut through the water. Hugh handed her the cotton rope he was holding.

  ‘This is the main sheet. It pulls the boom inboard or lets it out. Hold it in your left hand. Use the tiller with your right and see if you can steer a straight course along the centre of the river.’

  Sara concentrated fiercely in the beginning, but soon she felt the thrill of the yacht listing slightly as it made almost silent progress and obeyed every clumsy movement she made.

  The river was straight for almost a mile and the light breeze steady. Prompted by Hugh, Sara soon learned to steer a course which was not too erratic. Then with a little help she came about and sailed in the opposite direction until she passed the boatyard and came to a long curving bend. Here, Hugh gave more instructions and Sara hauled the boom in until it was almost above her head, the sheet straining hard in her grasp and the ripple of water at the bow changing to a hiss as the yacht took on more speed.

  Hugh directed her attention to the tiny flag at the top of the mast.

  ‘Keep an eye on the burgee. It shows the angle at which the wind is blowing. Ahead of you the river is curving away. That’ll mean hauling in the boom a little as you enter the curve, and even more so as you follow it.’

  Sara thought that in all her life she had never been so thrilled. There was this wonderful, almost soundless speeding through the water and a feeling of being at one with the elements.

  But the emotional feeling did not last long. The continual bending of the river brought the yacht nearly facing the wind and it could only make headway by a series of zig-zag tacks in which Hugh had to aid her frequently. Then the boatyard came within sight again and when they finally reached it they were able to run free and stop where Sara’s launch was moored. A little breathlessly, she let go of sheet and tiller.

  ‘I was going to say that was fun, but it was more than that. It was a really great experience.’

  ‘I’m glad you liked it. A lot of people regard sailing as a bore, sort of slow and uncertain.’

  ‘You mean you can never say for certain if, or when, you’ll get to the place you’re aiming for? Surely it’s the trying which counts?’

  He gave her an odd look. ‘Better to travel hopefully than to arrive? Not whether you won or lost but how you played the game?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she answered a little shortly.

  ‘But why the trite quotations?’ She felt he had been mocking her, doubting her sincerity.

  But he didn’t answer her. He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to break up this little party now. I have to be in London tonight. I’m beginning a lecture tour from there.’

  ‘I had no idea I was using up your valuable time. Will you be away long?’

  The question was out before she realized she should not have asked. It was really none of her concern how long he would be away.

  But he answered: ‘About ten days, I think, and you weren’t using up my valuable time. It was my idea—remember?’

  Sara scrambled into her launch. ‘Thank you for the lesson anyway. I’ve learned a lot and I hope one day I’ll get an opportunity to put it into practice.’

  He gave a slight wave of his hand and was on his way further up river, using only the jib sail before she had started her engine. She delayed the proceeding and watched his quick and sure movements in the lowering of the boom and taking up the slack of the mainsheet tackle until the yacht was heeling over and making a much greater speed than it had done when she was handling it. She half expected him to look back and wave and had a slight sense of disappointment. She might have known he wouldn’t. Then she reflected that not allowing himself to be diverted from whatever task he was doing was part of his make-up.

  Sara started her engine and a few minutes later was back at the Mill, shivering a little as she put her key in the door. She looked around before closing it behind her. The sun was now low, a red ball in a slightly hazy sky, the small trees on the opposite bank dead white and slightly fuzzy in outline, the reeds standing poker stiff in their casing of ice and looking as solid and immovable as iron rails. As far as she could see nothing moved.

  Sara experienced a sudden feeling of being an intruder in the scene. She stepped inside quickly and closed the door. She was an intruder. She did not belong here, no more than did any errant weekender or summer holiday-maker. Only people who were prepared to put down permanent roots should have ownership in a place like this. Impossible for herself, of course, but she would see to it that whoever did succeed in leasing Fenchurch Mill would be someone who wanted it for permanent living. It would not go to any wealthy person for summer living who would leave it deserted for much of the year.

  That much resolved, Sara felt happier. She went into the kitchen to make tea and while she was waiting for the kettle to boil the telephone started to ring. To her surprise it was Mrs. Worthing.

  ‘Is something wrong with Father?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Not in the least, unless you’d call it a touch of spring fever.’

  ‘Spring fever! Do you mean he’s developed a sudden yearning to take morning walks in Hyde Park?’

  The older woman laughed. ‘It’s more than that. He’s on his way to visit you. He’s been trying for most of the morning to phone you and I’ve made several attempts this afternoon. Anyway, he’s started for Norwich and if he can’t reach you by phone from the station, he’ll book in at an hotel and contact you from there. ‘

  ‘Well, this is a surprise. I hope he likes snow and ice, because there’s plenty of both here.’

  ‘I’ve never heard him say that he does. As a matter of fact it’s mild and sunny here. That’s what made him restless. That and a contract in Derbyshire being delayed for a month.’

  ‘What time train did he catch, Mrs. Worthing?’

  ‘About three-thirty.’

  ‘Then I’ve just about time to meet him. ‘Bye, Mrs. Worthing, and thanks for letting me know.’

  Sara hurried into the kitchen, swallowed a cup of tea and ate a hastily buttered bun, by now beginning to feel hungry. Twenty minutes later she was making a slithery, bumping progress along the narrow lane from the boatyard. She found the main road well salted and the streets of Norwich clear except for mounds of brown slush in the gutters. The train was ten minutes late and when it did arrive her father was one of the last to come through the barrier. He carried two large suitcases, but dropped them as he saw her.

  ‘Sara!’ To her surprise he wrapped her tightly in his arms and kissed her. ‘Mrs. Worthing and I have been quite worried about you.’

  ‘Worried? Except for a little boredom I’ve been perfectly all right. In fact, I’ve been quite enjoying myself, learning how to sail and all kinds of things.’

  ‘Really? At this time of year? Well, well!’

  He picked up his suitcases and they made their way out of the station where she had parked her car. She was indicating to her father where it was when to her surprise they came face to face with Hugh.

  ‘Sara! You didn’t say you were coming into town.’

  ‘I didn’t know until about an hour ago. Hugh, this is my father. He’s making a surprise visit. Father, meet Hugh Cornish. He’s an expert in birds, sailing—and mending punctures—to mention but a few of his accomplishments.’

  The two men shook hands and Hugh smiled faintly.

  ‘Sara exaggerates. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall,’ Eric Seymour said.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to be away for about a week. Perhaps if you’re still here when I come back we shall meet again. For the present, I must say goodbye. My train leaves in a few minutes.’

  She watched him walk away with long easy
strides, then led the way to the car and when the cases had been put into the boot, drove away from the station. Neither of them spoke again as she was threading a way through the traffic, but from quick side glances Sara gave at her father she could see he was very much interested in all he saw.

  ‘Well, what do you think of Norwich?’ she asked when they reached the outskirts.

  ‘It’s a remarkably unspoiled city and I intend seeing a lot more of it. How far do these suburbs stretch?’

  ‘About two miles. Then we’re in open country.’

  ‘Open country—only a couple of miles from the city centre? Wonderful. And the other ways out of the city, how about those?’

  ‘I haven’t explored yet, but from the map I bought there isn’t much built-up land.’

  ‘What a wonderful chance for developers! I saw mile after mile of unspoiled country from the windows of the train.’

  Sara laughed, ‘You’d better get off that track while you’re here, Father. As I make out from the local paper, there are three words around here that are likely to start a war. Development, planning, and conservation.’

  ‘H’m. They’re words which should go together.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can talk like that. I’ve seen some of your great ugly bridges and fly-overs.’

  ‘I agree with you that raw concrete is ugly, but the main trouble in this country is that town planning and roads came much too late, and that conservation, except by a few very rich landowners, was almost ignored.’ They passed a beautiful stretch of slightly undulating land dotted with great oaks. Eric Seymour indicated it with a wave of his hand.

  ‘Take that, for instance. I don’t know who owns it now, but I’ll bet anything that it was laid by for a rich gentleman over a hundred years ago and that somewhere there is a grand house to match the fine parkland, otherwise it probably wouldn’t be there.’

  Sara gave a quick glance at a snow-plastered sign.

  ‘It’s a country club now, so you’re probably right. From the number of advertisements for similar places, Norfolk is thick with them.’

  ‘Yes. This is a fine road we’re on now. In the warmer weather the trees lining the verges must make it look quite beautiful.’

  ‘It’s beautiful even with a covering of snow.’

  ‘But I wonder what sort of road it was when the grand house was first built?’

  ‘Narrow—and deep with waggon ruts, I expect.’ Sara paused. ‘Father, you’re an old fox—what are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘That the developers and the conservationists simply must get their heads together. There has to be development, you can’t have stagnation, but the conservation of beauty is also necessary.’

  ‘I agree. But lack of planning has been largely the fault of your generation, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on us, Sara. Quite a number of us did try, and are still trying. If you learn from our mistakes you’ll do better when you see fit to take up the reins.’

  ‘I thought we had a government to look after that sort of thing?’

  ‘In democracies, people get the government they deserve.’

  ‘Father, that’s a cliché!’

  ‘But a pretty exact statement. What’s this peculiar bridge we’re approaching now?’

  ‘Wroxham Bridge. It crosses the Bure. There’s a nice view of the river from the top of the bridge, but I can’t stop to let you see it because of it being so narrow.’

  ‘I’ll see it another time, on foot, or perhaps you can take me by boat. How far to your Mill now?’

  ‘About five miles.’

  ‘Then we’ll come by water. That’s the best way of seeing rivers and bridges.’

  Sara laughed. ‘It’ll have to be a whole day trip, then. I haven’t worked out the mileage by boat, but it must be at least twenty. The mill is set on a tributary of the river.’

  There was a ten-mile speed limit over the narrow hump-backed bridge, but with there being no traffic in sight, Sara took it at a crawl. Her father raised himself in his seat and gave an exclamation of pleasure.

  ‘Lovely! It reminds me of the Thames at Richmond.’

  She gave him a quick side glance as he settled back again. Enthusiasm was something he rarely showed, but ever since they had left the railway station he had been pleased and interested in everything he had seen. Far different from Des.

  Poor Des, he really had been a square peg in a round hole. She felt sympathy for him now. Away from discotheques, the dim lights of coffee bars and voices raised to a near shriek above the beat of the latest disc, he must have felt as miserable as a cage-bred bird suddenly turned loose in the wilds.

  ‘Is this a National Park area?’ her father asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘It should be. There can’t be many places in this country like it. It’s so open. You can see the horizon from almost any angle, and that tiny church we’ve just passed—the flint cobbled round tower must be Norman.’

  ‘It certainly looks very old.’

  Sara had been using the ancient church as a landmark for her turning into the lane to the boatyard. She negotiated the awkward bend and bumped over the snow-covered ruts to the yard. Outside the shed which was used as the garage she stopped the car.

  ‘We’ll get your suitcases out here, Father. It’s a bit awkward inside the shed.’

  She drove in after helping him with the cases and when she came out again he was outside one of the boathouses talking with Ted.

  She went to them and saw the stern of a large cruiser in the open doorway of the shed.

  ‘Mind if I watch?’ her father was saying.

  ‘Not at all. I’ll just go inside and start the winch.’ He grinned at Sara. ‘Keep your toes off the rail-track, Sara.’

  He went inside, squeezing past the side of the cruiser. She heard the rattle of machinery, then the iron wheels of the ponderous bogey on which the cruiser rested began to grind on the rails. Slowly the vessel came out of the shed and down the concrete slope towards the water. Sara watched the rudder and propeller submerge and slowly the craft slid gently into the water.

  Her father gave a cheer, his face wreathed in smiles and his eyes bright as a schoolboy’s. Sara looked at him in surprise. He seemed to have dropped at least half of his fifty years.

  ‘The East Anglian air seems to agree with you.’

  ‘It’s more than the air. It’s the very nature of the place. I feel so free, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and jolly hungry, too. Your impulsive safari cut short my tea.’

  ‘Well, I’ll just have another word with Ted and then we’ll get along.’

  A quarter of an hour later, Eric Seymour had another and even greater enthusiasm. Fenchurch Mill and house had him groping for words of admiration. He saw over the Mill, then wandered from room to room in the house, touching the furniture with his finger tips and displaying a knowledge of its period Sara did not know he possessed. At last she practically fled into the kitchen to prepare a meal that was more an early dinner than anything else.

  She laid the table in the dining room, switching on the subdued wall light and also the table lamp against the rapidly fading daylight. Then she called to him and they sat down to eat.

  ‘This certainly is a lovely old house,’ he said almost wistfully. ‘The quietness would take a little getting used to, of course—especially for someone like you, fresh from the busy life of London—always surrounded by people and—lively ones at that.’

  Sara smiled. She knew what her father was getting at. He thought her generation could not exist without noise.

  ‘I must admit there were times when it seemed like a cemetery, as Des put it.’

  ‘That fellow! Has he been here?’

  ‘Father, please. You know he’s my friend as well as business partner. Why shouldn’t he come?’

  ‘He could have telephoned, couldn’t he?’

  Sara controlled an impulse to snap back. ‘Father, as it happens he was only here for a
few hours. I know you don’t like Des, but he’s harmless enough and he’s a good business partner. There’s nothing much wrong with him.’

  ‘I’m not saying there is anything wrong with him. It’s his appearance. But can’t you see—’

  ‘His appearance? How can you possibly judge by that? You don’t like Des because he has long hair and wears trendy clothes.’

  ‘I admit I’m prejudiced about his appearance, but you take it from me, it does count. The way a man or a woman dresses is a reflection of their personality.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be going on at you like this. You’re old enough to run your own life. But why did he only stay a few hours, if that’s not a rude question?’

  ‘He found it too quiet and isolated. I’ll get the second course, if you’ll excuse me, Father.’

  She went into the kitchen, glad to escape for a few minutes. Though she had defended Des and his right to wear what he chose, she couldn’t help feeling that her father was right. Hugh, too. Her values seemed to be all changing, somehow, and she wasn’t sure that she was enjoying it.

  Later, when she had poured the coffee, her father rose suddenly from his chair and put his arms about her and kissed her.