Harbinger of Spring

by Hilda Pressley

  ‘Don’t be unhappy, Sara. Maybe I’m a domineering old fool, but I do love you and want the best for you.’

  ‘You’re not a domineering old fool. Far from it.’

  He laughed. ‘Shall we argue that one out or go and watch television?’

  ‘You watch television. I’ll join you when I’ve cleared away.’

  ‘Shall I—’

  ‘No, I don’t want any help.’

  As she half expected, her father had dozed off when she came into the sitting room. She looked fondly at his thinning hair, then sat quietly down. She could not remember when he had last kissed her, and the kiss had done something to her. It was as if the brief physical demonstration of affection had parted a curtain in her mind. She met young men, boys as she called them, by the dozen. Most of them hugged, or rather grappled her, and often she received a kiss of sorts, but neither hug nor kiss had held any affection. Not really.

  Affection. Love. That was what she wanted. To be loved just for herself—and by someone she could look up to, respect and admire. A man like—Hugh.

  The thought came as a shock to her. If Hugh Cornish was the kind of man she imagined herself being in love with she must have changed a very great deal in little more than a few days. It was ridiculous. It was all this quietness, the isolation. It was turning her brain.

  Sara stood up suddenly, almost in a panic. This old house was possessing her. If she didn’t soon get back to London she would vegetate. She pictured herself living here alone with the ghost of Great-aunt Esther, an ageing spinster, but without even the satisfaction of having lived for a great cause.

  For a moment she wanted to flee from this place and all it stood for—and most of all from Hugh Cornish.

  CHAPTER VI

  During the next few days there were light falls of snow from a sky which was almost cloudless, but the cold grew more intense. Sara enjoyed the sparkling weather, but her father positively revelled in it and had it not been for his efforts, the ice which reached further and further out from the banks of the dyke might have been impossible to navigate. As it was, the open stretch of water in front of the house became a haunt of all kinds of aquatic birds. Ducks, geese and swans flew in to make splash landings in the pool or to misjudge their landings and toboggan on their feathered bottoms, their feet and legs splayed out as they slithered across stretches of ice.

  Eric Seymour seemed never indoors except to eat, which to Sara’s surprise he did hugely, testing severely her moderate cooking skills. Then a slow thaw set in and she was so busy driving him in and out of Norwich and exploring the surrounding countryside that she became something of an authority on one-way streets, car parks and ancient monuments of all kinds. Occasionally, her thoughts turned to Des and the business, but she tried not to think about Hugh at all. Even Des and the business seemed far away and long ago and after a while she stopped expecting him even to ring her.

  Hugh had been away on his lecture tour well over a week when her father came in from outside one morning, his face alight.

  ‘Sara, what do you think?’ he said excitedly. ‘I’ve just seen a yacht pass the end of the dyke.’

  She felt as though her heart had missed a beat. ‘A big one with red sails?’

  ‘No, this one had a white sail. I don’t know how big is big. I’d judge this one at about fourteen feet. Why?’

  ‘Nothing really. Hugh Cornish has a big yacht with red sails. I thought it might have been his. What you saw probably belonged to one of the sailing clubs—a racing yacht. Breakfast is about ready, so don’t go out again.’

  ‘I won’t. I’m ready for it.’

  She laughed, ‘I don’t know where you’re putting it all. At home Mrs. Worthing had to tempt you to eat a boiled egg and one piece of toast.’

  ‘It’s the air and everything. I wonder if sailing is difficult to learn?’

  ‘There’s quite a lot in it.’

  ‘Oh? How do you know?’

  ‘I told you. Hugh took me out in his yacht for about two hours. Put the coffee tray on the table and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  Sara talked as they ate. Her father plied her with numerous questions, some of which she could not answer. He got up as she was pouring his second cup of coffee.

  ‘I’m going to phone Ted and ask him if he has anything suitable for a raw beginner.’

  He was back within a few minutes, his face beaming. ‘Come along, Sara. Ted says he’ll lend us a halfdecker with a lug sail, whatever that is. I suppose you don’t know?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea, but we’re not going until I’ve cleared away and washed the breakfast dishes and made the beds.’

  ‘You make the beds. I’ll wash up.’

  Her father started whistling. Sara ran up the stairs. Never before did she remember her father doing any housework, and she certainly did not remember him being quite so happy. Contented, yes, perhaps, but in a dull sort of way, not eager and full of life as he was now. The country was doing something to him, too.

  She brushed aside thoughts which threatened to become uncomfortable and ran down the stairs to join her father, who already had the front door open. He took charge of the launch and raced it towards the boatyard as if there was not a moment to lose. There she saw a large open boat bright with new varnish and with a tan-coloured sail still furled. Ted was standing on the short foredeck.

  ‘Step aboard and I’ll show you the tackle.’

  There was only the one sail carried between two booms, a small section of the sail for’ard of the mast which acted as a jib. Eric Seymour listened intently and put one question.

  ‘What prevents her going sideways?’

  ‘The depth and length of keel. Of course all sail boats have a certain amount of side drift, what we call leeway, so on these narrow rivers you take every opportunity to pinch back to windward.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘You’ll find out what I mean if you get your boat pinned by the wind against a lee bank. Anyway, Sara’s had a little practice, so she’s beginning to know what’s what.’

  He hoisted the sail for them and the yacht’s stern swung out across the river, the sail flapping gently. Sara put on her lifejacket, but had to practically order her father to put on his.

  ‘If Hugh Cornish was with us, you’d have had it on before now.’

  ‘But he’s not, and I’m quite a strong swimmer.’

  ‘Do as the skipper tells you, landlubber.’

  He appealed to Ted, ‘Do I have to wear one of these things?’

  ‘We always advise it for anyone in a smallish boat. How long do you expect to be out?’

  ‘A couple of hours,’ Sara said.

  ‘Most of the day, if I have my way,’ her father enthused.

  ‘Well, you’d better call back here if you want to sail any time after noon. It’ll blow a bit hard later on and you’ll need a reef in that sail. Ready with the sheet and tiller, Sara. I’ll push your bows off.’

  As the bows swung away from the quay, Sara pulled the main sheet a little tighter so that the sail took on a good curve. She got the craft running freely, then brought it around in a wide curve.

  ‘Why the change of direction?’ her father asked.

  ‘Because I know the upper reach of the river best.’ She steadied on the new course, then turned to her father. ‘Here you are, sailor, take over. Steer small until you get the feel of it.’

  ‘Steer small? What kind of English is that?’

  ‘Hugh taught me. It means don’t make violent movements with the tiller.’

  He settled in her place. ‘This is easy. What do I do if I want to go faster?’

  ‘I don’t know whether this yacht will go any faster in this light breeze.’ She glanced up at the fluttering burgee. ‘Try hauling the sheet in a little.’

  He did as she suggested and the yacht heeled over and picked up more speed.

  ‘This is great,’ Eric Seymour said. ‘Why didn’t I try it before now?’

  ‘I suppose it just didn’t occur t
o you.’

  ‘A lot of things just didn’t occur to me. One is that there are other places to live than London.’

  ‘But that’s where your business is. Mine too.’

  He half turned to her and the yacht veered wildly off course, heading for the lee bank of the river. A shout from Sara and a quick, if clumsy, move with the tiller from her father narrowly avoided a crash into the bank. ‘That was a narrow shave,’ he said. ‘I must learn to keep my eyes on the road.’

  ‘With an occasional glance upward at the burgee. Strict attention to the job in hand, as Hugh would say.’

  ‘You like Hugh, don’t you?’ her father said suddenly. Sara averted her face. ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘That sounds as if you have reservations about him.’ Then: ‘We’re coming to a bend. Do I have to do anything except steer around it?’

  ‘It’s a long bend. You’ll have to let out more sheet as you turn it. A little at a time in this case. Keep the sail at about the same angle the burgee makes. Hugh is inclined to be domineering and has very strong opinions about certain things.’

  ‘Really? Didn’t you say he was some kind of naturalist? Birds and bees and that sort of thing?’

  His casual tone somehow put her on the defensive on Hugh’s behalf. Without thinking about it, she eulogized Hugh at some length. She spoke of the way in which he had come to her assistance with her puncture and how interesting he had been when they chanced to meet in Cromer. She laughed when she described how she had seen him fall from a tree and had been sure he was badly hurt.

  As she was talking, unburdening herself of her thoughts, she pulled up the deep collar of her coat and slewed sideways on her seat to dodge the cutting edge of the wind. Unconsciously she noticed that the bank in her view seemed to be sliding past at a good pace. Then a very ugly corrugated-iron hut standing on short stilts came into view, and just beyond it was a white-painted yacht with a very tall mast.

  Sara stopped speaking and leaned forward for a moment. Then she gave an exclamation.

  ‘That’s Hugh’s yacht. Isn’t she just beautiful? Oh—Rosamond! That’s the first time I’ve seen her name. I wonder why he called her that?’

  ‘Maybe after some girl. Hey, how in heck do I stop this thing?’ he cried suddenly.

  Sara started from her thoughts. The river was now very narrow and a cruiser coming towards them seemed to be practically filling the waterway ahead. She flung her slight weight against her father’s arm to put the tiller hard over and at the same time tried to pull the main-sheet from his grasp. But the rope was twisted about his hand and it was seconds before it ran freely through the pulley blocks. In that short space of time the yacht turned a full half circle, the boom full out headed straight for the Rosamond.

  Sara gave a cry of alarm and swung the tiller in the opposite direction and held it there with her hip. At the same time she hauled in yards and yards of main sheet to bring the boom inboard. There was a moment when collision seemed inevitable, then the yacht turned on a new tack towards the opposite bank, heeling so steeply that one gunwale was under water.

  Easing both sheet and rudder, Sara steadied the craft and handed the tiller to her father.

  ‘I think we’ll head back to the boatyard,’ she said weakly.

  He did not speak for a few seconds, then he gave her shoulder a little pat.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Sara. What should I have done?’

  ‘I wasn’t very sure at the time, but I am now. We could have come right about very easily. Hugh did tell me that if you had a yacht going very fast you could almost turn it in its own length.’

  ‘Shouldn’t that cruiser have done something towards avoiding a collision?’

  ‘By the rules, yes. Power must always give way to sail, but that’s the cruiser I told you about, and the couple aboard, as well as being novices, are too much in love to think of that.’

  She glanced back and saw the cruiser had stopped and that the very amateur skipper was making fast to an overhanging tree branch.

  ‘I suppose you’ve just about had enough of sailing after that excitement?’ her father asked wistfully.

  She sensed his disappointment and temporized, ‘We need some lunch, you know, and Ted did say we should have a reef put in the sail by the afternoon. Let’s see what the weather is like when those two items are dealt with.’

  ‘Of course. I must learn how to roof. I don’t see it starting to blow hard, though, from the look of the sky.’

  ‘No. I suppose Ted could be wrong,’ she said absently.

  She was thinking of what he had said about the name of Hugh’s yacht. Rosamond. Had he named it after some girl? Or woman—the one he was in love with? There was almost sure to be someone in his life—someone special. Someone who was all the things she herself was not.

  In an effort to put an end to such thoughts she glanced at her father. His face was alive with delight in a way which she had never seen before. She was realizing more every minute how constricted their lives were in London. A restless energetic routine which was the same on each and every day with the exception of Sundays. And on that day, according to the weather, one either sank into a semi-coma or made a frenzied rush to the country or seaside. If only they could both settle permanently at Fenchurch Mill!

  But it was impossible. In any case, endless enjoyment only resulted in boredom. One had to work—have something to live for.

  Sara had become so sunk in her thoughts that she was startled when her father called to her that they had arrived at the boatyard.

  ‘What’s the best way of coming alongside?’

  She stepped quickly aft and gave a glance at the burgee.

  ‘Over to the right-hand bank, Father. Pass the yard, then turn right around.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better take over.’

  She laughed, ‘You mean display my superior knowledge? Go on. My experience is very little more than your own.’

  ‘Yes, but you did have expert tuition. However, here goes.’

  The yacht passed the end of the boatyard quay and Eric Seymour put the tiller hard over, making the craft heel so steeply that Sara nearly slid off her seat. She stopped an exclamation of alarm as boom and sail slammed viciously from port to starboard and managed to speak in a controlled voice.

  ‘Let the sheet run out, Father.’

  He let the rope run through his fingers and almost instantly the yacht came upright and slackened speed. Within a few seconds it had almost stopped.

  Eric Seymour gave a gasp of relief. ‘Phew! I thought we were going to capsize then. My mind and hands seemed absolutely paralysed. You took it pretty calmly, though.’

  ‘Did I?’

  Sara was coming out of a mental daze. It seemed to her that Hugh, using her voice, had given the order to let the mainsheet run free. He had told her that when in any kind of trouble with a yacht, the first essential was to let the sails have their freedom, but she was sure her own mind was not working when she had given the instruction.

  The yacht moved sluggishly in the right direction and a few seconds later they were moored. Sara stepped ashore and Peter informed them that Ted Barker had had to go out and that he was to instruct them in the business of putting a reef in the sail.

  While the youth was lowering the boom into a wooden scissors device he called crutches, Sara became aware of how much the wind had strengthened and how gusty it was. She asked Peter if it was likely to become gale force, but he shook his head.

  ‘No, miss. No more than brisk.’

  He showed them how to reduce the sail area by what was known as putting in a reef.

  Eric Seymour made the lashings in a satisfactory manner and also made a very neat roll with the part of the sail that would not now be in use. Sara watched the process and was easily able to understand it, but part of her attention was wandering. She wanted to know as much as possible about sailing, but had no yearning to do it alone—no feeling that she wanted to be the skipper. It was Hugh’s hand she wante
d to be on the tiller, watching the burgee, setting the sail.

  She pulled herself together fiercely. What a ridiculous, outmoded way of thinking! Men and women should be partners.

  The sail was being hoisted again and she could see from the quick movements of her father that he was anxious to be away. She stepped on board, leaving the casting off to her father and Peter, when she remembered it was time for lunch. She stepped ashore again.

  ‘Father—lunch. I’ll take the launch and pick you up at the end of the dyke. I don’t think we could get the yacht along it in its present state.’

  ‘All right, but make it something simple. I don’t want to waste a moment of this glorious weather.’

  She smiled, ‘Coffee and sandwiches, then.’

  Sara walked to the launch and was getting into it when Peter ran after her and handed her a foolscap envelope.

  ‘I nearly forgot to give you this.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s anything of importance, but thanks just the same.’

  Not able to get at the pocket of her coat because of her lifejacket, Sara tucked the letter down the front of the garment. She left the quay and quickly overhauled her father.

  ‘Want a tow?’ she called out.

  ‘You keep your noisy, smelly thing out of my way.’

  She laughed and went ahead, then waited for him at the end of the dyke. As she stopped her engine and looped the bow line over a small tree branch she noticed it was not quite so sunny. She looked up at the sky and saw heavy cloud was building in the north. Then, apparently from the clear sky right overhead, hailstones fell and rattled like stones on the tiny foredeck of the launch.