Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  She shone the torch around and saw, right in the point at the front, some dark material folded under a lobster pot. She crawled forward and pulled the material out. It was a sack. Under it was another. She went on pulling until she had four. She crawled back and put two over Peter.

  Now the old man. He must be on the right-hand side somewhere. She was still blinded from using the torch and waited until her eyes readjusted to the darkness. Then she saw him: a dark shape huddled under the steep side of the boat. She went over and knelt down beside him.

  He was very still. She asked tentatively, ‘Are you all right?’

  Silence. Julie reached out and touched his arm.

  There was a slight moan. She thought: Thank goodness, at least he’s alive! ‘Are you all right?’ she repeated.

  ‘Eh? Oh …’ The old man’s voice was low, rough. ‘Oh … Yes, yes … I’m all right.’ He tried to laugh. ‘I’m just not as young as I used to be, that’s all!’

  ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m so sorry!’

  ‘No, no, dear girl. Please … please don’t apologise. I only wish I could help you. I’m of no use at all, I’m afraid. Perhaps later …’ His voice was weak now, and breathless.

  ‘No, you just stay there and rest. Don’t worry about me. Honestly, I can manage! Here—’ She put the two sacks over him. ‘Are you comfortable here, or would you like to go up to the front? It’s a bit more sheltered there.’

  ‘No, thank you so much. I’m all right … Thank you.’ There was a loud slap: a wave against the side. Julie said sharply, ‘I must go now – back to the steering … Just shout if you need me.’

  And then she was gone. David pulled the sacks more tightly round his legs and wished he didn’t feel so ill. He closed his eyes and leant his head back against the side. Immediately, he felt disorientated and his head began to swim. He opened his eyes again. The boat was rocking gently from side to side. If it went on rocking, he thought grimly, he would be sick.

  He burped slightly and felt a pang of acid in his stomach. So he was to suffer that too! His stomach chose its moments very well.

  He closed his eyes and tentatively let his head fall to one side. He decided he would be more comfortable lying down. Taking the bag from round his waist, he felt in it and found his tablets. He took one and, putting the bag on the deck, lay down with his head on it. Yes: that was better. He didn’t feel so sick, lying down. He might even be able to sleep.

  He would feel better later. Then he would give Julie a hand.

  Julie untied the tiller and brought the boat back on course. Almost immediately she sighed with annoyance: she’d forgotten to get a sweater. But perhaps it wasn’t necessary; it didn’t seem quite so cold as before … Then she remembered that awful time on the fishing boat, and something Richard had said, about cold being the greatest danger of all, much more dangerous than the waves themselves, and she retied the tiller and set off towards the front.

  Her bag was beside Peter, right up under the deck. She supposed Michel had put it there in case it rained. She undid the strap and felt around until she found the thick wool sweater. She took off the cowjacket, pulled the sweater on, and put the cowjacket back over the top. She felt warmer already. There was a scarf in the bag too; she rummaged around, found it, and tied it round her head.

  Peter was sleeping peacefully. She went straight back to the tiller. When she shone the torch on the compass she almost laughed: the course had settled on NxW. She decided to leave the boat sailing by itself; the course was a good one and much steadier than anything she could achieve.

  She sat on the helmsman’s seat and tried to think. How far was it across the Channel? She had no idea. How long would it take to get across? She had no idea of that either.

  Brilliant!

  Try again. It must be at least a hundred miles across the Channel – perhaps even two hundred. Say a hundred and fifty. How fast were they going? Goodness only knew! It felt as if the boat was going quite fast – perhaps fifteen miles an hour. No: on second thoughts, that was quite a rate. What was walking speed? Five miles an hour, four? A bit faster than that, say six then.

  Six miles an hour. A hundred and fifty miles. Mental arithmetic: always one of her worst subjects at school. Sixes into one hundred and fifty …

  Eventually she got there: twenty-five. Of course. Six twenty-fives made a hundred and fifty.

  Twenty-five hours then, call it twenty-four.

  Immediately she felt depressed.

  It was a dreadfully long time. A whole day out in the middle of the sea, a day when they would be exposed like a goldfish in a bowl. There were bound to be German patrols … aircraft …

  If they survived the day, then there’d be most of the next night, a night when the land would be getting closer and closer, rushing towards them. How on earth would she know where it was, the land? And how would she know when the boat was about to crash into it?

  I can’t do this, she thought, I just can’t do it!

  Silently she began to cry, the tears hot on her cheeks. It was all such a mess, the whole dreadful thing. Everyone at the village caught and dead or more probably tortured. Richard a prisoner. And here – Peter and the old man relying on her, probably the most incompetent person in the world!

  Angrily, she wiped the tears away. Whatever happened, crying wouldn’t do any good.

  Later, she realised a long time must have passed – several hours at least. Apart from shining the torch on the compass from time to time she stared ahead into the darkness, her mind half on what had happened at the beach, half on the nightmare she was living through now. One event seemed to lead on from the other, in a horrible dreamlike way.

  For a while she dozed, perched uneasily on the seat, terrible pictures drifting in and out of her mind, the beach and the boat blending into a terrible fantasy of water and blazing lights and anger and suffering. The Germans were taking everyone away … Jean, Tante Marie, and Peter, even Peter—

  Suddenly she was awake.

  She looked blindly around, wondering what had woken her. The boat was still sailing along, the water hissing and gurgling past the hull. But the sky was different. It was clearer now: there were stars, thousands of them, carpeting the sky so that the sail stood out black against them. But there was something else and she couldn’t place it. She shone the light at the compass. NW – North-west. The course had changed a little. But was that it? No.

  Then she had it. The wind, it was much fresher. She felt it cold against her face, pulling at her scarf. A muted fluttering sound came from above, like a thousand birds beating their wings. Now and then there was the creaking of wood against wood.

  Yes, there was more wind. She could feel it now, in the motion of the boat. The movements were much quicker than before and, instead of rocking gently from side to side, the craft was tilted stiffly over at a slight angle, its nose going down and up, down and up, like a rocking horse.

  The bow hit a wave with a crump! and Julie realised that it was the sound which had woken her. A fine spray floated back on the air and drifted onto her face. Shaking slightly, she shone the light at the compass again. Still north-west, but tending to veer off towards the west. Not good enough. She untied the tiller and moved it until the compass read nearer to North.

  Immediately the fluttering sound changed to a flapping and there was a fierce rattling as something close to Julie’s head started to shake angrily.

  She yanked the tiller back the other way. The flapping stopped, but when she looked at the compass the course was back west of North-West. Michel had specifically said she must steer between north-north-west and north-east. She was definitely outside that.

  What should she do? She gripped the tiller, undecided. She could leave the boat on this course – but that must be wrong. The sails, then, she should stop them flapping. But how?

  She tried bringing the boat back onto a northerly course once more, but the flapping started again, louder than ever. ‘Damn!’ She qu
ickly pulled the tiller the other way. The flapping stopped. She breathed out sharply.

  She stayed at the tiller steering north-west for a long time, frozen with indecision. She should do something to the sails – she knew that much – but what? And if she didn’t – God, she’d probably miss England altogether.

  Impossible.

  Because there was nothing else to do, she held the northwesterly course, thinking all the time: I’m failing! Miserably failing!

  Perhaps if she held on, perhaps the wind would change …

  A long time passed. Dimly she realised that she could see the side of the boat stretching away from her. When she looked again the bow itself was there, a faint black smudge against grey. Then the sea itself – waves; she could see waves like the ripples on an iced cake, but grey and murky. To the right, a thin line of pale white light appeared, stretching across the horizon from side to side; with a slight shock, Julie realised it was the horizon. The white light filtered gradually up into the sky, turning a delicate crystal yellow, the colour of pale primrose. One by one the stars disappeared until the sky became a clear unbroken dome over her head.

  Dawn. It had come too soon.

  Instinctively, Julie looked behind, but she could see nothing – it was still too dark. She looked again a few minutes later. It was difficult to tell: the grey area between the sea and the sky was too indistinct.

  Half an hour later the southern horizon was visible, a grey line behind the boat. She looked carefully: there was no land in sight. They were clear of the coast, then. That was something at least.

  Then, as she looked at the vast expanse of water appearing around her, stretching out barren and cold in every direction, she didn’t feel so glad. It looked enormous.

  Up in the front Peter’s figure was clearly visible, curled up under the sacks. He was sleeping soundly. So was the old man, over on the right-hand side, against the side of the boat. Good. There was no point in everyone being tired.

  Wearily, Julie looked at the compass, visible now in the grey light. Still North-west. Still the wrong course.

  She should do something about it …

  She stayed frozen at the tiller a moment longer then made herself stand up. Time to get going.

  She said out loud, ‘Right!’ Gritting her teeth, she tied up the tiller and eyed the ropes that were coiled or fastened at various points round the boat. There were two sails. The first, a big sail, almost square, was fastened to the mast on its front edge, to a long wooden pole on its lower edge and to another, shorter, pole high up on its top edge. The fourth – back – edge wasn’t fastened to anything. Up in front of the mast, there was another, smaller sail, triangular and attached to a sharp piece of wood that stuck out in front of the boat. She remembered: the piece of wood was called a bowsprit.

  The big sail first. There was one rope which seemed to make the sail go in or out. The rope wound back and forth between wooden pulleys. She wasn’t sure why – to make things easier perhaps.

  The rope was tied off round a wooden anchor thing – was it called a fastener? Tentatively she reached forward and began to untie the rope. She paused, her heart hammering against her chest, then, very slowly, began to take off the last turn.

  Suddenly there was an almighty jerk and the rope almost flew out of her hands. She cried out and, holding on grimly, tried to get a second turn of rope back onto the anchor-fastener. As she moved her hands the rope jerked out, pulling her knuckle sharply against the hard wood of the fastener. She gasped out in pain.

  God, the pain!

  She let go.

  The rope whistled out from the coil, snaking up angrily towards the sail. The next moment there was a thunderous noise: the racket of beating canvas and rattling pulleys. Julie looked up. The sail had gone mad; it was beating itself about in a frenzy, girating back and forth until the whole boat vibrated.

  Julie stared, aghast.

  What now?

  She put her hands over her ears, to cut out the dreadful noise, and looked round in desperation.

  There was still some rope left in the coil; it hadn’t all run out. Shaking like a leaf, she reached down and picked up the rope and, cautiously, began to pull in on it.

  ‘Mummy!’

  Julie spun round. Peter was standing beside her, rubbing his eyes, and looking curiously up at the sail. ‘Mummy, shouldn’t we pull it in?’

  Julie stared at him and shook her head. Then, trying to smile, said wearily, ‘Yes, Peter, we should.’

  ‘I’ll help you, then!’ He was shouting to make himself heard over the thrashing of the sail.

  ‘Don’t you dare touch it!’ Julie screamed. ‘Just – leave it!’

  There was no reply and, looking down, she saw that he was looking hurt and shame-faced. She sighed, ‘Sorry, I’m just tired, sweetheart, that’s all. I’ll be all right in a moment.’ She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and said ruefully, ‘The trouble is, I don’t know how to get the sail in.’

  ‘You put the rope under the cleat.’

  ‘The cleat?’

  ‘Yes.’ Peter pointed at the wooden anchor-fastener thing. ‘That’s what it’s called – a cleat. Richard told me. And I know you put the ropes round it to take the strain. That’s what he said …’ He trailed off.

  ‘Thank you, darling!’ She almost kissed him. ‘Let’s have a go then!’ She picked up the rope and, with Peter tugging rather ineffectually behind, began to pull. Soon the rope was jerking in her hands. She leant down and slid the rope under the lower arm of the cleat. Alternately she pulled and rested, letting the cleat take the strain of the rope. The clattering of the sail lessened slightly.

  Then she had the idea of standing on the other side of the deck, so that the rope was doubled back from the cleat. It was a great improvement: the rope seemed less inclined to jerk out of her hands.

  The pull on the rope became much stronger and, though she put her full weight against it, she couldn’t get it in any further. She rested for a moment, panting.

  Suddenly the noise got much worse again. Julie looked up, bewildered, then realised the rope had gone almost limp in her hand. She pulled wildly, gathering in great lengths of it, until she could pull no more. Quickly, she tied the rope off round the cleat.

  The noise stopped; the sail was full again. She waited. After a few moments the flapping started again. Quickly she pulled in on the rope.

  She looked up at the sail: it was almost tight in!

  Elated, she tied off the rope securely and looked at the compass. North by West – or thereabouts! And the sail full: a miracle.

  How it had happened she had no idea. Then the flapping started again and she saw that the tiller had become untied. Perhaps that was something to do with it.

  She took hold of the tiller, put the boat back on course, and grinned at Peter. What did it matter how it had happened? She’d got the sail in and the boat on course.

  She went forward and hunted for the rope that controlled the other, smaller, sail at the front. She found it and, eyeing the sail with trepidation, undid the rope. It didn’t have nearly so much pull on it and she was able to haul it in quite easily.

  Returning to the tiller she undid the lines that tied it and said gaily to Peter, ‘I’ll make a sailor yet!’

  The child smiled back and, coming to her side, put his hand in hers. ‘Mummy, I’m hungry. Is there any breakfast?’

  Julie’s heart sank. Breakfast. She’d never thought of breakfast. Her smile vanished. Had Michel said anything about food? Water, yes, he’d definitely mentioned that. But food? No.

  She sighed. How did one tell a six-year-old that there was nothing to eat? She said softly, ‘There isn’t any breakfast, darling. Sorry.’ She took a deep breath. ‘We’re going to have to go without until we get to England. Sorry.’ She squeezed his hand.

  ‘Without – anything?’ The voice was small and subdued.

  Julie looked away and tried to sound brisk and matter-of-fact. ‘Without anything. We finished all the fo
od when we were on the beach, remember?’

  ‘Perhaps there’s some on the boat somewhere …’

  She sighed. It was very unlikely. ‘Perhaps. Why don’t you go and have a look, eh?’

  He nodded brightly and, dropping to his knees, started rooting around in the large box where Julie had found the torch.

  It would, at least, keep him busy for a while.

  A movement caught her eye: the old man was leaning over the side of the boat, his head down, as if staring at the water. For a moment Julie couldn’t think what he was doing then she heard a faint retching sound and looked quickly away.

  She’d quite forgotten about being sick. Extraordinary. She couldn’t understand why it hadn’t happened to her.

  There was a crump! from the bow and a thin veil of spray came flying back into her face. More wind: definitely more wind. The tiller felt different in her hand: it was moving of its own accord and she had to push harder to get the boat back on course. The boat was going faster, too, haring along like the wind. Perhaps her calculations had been wrong; perhaps they’d get to England before nightfall. The idea of more wind made her very nervous but it might be a blessing after all.

  There was a whoop from the front. Julie tensed. Peter’s face appeared round the mast, waving madly. She frowned. What on earth was he so excited about?

  He emerged, holding a bag, and weaved his way back down the boat. He dumped the bag at her feet in triumph. ‘Food!’ he yelped.

  Julie blinked. ‘Food?’

  ‘Yes, tins, Mummy! Cans of fish and beef and potatoes and petit pois and …’

  ‘Goodness gracious me!’ She stared in astonishment as Peter opened the bag to reveal the cans, about ten of them, a little rusty but obviously quite usable. The whole thing was odd enough – Michel having this boat – but the food … A thought came to Julie and suddenly she understood everything.

  This boat was for Michel’s escape. He’d planned it all – bought the boat, prepared it, put the food on board, even worked out the course for England. He’d planned it all – and then given the boat to her.