Emma Tupper's Diary

by Peter Dickinson

  Anadyomene, brave absurdity, had stood up well to being dived on. The arch of fibreglass, that had seemed so lifelike until Emma had seen the real thing, rose above her, horribly tattered over one eye by the rough passage into the cave. Emma switched on the other torch and played both beams round the hull while Andy strove and contrived with the batteries. It took him some time, and all the while the yelling tore at her ears. Then he unbolted the fibreglass head and cut a big V-shaped notch in its neck with a saw, snipping through the supporting frame with wire-cutters. He judged it just right, so that by pressing the sides of the V together he was able to cram the fibreglass down, head-first, through the hatch. At last he stood up and made signs to Emma; with a shaking hand she threw him the larger torch, which he caught easily; then, while he slid its beam to and fro over the water she lowered herself down the mooring rope, stepped on to the deck and slipped into the hatch. The air inside was unbelievably bad.

  The hull rocked as Andy cut the taut rope. The hatch clicked above her in the sudden silence—a silence, after that noise, as thick and heavy as deafness. She shook her head as though her ears were full of water. Then a strangeness struck her.

  “Why don’t you turn the light on?” she said, as she watched Andy kneel by torchlight and begin to measure the cables for the batteries. He shook his head.

  “No go,” he said. “The batteries are dead—I tried ’em. You and Roddy put such a strain on them that a couple of cells must have gone phut—I told you they were on their last legs and searchlights eat juice—and since then the rest of the cells have simply been shorting out through the dud ones. I don’t like it. We’ve got twenty-four volts in the batteries I’ve brought, which would have done us with the bit of juice left in the old ones, but without that . . . Ah well, we’ll just have to see.”

  Emma settled back in her chair and thought. She didn’t like it either. Above all terrors she feared most the thought of getting stuck under the ledge of rock, as they had seemed to be the night before. To sit there in this bronze coffin, with the warm springs drifting past them and at night the creatures going out and in . . .

  “Well, we’ll give it a go,” said Andy. “We can always go back and say sorry. Cousin Emma, you asked me what I’m afraid of, the way Roddy’s afraid of climbing down. I’ll tell you, I’m afraid of making a fool of myself in public, that’s what. Ready, motor on.”

  “How fast?”

  “Won’t make much difference. If you put it to full we’ll still go slow.”

  The blue spark looked all right, but the engine-note climbed painfully slowly from its bass grind, and began to level off when it was nowhere near its proper hum.

  “Motor off,” snapped Andy. “I don’t like it. Finn’s going to get the frogmen up from Helensburgh if we’re not out by six. but even if they come by helicopter they won’t be here before nine. We won’t last that long in this air. OK, we’ll go back and face the music. The monster will fail to surface, and we’ll leave the telly-folk with a mystery.”

  A mystery was the last thing Emma wanted.

  “Andy?”

  “Yeah?

  “I was thinking just now, while you were connecting the batteries. The hot springs are in the cave, but their water gets out into the loch. There must be a current, and it must go through the slit. If you’ve got enough juice to circle round to the right place, I don’t see why we shouldn’t just drift out. If we’re cunning with the pumps, I mean, and submerge just far enough. We pumped ourselves up and down several times last night, but the head kept catching before the current had time to move us.”

  Andy thought about it.

  “OK,” he said at last. “We’ll submerge here, using the stopcocks, because that means I’ll be able to see a bit, and besides this hull’s got less resistance under water. Then I’ll try and take us round till we’re a few feet away from the entrance, and if we decide we’re not drifting fast enough we can surface. You prepared to risk it?”

  “Yes,” whispered Emma.

  “OK. Flood tanks for ten . . . Off . . . Level OK? . . . two strokes on the pumps . . . Motor on . . . whoops, she’s a sow at this speed, don’t bother with the hydroplanes, they won’t bite . . . motor off . . . hydroplanes full up, hard! . . . ease them slowly back . . . good girl. Right, what’s happening? I think we’re moving, a bit sideways, but you can’t have everything . . . Two on the pumps. . . We’re in!”

  It took them thirty-seven minutes by Andy’s watch to drift the few yards under the curtain of rock. They scraped, at different times, both top and bottom, but never both together; they never quite achieved the exact balance between floating and sinking—even half a stroke on the pumps was enough to make the difference—so they were endlessly busy with tiny adjustments; the air became so bad that Emma found herself constantly yawning, and not with tiredness, though she was tired enough in all conscience. After a while she was able to see the rock roof drift by through her own observation port, now that it was no longer hidden by the beast’s neck; she looked for the ridge on which they had snagged last night, but couldn’t see it. And then, heavy and staggering, she was shoving the pump levers to and fro. The light through the glass became a blaze of day. The hatch was open, the sweet air of late afternoon pouring in and Roddy was calling the news of the telly-folks’ deception from the deck of the launch.

  Finn and Mary had moved every scrap of Emma’s belongings out of her room to make way for Mr McTurdle. Emma staggered up to Andy Coaches’ flat above the old stables, where Mrs Andy (who spoke no English at all) smiled happily at the few words of Gaelic which Caitlin had taught Emma, gave her a high tea, and put her to bed. She slept for fourteen hours.

  And then, after sneaking through the heavenly-smelling pinewoods to the bay beyond the point, she was again encased in the bronze bubble, again turning taps, shoving at pump-levers, starting the motor, listening to Ewan muttering over his stop-watch and compass, wondering whether he would notice any difference about the way the boat was running, with the tail so much more buoyant than it was supposed to be. She thought that all that would happen was that they would emerge from the water a bit short of their target area, because the extra tilt of the hydroplanes to keep the boat level would increase its water resistance. On the other hand she had risked a notch more engine-speed than usual, to make up for it, and the bubble in the tube was reasonably obedient. Her mouth was very dry, and she gulped nervously, not at the idea of danger but like going on stage in front of the whole school for the Form Plays. If it didn’t work she would simply seek out this Mr Gritt and show him Anadyomene and tell him the whole story.

  “Ah, well,” said Ewan at last. “I’m not very fond of Glasgow folk. Up we go, Miss Emma.”

  Emma thought of the group on the shore, poised and waiting, all eyes straining for the wrong place because the McAndrews thought it would look better if one of the cameramen or someone noticed the surge of the repaired head out of the water before it had to be pointed out to them. Ewan would now be peering through his slot, tense for the moment when water became air and they had to level out before the hull showed; she allowed the bubble in the tube to creep aft.

  “We’re up,” he said, and paused. “But it’s a queer thing, we’re a wee bit short. Maybe those other batteries haven’t the power in them.” (All the McAndrews knew that Roddy and Emma had taken Anadyomene out at night, got her stuck, and then run out of electricity. There was no need to tell them about the cave or the creatures.)

  Firmly Emma pulled the hydroplane lever towards her and with her other hand slowed the motor—the last thing she wanted was to force the submarine into a dive.

  “The motor doesn’t sound too good,” she said loudly, hoping to excuse and at the same time cover the change of note. “I hope it’ll be strong enough to get us home, Ewan. . .”

  Now, she said to herself. Now! Happen!

  “There’s a queer thing,” began Ewan, when it happened.

  She had heard it before—the hull juddering and groaning
as the engine slowed. Emma flung the control into neutral and collapsed in her seat, panting as though she’d climbed a hill.

  “There’s a thing,” said Ewan. “What do you fancy made that happen?

  “We’ve caught the propeller in the tail,” said Emma. “Andy did it once, so it’s not your fault.”

  (And that was true.)

  “I was beginning to think we were sitting queerly. Had you been looking at the level?”

  “No. Sorry. I don’t have to when we’re on the surface. What shall we do now?”

  “Shall we be submerging, do you think?”

  “No thank you!” said Emma. “Over the gulf, with no engine! The whole joke’s over, I’m afraid. It’s a pity—it was a good joke, but not worth drowning for.”

  “Agreed,” said Ewan solemnly. “Shall we pump her twenty, then. My, but there’s the launch coming out—will you face them first, Miss Emma? Mr Andy will not be very pleased with . . .”

  “No,” said Emma, “why should I—I’m not even a McAndrew. You go first. You’re grown up.”

  “You do not think the television men would prefer to see a pretty lassie’s face coming out?”

  “No, I don’t. Talk to them in the Gaelic and perhaps they’ll still think you’re a monster of a sort.” She sounded as sulky as she could. The important thing was to get Ewan’s head out of the hatch while she opened the stop-cocks to blow the tanks level. She had managed to sneak a few missed strokes into her pumping, but not nearly enough to compensate for the buoyancy already there. If Andy found the craft trimmed like this when he got her to shore, he’d know just what had happened.

  The noise of water rippling faintly along the hull changed to the underwater drub of the launch’s engine.

  “Ah well,” said Ewan again, sheepish with shyness. The hull rocked with the coming of the launch, and rocked again as Ewan stood on his seat to raise the hatch. The bronze bubble flooded with lovely sunlight, blocked out as Ewan’s big shoulders went through the hatch. Emma suddenly realised that in five minutes she would never need to sit in this trap again. With a sigh of pleasure she crept aft to the stop-cocks.

  Then everything changed.

  Anadyomene shook and plunged, as she had when the creature had dived on her in the cave. The hull tilted with a roaring noise, Emma lost her footing and tumbled back to her chair; a huge cold force was pouring over her, pinning her in; it was dark. She heard the after batteries crash loose on her right . . .

  The drill which her dread had practised ordered her hands. Without thought she scrabbled the catch up and wrenched at the little wheel; it was stiff, but moved; she flung all her strength into turning it, once round, twice, three times. Something gave, and outside the hull she heard one dull clunk.

  She knelt on the now horizontal back of her seat and let her breath go. She was kneeling in water. She had been turning the wheel under water. The water was not coming up. Her ears were not popping with increased pressure. If they were still sinking, they were not sinking fast. Perhaps, with the weight released, they were even going up. Anadyomene was a bronze bubble, and now it was half-full of water. It was poised in the loch, with the hatch open, bows downward, with a pocket of air trapped in the stern end; Emma was kneeling on the back of a chair, breathing that air.

  If the hull was now floating up, she must stay where she was until it reached the surface. It might start to tilt there, in which case she must scramble out as best she could before more water started to crash in as the pocket of air escaped. If the hull was sinking, she must go now.

  She knew she would never make it. She was not a good enough swimmer. So they would have to be going up—it was the only hope.

  As she poised herself to be ready for the first sign of tilting, she saw below her in the water the faint round of the hatch, lit by the sun outside, seeping through the water. Something touched the hull beside her, but she paid no attention—she would be able to tell whether she was floating or sinking by whether that round got lighter or darker.

  It got darker. Suddenly. Blanked out. The water gurgled beside her.

  “Emma darling,” said a gasping voice.

  “I’m here.”

  “Oh, super. We thought you might . . . they’ve got her by the tail, but it’s almost pulling the launch under. Quick. I can’t take you out through that hole, both together. You’ll have to pull yourself out and then I’ll take you up, but you’ll have to be quick, or I won’t have any breath left. Hurry! Something’s happened!”

  Emma too had felt the jerk. She look one big breath, leaned down into the water, twisting sideways, grasped the edge of the hatch and pulled herself violently down. As she was trying to kick herself through from the top of the chair, something grasped at her hair and pulled; a bubble flooded from her lips, the pain in her scalp stopped and there were hands under her shoulders and her chest was rasping against the hatchway, then her thighs. By an effort of will she forced herself into limpness and began to count. Count and lie still in the heavy, drumming redness. Still. Count. If you can reach thirty you can reach forty. Emma! In the redness. In the blackness . . .

  Tock went the drugged woodpecker. Clack, it snicked. Clack. Tock. Emma opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling of her room in The Huts. Her throat was sore, and her chest felt as though someone had been leaning on it with enormous weights.

  Clack. Tock. Suddenly the sounds made sense.

  “Miss Newcombe.”

  She tried to call the name but only managed a harsh whisper. Carefully she worked the saliva up in her mouth, swallowed it, waited on the rhythm of the clicks, and tried again.

  “Miss Newcombe!”

  A chair shuffled, and then the gold head poked through her window.

  “Was that you calling, darling? I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

  “It’s all right,” said Emma huskily. “Ask him to come home. Tell him it’s important. Urgent. I heard you writing your letter.”

  “Urgent?” said Miss Newcombe eagerly.

  “Yes.”

  “Really urgent?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got a telegram, you see. It says ‘Come home. Urgent.’ And his address. He gave it to me before he left. Is it urgent enough for that?”

  “I think so.”

  “Oh, super. I’ll drive into Mallaig and send it, and that means I needn’t write this beastly letter. Are you sure it’s all right? He won’t be angry about being taken away from his beetles?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Super.”

  Emma shut her eyes.

  “Emma, darling,” whispered the delicious voice, as though it were afraid to wake her.

  “Ung?”

  “People . . . when they’ve . . . saved people’s lives . . . they’re allowed to ask people . . . for things . . . I-hope-you-don’t-mind.”

  “I haven’t got very much,” said Emma through her scraping throat. “But I’ll give it all to you. All.”

  “Oh I don’t mean that sort of thing. People are always giving me that sort of thing. But will you go on calling me Miss Newcombe? That’s what I like. Nobody else does that. Nobody. Not counting magistrates.”

  “I’ll make up for them all.”

  “Super. I’ll go and send the telegram.”

  Yes, thought Emma, listening drowsily to the feet scampering across the hessian matting of the verandah. It’s like being called Cousin Emma all the time, instead of just Emma, to remind you that you don’t really belong. Even by Finn.

  Finn was her next visitor. It must have been hours later, because the light was different.

  “Good-oh,” she said as she edged through the door. “I’ve got a present for you, but I couldn’t give it you while the boys were here and I didn’t want to wake you up.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Putting a sort of door into Darwin’s Pimple and measuring how much ladder they’ll need to reach the bottom of the drop. They want to hold a press conference, but the business this mornin
g has slightly queered their pitch with the news media. Here’s your present.”

  She tossed a flat, round tin on to the bed, then settled herself at the foot of it nursing in her lap a black, tubular, many-knobbed gadget. Part of one of her cameras, Emma thought.

  “You’ll have to explain,” she said. “Nobody’s told me what happened. Where are the TV people? What happened to Anadyomene?”

  “Anna sank,” said Finn. “She’s in the gulf. It was all Mr McTurdle’s fault, jumping on to the hull to give the cameras a funny shot, when Andy kept shouting to him not to. That shoved the nose under and she started to fill, and the more she filled the quicker she went; Ewan nipped out, but the telly-folk were all busy rescuing that fat oaf McTurdle, and everybody was shouting. But Roddy caught hold of the tail, and that started to pull the launch under, and then it eased—Andy thought you’d got the weight off. . .”

  “Yes.”

  “And there we were. You weren’t very far down, but it was ages before the telly-folk grasped that there was somebody still down there, because they were all in such furious tempers with each other. We could actually see Anna hanging there, so Poop undressed and went down to investigate, and we saw her go into the hatch, and then the tail broke. I was sick, literally sick. I vomited. But she got you out. We saw you both coming up long after we couldn’t see Anna any more. You were like a corpse, and even Poop was more dead than alive. And do you know, all this time both cameras, the one on the shore and the one on the launch, never stopped filming—just as though it was a sort of play which would all come all right in the end.”