Floodtide

by Judy Nunn

  'Yes, she'd like that, I'm sure.' Ian picked up his chicken sandwich. 'So you graduated from Scotch College like your dad, did you?' he asked before biting into it.

  Mike found Ian's knowledge of his dad a bit suspect – the bloke seemed to be trying too hard to make an impression. Christ, he thought, I hope he's not queer.

  'No, Perth Mod,' he said rather abruptly.

  'Oh.' Ian was surprised. A government scholarship school, he hadn't expected that. He associated Mod with a rather motley crew. Perhaps he'd made the wrong choice, after all. He'd decided to select his friends with care.

  'What about you?' Mike asked.

  'Guildford Grammar.'

  'Ah.' Mike wondered whether that explained Ian Pemberton's arrogance. He'd heard the Guildford Grammar blokes were up themselves.

  It wasn't the most auspicious of beginnings.

  'I met a bloke whose mum went to uni with you,' Mike said to his dad over dinner that night.

  'Oh, and who would that be?' Jim asked.

  'Her name was Cynthia Randall.'

  His father looked blank.

  'One of your conquests?' Maggie asked with a smile. She hadn't known her husband during his uni days, but she was aware that he'd been quite a lad. 'Don't gobble, Jools,' she said admonishingly. Eager to leave the table, Jools was scoffing down her casserole at a rate of knots.

  'Cynthia Randall.' Jim gave it a second or two of thought, then shrugged. 'Never heard of her,' he said.

  'She's Pemberton now. Her son's called Ian.'

  'Pemberton.' Jim knew the name. 'Gordon Pemberton owns Trusan.' Trusan was a custom-built, forty-foot luxury yacht that sailed out of Royal Freshwater Bay Yacht Club. Designed as much for pleasure as she was for racing, she was much admired in boating circles.

  'Does he?' Mike asked, surprised. 'I thought Vic Nelson did.'

  'No, Vic just skippers her.' Jim grinned. 'He probably likes people to think he owns her, and who can blame him? But Pemberton employs him full-time, he doesn't race himself. He's an orthodontist – lives in Peppermint Grove. Would he be your mate's dad?'

  'Probably,' Mike said.

  'Can I leave the table now, Mum?' Jools asked.

  'No ice-cream and fruit salad?'

  'Nup. I'll be late for rehearsal.'

  Fifteen-year-old Jools was heavily involved in an amateur production of The Crucible at Patch Theatre. She'd decided she was going to be an actress.

  'See ya,' she said to no-one in particular. Slinging her bag over one shoulder, she disappeared from the dining room, ponytail bouncing, and they heard Baxter yelp as she tripped over him in the hall.

  'Home by ten.'

  Maggie's call went unheeded and the front door slammed shut.

  'Gordon Pemberton, eh?' Jim was interested to hear that his son had met up with the Pemberton boy. 'She's a beautiful vessel, Trusan.'

  Mike didn't check out whether Ian Pemberton was Gordon's son. He wasn't sure he particularly liked Ian Pemberton, and he didn't want to appear to be seeking his friendship. But as it turned out, Ian stopped seeking his. Having decided that it was safest to adhere to the 'old school tie' principle, Ian stuck to the company of his ex-Guildford Grammar friends, avoiding Mike and his mates from Perth Mod.

  As the months passed, however, and first term became second, the freshmen of 1962 relaxed into university life. Familiar cliques, embraced for safety's sake, dissolved and new ones formed, and Mike and Ian did achieve a friend-ship of sorts – mainly forged on the rugby field where both excelled. Mike, strong and fast, played centre, and Ian, a superb kick, played fullback, where he avoided tackles whenever possible.

  By that time, Mike had embraced university with a passion. He loved everything about UWA – the landscaped gardens and lily ponds of its campus, the elegance of its sandstone arches and walkways, the graceful simplicity of its central bell tower. He loved the lifestyle university offered too – the intellectual stimulation, the camaraderie and the sport. But above all, he loved the girls. And the girls loved him.

  Ian Pemberton was resentful of Mike McAllister's popularity. What did Mike have that he didn't, he wondered. His sporting prowess was equal to Mike's, his academic skills superior, and, like Mike, he was good-looking. Yet, for some unfathomable reason, he wasn't the hit with the girls that Mike was, much as he tried to compete.

  Second term came and went, and in the popularity stakes things remained the same. Ian had hit a stalemate. Finally, in the late spring with their first-year exams barely a month away, he gave up trying to compete with Mike McAllister. There seemed little point. Swallowing his resentment, he decided once again to cultivate Mike's friendship. It appeared he had no alternative.

  'Want to come on the twilight this Friday?'

  They were sitting on the sidelines of the rugby field doing some warm-up stretches before the training session when Ian casually dropped the invitation.

  'What? Aboard the Sea Witch?' Mike asked.

  They'd discussed their respective backgrounds on a number of occasions and discovered they had other common interests besides rugby. Ian, although a latecomer to the sport, was a keen yachtsman and regularly crewed on Sea Witch, an eighteen-footer belonging to a friend of his dad's at Royal Freshwater Bay Yacht Club.

  'No. Trusan. Dad's taking out a couple of his cronies and their wives, and I'm crewing for him. He said I can bring a mate along.'

  'Sure. Great,' Mike agreed. He'd planned to take Natalie Hollingsworth to the jazz session at Claremont footy club, but theirs was a casual, easy relationship – she wouldn't mind if he changed it to Saturday, he was sure.

  Ian grinned. He'd known it would be the clincher. No-one knocked back a sail on Trusan. 'Freshie at five thirty,' he said. 'Berth 21.' And they jumped to their feet as the coach's whistle sounded.

  The cosy little yacht club in Claremont, of which Mike was a member along with his father, was a poor cousin indeed to the spectacular Royal Freshwater Bay Yacht Club. The grand colonial clubhouse of 'Freshie' sat in splendour on its green hill at Peppermint Grove where it could be admired from every vantage point about the bay. And nestled in its marina was a king's ransom in craft – some devoted to the noble sport of yacht racing, some offering quality leisure time acquired through hard-earned labour, and some the trappings and playthings of the wealthy.

  Trusan mingled with the other yachts, dwarfing most, as vessels of all size and description jostled for pride of place, sails luffing in the stiff sea breeze. All were awaiting the boom from the small cannon that would signal the commencement of the twilight race. At the helm, Vic Nelson manoeuvred the huge yacht with consummate ease amongst the hordes of boats, which somehow, miraculously, managed to avoid each other, and when the cannon sounded he was in perfect position.

  Twenty minutes later they were well in the lead with the rest of the field far behind them. Gordon Pemberton gave his skipper the customary signal. Vic Nelson in turn signalled Ian to lower the jib and they changed course, leaving the race to set off on their leisurely sail upriver.

  Mike was disappointed they weren't completing the race, but Ian had warned him.

  'It's only a social sail,' he'd said apologetically. 'We'll take off with the starters – Dad likes to prove a point, but Mum hates racing. The boat's really more about enter-taining for her.' He gave a rueful shrug. 'Bloody shame. Trusan races like a dream.'

  As they neared Point Resolution, Gordon took over the helm.

  Gordon Pemberton was an older version of his son. A handsome man in his late forties, hair greying at the temples, his classic looks were marred by slightly prominent ears and he bore himself with an ease of confidence bordering on arrogant. It was like looking at Ian thirty years from now, Mike thought.

  'Well, thank goodness that part's over,' Cynthia said gaily to her husband's two colleagues and their wives. She particularly addressed poor little Glenda, who'd never been on a yacht before and was looking positively green.

  'I hate it when it leans like that.' She and the ot
her four had been comfortably seated in the broad open cockpit and hadn't been required to move once since they'd set sail. She turned to Gordon, who was manning the wheel at the stern, Vic now having taken over the mainsheet from Ian. 'Darling,' she called good-naturedly, 'it's still leaning a bit, can't you stop it?'

  'We'll have the wind behind us soon, dear,' Gordon responded mildly. Cynthia made the same complaint every time they sailed, and every time he made the same response, even if they weren't about to have the wind behind them.

  Gordon would have liked to devote more time to racing, but he was a busy man and there simply weren't enough hours in the day. So he enjoyed an occasional social sail and basked in the racing honours accorded Trusan under the expert helmsmanship of Vic Nelson. Vic, who always assembled a first-class crew, had skippered the yacht to victory in many a major long-distance ocean race. Gordon was immensely proud of Trusan and her triumphs. Trusan was a symbol of his success.

  'Ian, pet, drinks, please.' Cynthia trotted down the several broad steps into the main cabin.

  'I'll give you a hand,' Mike said as Ian obediently followed his mother. The wives were now chatting, and the men, colleagues of Gordon's from Sydney, had started talking shop. They were in Perth for a conference – one was a periodontist and the other an endodontist – and Mike didn't feel he had much to contribute by way of conversation.

  Trusan's main cabin bore the semblance of a comfortable living room. Spacious and open plan, the galley on the aft starboard side was complete with refrigerator, full-size stove, bench and sink. Aft portside was a cosy nook with armchair and captain's log table, and stretched along both sides were built-in sofas that pulled out to form additional bunks when the central dining table was removed. A door led to a narrow passageway and the head, and then to the forward cabin, which housed a large double bed and ample wardrobe and drawer space.

  Mike, looking about the main cabin, thought of Alana's icebox and primus stove, and the sleeping bags he and Jools rolled out in the cockpit at night. This sort of opulence didn't seem to belong on a yacht, he thought. But then Trusan was unlike any other yacht he'd seen. Her interior was that of a luxury motor cruiser and yet, under sail, she cut through the water like the sleekest of racing craft.

  Cynthia was busily lifting platters of food out of the refrigerator – she had them made up by a gourmet caterer – and she handed Mike a bottle of champagne.

  'Be a darling,' she said with a dazzling smile. 'And Ian, pet, the smoked salmon first.' She indicated one of the platters and Ian disappeared with it into the cockpit where the men and their wives were admiring the first rays of what promised to be a magnificent sunset.

  Mike wondered what his reaction would be if his mother called him 'pet' as Cynthia did Ian, although Ian didn't appear to notice. It was obvious she doted on her only child, but Mike wasn't sure what to make of Cynthia Pemberton. She was beautiful in a manufactured way – white designer-label shorts and shirt displaying a neat, trim body, wind-tousled hair blonde-streaked to perfection. She was charming and vivacious and seemed far too young to be Ian's mother. But was she really as vacuous as she appeared?

  'You're Jim McAllister's boy, how lovely to meet you,' she'd said the moment he'd stepped aboard Trusan. 'I went to university with your father.' It was said very loudly, for the benefit of the others who were already seated in the cockpit having a glass of champagne before the boat left the pen.

  'Yes . . .'

  Mike had fortunately been required to make no further comment as Cynthia had introduced him to her husband's colleagues and their wives.

  'And this is Vic Nelson,' she said, leaving Vic until last.

  'G'day, Mike,' Vic said as they shook. 'How's your old man?'

  'He's great. Sends his regards.' Mike had been pleased by Vic's recognition. 'Give Vic Nelson my best,' Jim had said when his son had told him he was doing the twilight sail on Trusan.

  Fifteen minutes later, Vic had started the engine. As Trusan glided out of her pen, Ian and Mike standing by to raise the sails when they were clear of the yacht club, Cynthia had collected the champagne flutes. 'There's plenty more where that came from,' she'd promised, 'but we have to get the nasty part over first.' She'd given a girlish laugh of apology to the men and their wives and disappeared below to rinse and dry the glasses, and Mike had wondered what the 'nasty part' was. He knew now. The nasty part was sailing.

  'Thank you, dear,' Cynthia said as the champagne cork popped. 'The glasses are in that cupboard.' Then a directive to Ian, who had reappeared, 'Don't forget the napkins, pet.' Cynthia, expert hostess that she was, was in full party mode.

  'Dad and Vic'd prefer a beer,' Ian said when he and Mike had returned to the cabin, having served champagne to the guests in the cockpit.

  'Yes, of course.' They always did, although for the life her Cynthia couldn't understand why they'd prefer beer to vintage Taittinger. She handed Ian the platter of patés and cheeses, opened a bottle of Swan Lager and poured two glasses. 'Be a dear and give one of those to Vic,' she asked Mike. Cynthia always made a point of serving Vic last. He was, after all, the hired help.

  'Sure.' Mike picked up the glass.

  'Thank you, pet.' She gave him another dazzling smile, but this time there was something personal in it, something coquettish even. 'You've been such a help.' She patted his cheek, and the gesture was so intimate that Mike was shocked. My God, she's coming on to me, he thought.

  'I'm so glad you're Ian's friend,' she said. Then she swanned out to the cockpit with Gordon's beer. 'Well, you won't see a sunset like that in Sydney,' Mike heard her announce to her guests as he followed in her wake.

  They all admired the now amber-pink sky, and as Cynthia handed around platters and chatted to the group, Ian went below and poured a couple of beers for himself and Mike. 'You'd go a beer rather than champagne, wouldn't you?' he'd muttered and Mike had nodded.

  Cynthia was laying on the charm for all it was worth and, as Mike watched her, he realised that she hadn't been coming on to him at all. Well, no more than she was now coming on to the other men, and in open view of their wives, not to mention her own husband. She was flirting unashamedly with them – guiding the conversation with an impish wink of encouragement here and there, or a touch on the arm to emphasise her agreement with some point one of them had made. Now she was even taking one by the hand – blatantly turning to his wife as she did so.

  'He's a remarkable man, your husband, Glenda,' Cynthia said, and Glenda basked in the praise.

  Mike couldn't help but admire her skill. She was manipulating both the men and the women with absolute ease. In flattering the men, she was flattering their wives, and she made sure not to exclude her husband. 'Oh, Gordon's of the same mind. He's said that so often! Haven't you, dear?' And Gordon would nod benignly.

  Gordon Pemberton was happy to leave the socialising to his wife, and thankful that no effort was required on his part. The twilight sail was a return of the hospitality he'd received from his colleagues in Sydney, and both men bored him. He'd rather be chatting to Vic about Trusan's forthcoming return race from Perth to Albany.

  Ian returned with the beers and he and Mike sat, freely observing the social exchange. They were expected to make no contribution. Cynthia was ignoring them both completely, just as she was ignoring Vic Nelson. But then she'd ignored Vic from the outset. She always did – there was nothing to be gained from giving her attention to the skipper. Just as there was nothing to be gained now in giving her attention to her son, much as she adored him, or to his friend, much as she approved of him.

  'Do you mind if we sit up the bow for a while?' Ian asked his father, who was still at the helm. 'We'll come back when we go about.'

  They were in Perth waters with the breeze behind them. It was a gentle sail now, but when the yacht went about, the return trip would be rougher.