Stormfront

by R. S. Sutton

  ‘Looks vaguely familiar,’ she said as it carried on westward.

  ‘You know them?’ said Ben.

  ‘No, no. The pennant on the stern. I think it’s one of the clubs on the Solent.’ She shrugged her shoulders and watched a dozen or so small fish scatter across the surface in panic. ‘Wonder what’s after them?’

  Ignoring her, Ben kept probing. ‘Where did you learn to sail?’

  ‘Out on the Solent. Like I said before, used to race on a Six Metre.’

  Ben nodded approvingly. ‘Never set foot on one myself, but lovely boats to race, I should think.’

  ‘Incredible,’ said Valerie. ‘We only left the mooring to race or tune it up. They’re built for nothing else.’

  ‘Your boat?’ said Ben, keeping up his enquiries. ‘Or—’

  ‘Someone else’s,’ cut in Valerie. ‘The skipper, me and a couple of guys. Four up. Perfect. Some go with five, but if you’re up to it, four’s fine.’

  ‘Not tripping over each other,’ said Ben.

  Looking up at the flying wind indicators, Valerie nodded. ‘Lean and fast.’

  ‘Successful?’

  Valerie thought back to the autumn’s end in the yacht club. ‘Armfuls of silver every end of season. Winning isn’t everything, but losing is nothing. Who the hell wants to be anywhere but upfront fighting for the lead?’ Valerie gave out a little smile. ‘Hoisting the winning flag at the end of the race is what it’s all about, and if you weren’t in the first three it was a disaster… Although the skipper put it a little stronger than that at times.’

  ‘Not just doing it for the sport then?’ said Ben.

  ‘No way. Love sailing but could never understand crews coming into the clubhouse smiling after finishing in the last half dozen.’

  ‘You still race?’ asked Ben.

  Valerie got up and turned to go below. ‘No.’ Disappearing into the cabin, she pulled the hatch shut.

  Twenty minutes later, Ben called her back on deck. ‘We’re here. Better come up and give me a hand if you want to save your precious diesel.’

  Valerie went forward as Ben put the yacht head to wind and stopped short of the rusty ladder. She tied off before going back and helping with bringing the sails down. With her neck craned upwards, the swaying boat gave the illusion of the towers moving against the sky.

  Each of the five structures sat on four legs and were joined to each other by walkways. The accommodation on top of the supports gave the strange impression of oversized stools. There were the remains of radio masts on the towers, some with lengths of wire flapping in the wind. On the furthest one was what looked like a flagpole held up by frayed stays. Rust dripped from the concrete where iron reinforcing rods poked out into the sea air. What colour the towers had been was no longer possible to determine. The little paint that remained was a pale grey.

  ‘Coming up?’

  ‘You go. I’ll get some lunch together. And be careful,’ he called as Valerie scrambled up the ramshackle ladder. ‘Don’t want to be phoning Southern and East to tell them you fell down a bloody hole.’

  ‘Well, Ben was right about there being nothing here,’ Valerie said to herself, rubbing the rust from her hands. She moved from empty tower to empty tower, each one connected to the next by a paint-flaked, corroded walkway, until the last, that looked so unsafe she turned around.

  Back in the first tower, and before descending to Sun Dancer, she drew a shoe across the floor. Curiously, as if it had been swept, there was no dirt, no dust.

  ‘Well, was I right or was I right?’ said Ben as he pushed a lunch of tinned tuna and salad across the table.

  ‘Yeah, right. Nothing but a few rotting cables hanging from an old junction box.’

  ‘What were you expecting, the ghost of Tony Blackburn playing “Get Off of My Cloud”?’

  ‘Think you’ll find he was further east, on Radio Caroline… And anyway, he’s not dead… allegedly.’ Valerie pushed a hand into her jacket pocket. ‘Music system on board, do you think?’ Like a valuable jewel, she produced a USB.

  Ben motioned over his shoulder. ‘By the chart table.’

  Valerie pushed the memory stick into one of the inputs on the front of the brushed silver panel, scrolled through the index and pressed play.

  ‘Didn’t think you looked the type,’ said Ben as Bruce Springsteen blasted out across the cabin.

  ‘The boss?’ said Valerie. ‘One of the best.’

  ‘What else?’ said Ben, putting the last of his tuna between two slices of bread.

  ‘Everything… Stones, Oasis, Little Richard, Pink Floyd, Beethoven, Etta James. You name it.’ She pushed her hair back behind her ears. ‘Only things I can’t be doing with are Benjamin Britten and rap.’

  ‘Bit ancient. You’re not much older than me, and who’s Etta James?’

  ‘Oh, good grief.’ Valerie gently shook her head. ‘I was injected with the good stuff by…’ She stopped, scraped her plate into the bin and turned to the bottom of the cabin steps. ‘Been in my blood for too long. And there ain’t no cure for rock ’n’ roll. Come on, Ben, let’s get going fast and hard like we were racing.’

  ‘So, it was a conversion?’ said Ben as they peeled off from the rotting structure. ‘Rock music, I mean. Like on the road to Damascus.’

  ‘More like on the road to Brighton, winter weekends when we weren’t racing.’ She stopped and began tending sails that were perfectly set.

  And that was as much as Ben got out of her. Deeper questions were given generic answers or met with silence.

  Later the next day, Sun Dancer was using up the last of the diesel as Ben guided her along the Medway to her berth.

  ‘Good couple of days,’ said Valerie, pocketing the keys and jumping onto the jetty. ‘Thank you, sweetie.’ Ben had an extra bounce in his step as he followed her from the yacht. ‘Not you,’ she said, noticing the smile, ‘the boat. But thank you, too.’ She stroked one of his cheeks, while kissing the other. Then as he stood there looking at her, she drew him forward and kissed him intimately with slightly parted lips. Minty breath from freshly brushed teeth, mixed with Giorgio Armani, briefly swirled around as she ruffled the back of his neck.

  Ben cleared his throat. ‘Anytime.’

  Valerie looked at the serious expression as his face flushed. ‘Surely you’ve been kissed by a girl before?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Ben. ‘By girls, and not like that.’

  ‘Going to have to go out and get yourself a woman then, aren’t you? Find out what life’s about.’

  Ben threw his bag over one shoulder and followed her across the floating pontoons to the taxi rank.

  ***

  ‘Look after the car.’ Valerie stood back from the train as she saw him off on his way back west.

  ‘Sure.’ This time Ben had to make do with a farewell handshake.

  ‘Got to go and see this guy’s brother. Then I’ll be along to pick it up and give you some loot.’

  It was not until he was sure that Valerie was on the next train back to the city that the man returned to his car, put his plastic mac on the rear seat and pulled out his mobile.

  ‘On her way back.’

  Ending the call, he thoughtfully tapped the phone on his knuckles before dropping it onto the passenger seat. He then took a fresh packet of mints from his pocket and tore away the outer wrapper.

  Notes

  4To “bend on a sail” is to attach in position. In this case, being the jib, it is fixed to the forestay.

  5The sheets (ropes) that control the mainsail are fixed to the deck beneath the boom. Nowadays it is rare that a sailing boat will have just a single anchorage point. The blocks (sheaves) are on a carriage allowing the anchor point to travel the width of the boat on a rail. In severe weather the blocks on the carriage are eased to leeward (opposite side to wh
ere the wind is coming), thereby allowing some of the wind to spill from the sail and depower it.

  Seven

  Before keeping her appointment with the late Alan Preston’s brother, Valerie returned to the houseboat, took a shower and changed. Chewing on the last of a slice of toast, she looked in the mirror, wondering about lipstick. She held her image for a second or two, then, with a fingertip, wiped a last crumb from the corner of her mouth. Taking out a gold tube, she stroked on the mid-red Estee Lauder, then moved closer to the reflection and pressed her lips together.

  Grabbing a coat, she checked her watch and, as much as high heels allowed, ran along the towpath to the bus stop.

  The meeting that Jane had arranged, or more accurately Preston had suggested, was at the Four Seasons. Walking in through the impressive marble entrance, she briefly thought of the last time she was there: another life, another time. Deliriously happy times. Although young, she had recognised the times as the best, the happiest and that more was to come. It would just go on for ever. So deeply enveloped in what was happening in her life, and being able to know just how fortunate she was—

  ‘Madam?’

  Valerie’s melancholy thoughts were brought to a halt as she approached the reception. ‘I’m here to meet a Mr Preston. Do you know…?’

  ‘Yes, madam. It’s Miss Stone?’ said the immaculately dressed young man behind the desk. ‘Mr Preston left word you’d be coming.’ He pointed across the foyer, to where a man she recognised from the photo was holding a hand towards a black leather chair.

  The man stood up, offering his hand as Valerie approached. ‘David Preston.’ The smile was deep, extenuating the lines either side of his eyes. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Valerie flashed a business-like expression. ‘Sorry about the circumstances.’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ he cut in, quickly moving the conversation onto a friendlier level. ‘I have a table booked. Shall we talk over lunch?’

  A waiter in a gold waistcoat guided Valerie to a plush red velour and black-framed chair, before seeing to Preston. In one swift move menus were placed on the deep mahogany table. Red walls decorated with red paintings in black frames complemented the rich oriental ornaments on side tables. The whole room breathed top restaurant, in a top hotel, in a top city.

  Valerie steered clear of dishes on the menu that stirred up memories. It was a betrayal of sacred times. Although her mind flooded with items from the exquisite menu, she chose a simple lunch of avocado followed by salmon, new potatoes and salad.

  ‘Not very adventurous, from such a menu. Are you sure that’s all you want? Would you like something to drink?’ Preston gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Miss Stone, are you all right?’ he said in response to Valerie’s silence.

  ‘Yes, fine, fine. Can I have a Coke or Pepsi? Don’t mind which as long as it’s bottled. Two slices of lime and plenty of ice.’

  ‘We can put the meeting off to another day if you like?’ He leant forward slightly.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said, pulling herself into the present. ‘Just thinking of something I have to do later.’ The smile was warm and directed towards her dining partner. It touched her vivid green eyes but went no further. Valerie’s smile no longer smouldered from the beautiful emerald depths. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’

  Studying his features, she sat back in the chair. Smart, well-groomed hair and freshly manicured nails hinted at the pride he took in his appearance. The pale blue tie against the slightly darker blue shirt went well, as did the dark charcoal suit finished with fine blue stripes. Not a designer suit; this man did not follow the pack, neither was he concerned about the latest trends. The classic single-breasted suit had been made to measure, and she was quite sure it had a wardrobe full of companions.

  ‘Now what can I do to help? I’d have thought it was all pretty straightforward: Alan fell from The Sun Dancer and was unfortunately killed by the propeller.’

  ‘On his own? It’s a pretty big boat to take out single-handed. I sailed it back from the Exe with another guy, and he was experienced. Wouldn’t have wanted to do it on my own.’

  ‘Yes, well, as you said, sailed it. My brother wasn’t sailing; he was under power, as I understand.’ Preston took a sip of water, then patted his lips with the crisp linen napkin. ‘I was out of the country, so I don’t know what he was doing. Taking it from one marina to another, I should have thought.’

  ‘What about the insurance? There’s no will, so it goes to you, next of kin.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose. Not sure why he took out such a large amount. He was engaged at one point, maybe he took it out then. He has no family, and Mother and Father are both dead. Bit of a mystery, but nothing illegal.’

  ‘No, no, nothing illegal. It’s just the circumstances and the large sum. Southern and East want to look through it, that’s all.’ Valerie fiddled with the stick in her drink, pushing at the ice and lime. ‘What about Sun Dancer being in your name? You’ve been abroad for a while. What’s behind that?’

  ‘I was coming back a while ago; we were going to race and maybe some coastal cruising, so I bought the boat. It was in my name, I did the deal, but it was our boat rather than mine. We did some racing, but not as much as I’d have liked.’

  ‘When’s the funeral?’ Thinking only of how to extract as much out of the case as possible, Valerie carried on with irrelevant questions. ‘The body’s been released, somewhat early, I’d have thought, but—’

  ‘Last week,’ Preston cut in. ‘No point delaying, and in any case, I wanted to get it done. Although we didn’t see much of each other, we were pretty close. I owe him a great deal – he’s the…’ He stopped to correct himself. ‘He was, the brains. Anyway, wanted to do him one last service.’

  ‘Yes, sure.’ Valerie pushed her plate to one side. ‘Where have you laid him to rest?’

  ‘Cremated, and ashes scattered off the coast.’

  Well, that puts a full stop on things, Valerie concluded. Where do I go from here? If anywhere. Seems like Jane’s little money-making scheme has come off the rails. Go and get the car, call into Weymouth on the way back, and that will be about it.

  Finishing the lunch and polite chitchat, Preston waved his Platinum Visa at a passing waiter. ‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’ he asked, breaking into her money-stretching plans.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ She gave the street nearest to her office. It had a little class about it; she never gave clients the downtrodden area the office was in if she could possibly help it. She had occasionally toyed with the idea of using the houseboat but didn’t want people coming around at all hours, moaning down her ear about the terrible life they were leading and expecting her to kiss it better.

  Valerie had assumed Preston was not short of the folding stuff but was taken by surprise as a midnight blue, highly polished S-Class Merc stopped outside the hotel. The chauffer that opened the door for them was around six foot two and, to Valerie’s eyes, about the same across the shoulders. And on top of that he was a tough-looking sod. Sinking back into the cream leather, she pondered why he would want someone that looked less like a driver and more like a bodyguard.

  She had become quite expert at fending off any probing questions into her past. On the ten-minute journey, Preston had to be satisfied with a general conversation, punctuated by smiles that, although lighting up her face, had no intimate communication. That had stopped four years ago.

  Preston turned to her as the chauffer opened the door. ‘Have you a card?’

  ‘Card?’ Valerie slid out, brushing imaginary creases from her coat. ‘Why would—?’

  Before she could finish, Preston leant out. ‘Your secretary didn’t give me your phone number.’

  ‘Why would you want my number?’ The defence was slight but deliberate. ‘I—’

  Again Preston interrupted before she could continue, this time with a smile. ‘In case I can
think of anything else that may be of importance. Also, if I haven’t your number, how can I ask you out to dinner?’

  Valerie patted her pockets, looking for non-existent cards. ‘Sorry, don’t seem to have one on me.’

  ‘Phone number?’

  Valerie took the mobile from her pocket and looked up its number. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Can never remember it myself.’

  Preston took the phone and tapped the number into his own. ‘Thank you, Miss Stone, or may I call you Val?’

  Standing on the kerbside, Valerie’s face drained of colour as the smile vanished. ‘It’s Valerie,’ she said, pushing hands deep into pockets. ‘Please don’t call me Val. Thanks for lunch, must get off.’ Without looking back, she walked off down the busy pavement.

  ‘Bloody hell, boss,’ said Preston’s chauffer. ‘I think you pressed the wrong button there.’

  ‘Think I did, Kenny.’ His eyes did not leave the elegant figure until it vanished in the crowd. ‘Think I did.’

  Turning down a quiet alley, Valerie took the last Disque Bleu from the pack and struck savagely at the Zippo. Drawing deeply on the smoke, she walked back to the office.

  ‘Train back to Exeter, Jane,’ growled Valerie as she opened the door. ‘And bloody first class, too.’

  ‘Cripes, who’s crossed you?’

  The small glass pane in the door rattled as she crashed the door shut. ‘Do you know if I have a packet of fags left?’

  ‘If you do, they’re in your desk drawer. If not, you’re back on the Dunhill’s.’

  ‘For crying out loud,’ said Valerie, opening the drawer, ‘nothing.’

  She pushed the usual desk rubbish about until, among the paper clips and rubber bands, she pulled out two wedding rings tied together with a piece of dark green ribbon. She held the gold bands in the palm of her hand for a few seconds, before placing them back.

  Jane knew. Once, when Valerie had drunk too much, the whole story had come out. Until that evening Jane had thought her own history was pretty dire, but compared with what Valerie unravelled between swigs of iced Southern Comfort, it was not the end of the world she had always imagined.