Coot Club

by Arthur Ransome

  “Thank you very much,” said Tom.

  Then, leaving Dick and Dorothea alone in the well, Dick at the tiller, and Dorothea at the main-sheet, and both of them rather horrified at being left there, he went forward and stood on the foredeck, listening to the water foaming below him, and feeling somehow even more responsible than when he had the tiller in his own hands. The Admiral in the cabin noting things in the log, the two new sailors looking after the steering, and the Teasel, trembling beneath his feet with this good wind to drive her on and on towards the dangers of Yarmouth and the big rivers of the south … it was a wonderful feeling, and, anyway, it wasn’t as if he had deserted the Titmouse. There she was foaming along astern. She was coming, too, and he would be sailing her in all kinds of strange places. If only Port and Starboard could have been there to share it. Hullo, there was No. 7 that had upset all plans and made this voyage possible. How fast the Teasel was moving, although the tide, such as it was, was against her. One after another the familiar things went by. There were black sheep. Good-bye now to Horning, and the Coot Club and the Death and Glories, our baby, father and mother, and all those nesting birds … he would not see them again till the voyage was over and he had either made a mess of things or carried it through to success. He glanced up at the flag. They would be having the wind on the other side in the Waterworks reach, and he had better help them with the jibe. Jolly well they were doing, those two, but it was no good expecting too much of them.

  The jibe, even with Tom to help, was not one that anybody aboard would have liked the twins to see. The Teasel took charge when the boom swung across, and Dick was not quick enough in meeting her with the helm. There was a wildish lurch before she settled down again, and William, who had been standing on the leeward bunk, stretching himself and yawning, was shot suddenly on the cabin floor when that bunk became the windward one. He gave a startled yelp, and came out into the well as if to warn people that things like that must not happen again.

  Mrs. Barrable came out, too, after marking down in the log the time at which they passed the Waterworks, but she did not seem to have noticed that fearful lurch across the river.

  “We’re getting on very well,” she said. “We’ll be down at Stokesby in no time.”

  “There’s a man at Potter Heigham,” said Tom, “who sailed a smaller boat than the Teasel all the way from Hickling to Yarmouth and right down to Oulton in one day with a north-west wind like this.”

  They swept past the entry to the Ranworth Dyke, jibed again, more successfully, and again, not quite so well, as they turned from one reach into another in this winding bit of the river. Smoke was rising from the chimneys of Horning Hall Farm, and they saw someone moving beside the dyke.

  “What about stopping and getting milk?” said Dorothea. “We used what was left of last night’s milk for breakfast, and we haven’t any now.”

  “Mustn’t waste a fair wind,” said the Admiral, “must we, William?” And William, who would have disagreed if he had understood, licked her hand most trustfully.

  “We can get milk all right at Acle,” said Tom. “We’ll get it from the Provision Boat.”

  “Provision Boat?” said Dorothea.

  “You’ll see,” said Tom.

  At first the Teasel seemed to be the only vessel moving on the river. The few yachts and motor-cruisers they passed were all moored to the banks, covered with their awnings, still asleep. But not far from Horning Hall they came round a bend in the river to find an eel-man in his shallow, tarred boat, going the rounds of his nightlines. He was a friend of Tom’s, and lifted a hand like a bit of old tree root as they swept past him, calling out their “Good mornings”. Then they met a wherry quanting up with the last of the flood.

  “Hallo, young Tom,” called the skipper of the wherry, seeing Tom at the main-sheet of the Teasel. “Have you seed Jim Wooddall?”

  “He’s lying above Horning,” shouted Tom. “I saw old Simon on the staithe last night.”

  “Do you know everybody on the river?” asked the Admiral.

  “I know all the wherrymen,” said Tom. “You see, they all come past our house.”

  Just past St. Benet’s, somebody in a moored yacht stuck out a tousled head from under the awning, and Dorothea wondered how the Teasel must look to him, sails set, flag flying, racing along in the sunshine while he had only just poked his nose out of a stuffy cabin. She looked at Dick, who was steering again and thinking only of his job. She looked at Mrs. Barrable. How must she be feeling? “Day after day, week after week, the ship sailed on, and the returning exile watched till her (or his … better his) eyes grew dim for the white cliffs of home.” But perhaps Beccles was without white cliffs. It was only too probable, and as for the returning exile, she was as usual busy with some coloured chalks, making notes for a picture. She looked more hopefully at Tom, the outlaw, flying from his home to a far country overseas. But Tom was not looking back with a tear in his eye at the country he was leaving. He seemed to be interested in nothing at all but the small bubbles or scraps of reed that were floating near the banks.

  “Tide’s turning,” he said at last. “She’s done all right so far. We’ll have it with us now.” His mind ran on, calculating. Horning to Ant’s Mouth.… Then to Thurne Mouth … then to Acle.… How long would it take to lower the mast, get through the bridge and hoist again? … Two miles to Stokesby … and then ten miles of the lower river … no trees down there, and the wind looked like holding. “Slacken away the jib-sheet a bit more, Dot,” he said. “Let’s get all the speed we can out of her.”

  OFF AT LAST

  “I don’t believe even the Flash goes faster than this,” said Dorothea.

  Tom knew better. A cabin yacht like the Teasel would be lucky indeed if with her small sails she could keep up with a little racer like the Flash. The thought of the Flash saddened him again by reminding him of Port and Starboard. What a pity it was that the twins were not aboard.

  But there was not much time for sorrow. Already there were sails moving far away over the fields towards Potter Heigham, and they were coming to the mouth of the Thurne and the sharp turn of the Bure down towards Yarmouth, where the signpost on the bank points the way along the river roads.

  Tom hauled in on the main-sheet.

  “Round with her,” he said. “Steadily, right round.”

  Dick pulled the tiller up. The jib flew across. There was a flap and a violent tug as the mainsail followed it. Tom paid out the sheet hand-overhand. It was a beautiful jibe. The Teasel was in waters where Dick and Dorothea had never been. The outlaw, the exile and the new A.B,’s were southward bound at last.

  CHAPTER XVII

  PORT AND STARBOARD MISS THEIR SHIP

  AT the moment when the Teasel was sailing down the river past their house, and Tom was looking at the windows and thinking they were still asleep, Port and Starboard were lying awake in bed. They were both thinking of the voyage of the Teasel, and had been awake for some time.

  “They’re sure not to get off as early as they meant to,” said Starboard.

  “Nobody ever does,” said Port.

  “It’d be awful hanging about to see them go,” said Starboard.

  “We’ve said good-bye once,” said Port.

  There was a long silence, except for the birds and for a growing rustling noise in the trees.

  “Which way is that wind?” said Port at last.

  Starboard rolled out of bed and ran to the window. One moment earlier and she would have seen the Teasel sailing by. She leant out so that she could see Dr. Dudgeon’s roofs beyond the dyke and willow bushes, and, high above the nearer gable, the big flat-sided golden fish he had set up there for a weather-vane.

  “North-west,” she said.

  “Um,” said Port, propping herself on her elbows. “Fair wind. They won’t have to hurry. That’ll blow them down to Stokesby in no time. It’ll be ages before they start.”

  “Let’s go to sleep again,” said Starboard. She got into bed and
pulled the sheets in under her chin, but found that running barefoot across the bedroom floor had made her less sleepy than ever.

  “Bother, bother, bother,” said Port suddenly. A new idea had come into her head. “Won’t they think it rather funny if we don’t turn up to cheer?”

  “I wish they’d gone straight on yesterday,” said Starboard. There was another long silence. It was broken by Mrs. McGinty coming in with a big can of hot water. The twins after lying awake so long had got to sleep again just before she came to call them. They pushed their noses into their pillows. The hot water stood there cooling. The next thing they heard was the banging of the breakfast gong, when they shot out of their beds, one to port and the other to starboard, tubbed and dressed without more than half drying, and raced downstairs.

  “Good morning. Sorry we’re late.”

  But the A.P. was not there.

  “An’ well you may be sorry,” said Mrs. McGinty. “Mr. Farland’s had a letter the noo and I’ll be keepin’ his buttered eggs warm.… So help yoursel’s while ye can.”

  “Good old Ginty,” said Starboard. They both knew that Mrs. McGinty was never as cross as she sounded.

  “A letter?” said Port, looking at the pile by her father’s plate. “But he’s had lots.”

  “Well, he’s ta’en this yin to the telephone,” said Mrs. McGinty, and then they heard their father’s voice through the open door of the study.

  “Never mind about keeping things hot, Mrs. McGinty. I’ll have to be gone in a minute.… Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Is that Norwich Ten-sixty-six? Norwich.… One-owe-double-six.… Hallo! Yes. I said so. Engaged? Can’t be engaged. Private exchange. Please ring them again. Give them another ring. A long one. Hallo! Hallo! Is that Norwich One-owe-double-six? Oh. Wrong number. Ring off please.… Hallo! Exchange? Oh, please ring off. Exchange? … Hallo! Hallo! … Bring me a cup of coffee out here, somebody.… Hallo! Exchange! Gave me a wrong number. No. No. Not one-double-six. One-owe-double-six. Thank you, Bessie. Take care, Nell. Don’t make me take too big a mouthful. I’ve got to be able to talk to these dunderheaded nincompoops. Hallo! Oh, is that you, Walters? Thank goodness for that. Nip round to the office and get me all the papers in that Bollington business. Consultations on it this week. Yes.… All in the folder. And the deeds.… Yes, yes. Bring the whole lot down to the station. Coming in by car. You’ll get it garaged after I’ve gone. I’ve got to catch the nine-one. Right. Good man. Everything on the case.…” He hung up the receiver, took another mouthful of buttered egg from Starboard, washed it down with a drink of coffee offered him by Port, and hurried back to the dining-room.

  “What is it, A.P.?” asked Starboard.

  Mr. Farland looked at his watch and compared it with the clock on the mantelpiece, a clock won by the Flash at Wroxham Regatta the year before.

  “Seven minutes for breakfast.… Yes, Mrs. McGinty, if you will be so good. The small suitcase. Everything for a week.…”

  “You aren’t going away?” said Port.

  “These things will happen,” said Mr. Farland. “I didn’t expect this business to come on for another two months at least.…”

  “But what about Flash and the championship? Couldn’t you put it off for a week?”

  “Impossible,” said Mr. Farland, scooping the last of the buttered egg off his plate. “Better peddle whelks and mussels than follow the law. At least you’re your own master.”

  “But the first race is tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got to scratch for it,” said their father. “I’ve got to scratch for the lot. And with old Flash properly tuned up she’d have shown them her heels in every race.”

  “Oh, A.P. How awful! And when you’d got everything ready.”

  “I’ll have to telephone to the secretary right away, and get him to explain to the others. Never mind, Flash shall challenge the winner as soon as I get back. I’ll tell him so at once.”

  “Are you going today?”

  “Didn’t you hear me say so? Going this very minute. Pass the toast-rack, will you … and the marmalade.”

  Somehow, with the head of the house galloping through his breakfast, his daughters did the same. It was as if all three of them were off to catch that early train. Overhead, they could hear drawers being pulled out and pushed in, and the steady murmur of Mrs. McGinty loudly remembering the things that must not be forgotten. “Half a dozen collars for the blue.… Bless the man, if he hasna been stirrin’ a puddin’ wi’ the ties … an’ where’s the sense in a body layin’ out shirts braw an’ neat if …” Mr. Farland, his mouth full of bread and marmalade, caught his daughters’ eyes and winked solemnly at the ceiling. “She doesn’t mean exactly ‘Bless’,” he said.

  In the hurry and bustle of getting him off, it was not until the very last moment that the thought came to Starboard that the A.P.’s going changed everything, and that now there was nothing to keep them at home.

  “I say, A.P.,” she said. “If you’re going away, and Flash won’t be racing, what about us sailing in the Teasel with Tom and Mrs. Barrable and those two children?”

  “But you haven’t been asked, have you?”

  “Oh yes,” said Port.

  “We said ‘No’,” said Starboard.

  “But if Flash isn’t racing we’d like to.”

  “Consolation prize, eh?” said Mr. Farland, stowing his suit-case in the back of his car.

  Nothing was said by either twin in reply to that.

  “I don’t see why you shouldn’t, if Mrs. Barrable’ll have you,” he went on, throwing himself into the driver’s seat, and starting the engine.

  “Tell Ginty,” said Port.

  “You’ll be quit of all three of us, Mrs. McGinty,” said Mr. Farland, as Mrs. McGinty came running out with a spare pair of chamois leather gloves. “These two are going off sailing with Tom and his friends.…”

  “Don’t say anything about clothes, Ginty. We shan’t want any besides what we’ve got on and sweaters.…”

  “Well, if a body mauna pit a worrd in …” began Mrs. McGinty. But the car was moving. Mr. Farland had just caught sight of the clock on the dashboard.

  “Good-bye.” “Good-bye.”

  Mr. Farland waved with his left hand, steered with his right, swung out of the gate and was gone.

  “Come on,” said Starboard.

  The two raced for the house and upstairs again into their bedroom. The knapsacks, unpacked with such melancholy last night, were taken once more from the hook behind the door. The twins’ packing was less orderly than Mrs. McGinty’s. Drawers were pulled out and left out. Shoes were tossed under the bed and rubber sea-boots put on. Sweaters, sandshoes, washing things and night clothes were crammed into the knapsacks, rugs rolled up, and, by the time Mrs. McGinty had climbed upstairs, the twins were already rushing down.

  “But look at yon room,” said Mrs. McGinty.

  “Fair awfu’,” said Port. Starboard was already leaping down the last flight of stairs. “Leave it till we come back, Ginty. We’ll tidy up then. There simply isn’t time now. We’re in a worse hurry than father.”

  “Ye’re aye that,” said Mrs. McGinty.

  *

  They kept up a steady trot all through the long lower street of Horning.

  “We’ll be in time to help them up with the sails,” said Starboard jerkily. “Those two … not very strong.”

  “Shan’t have any breath,” panted Port.

  “Keep it up,” said Starboard.

  At last they swung round the corner at the end of the boatyards and came out on the staithe where, last night, they had said good-bye to the Teasel.

  The Teasel was there no longer.

  “They’ve shifted her,” said Starboard.

  “They’ve gone,” said Port.

  The staithe was deserted. Even the old Death and Glory that had been tied up close by the Swan had disappeared. The twins ran to the water’s edge, and looked down the river. Not a boat was stirring.

  “Too late,” said Sta
rboard.

  “And with this wind there was no need,” said Port. “They’ll be at Stokesby with hours to spare before the tide turns against them.”

  “Of course, they didn’t think we were coming,” said Starboard.

  An old wherryman, Simon Fastgate, came to the end of the staithe with his arms full of parcels, and a big bottle of milk. He untied an old boat that was lying at the end of the boatsheds, dumped his parcels into it, pushed himself off, and paddled away upstream.

  “Ask Simon,” said Port.

  “Hullo, Simon. Do you know when the Teasel sailed?”

  “Been gone before I come ashore,” said Simon. “And that’s an hour and more.” He pulled away as hard as he could.

  An hour already. Perhaps more. If only Tom had not been in such a hurry. The twins looked miserably at each other. It was one thing to give up a voyage to Beccles in order to help the A.P. to win his races. It was a different thing altogether to miss it for no reason at all. A whole week’s voyaging lost for nothing. And after the A.P. had himself given them permission to go.

  “We can’t do anything,” said Starboard.

  “Go back to Ginty,” said Port.

  And just then, they heard the splash of a quant, and looked up the river. A wherry with mast up and sail ready for hoisting was coming into sight round the bend. They knew the wherry, Sir Garnet, and they knew the skipper, Jim Wooddall, when they heard him shout at his mate, who was already scrambling aboard and making fast his boat to a bollard in the stern.

  “Simon, ye gartless old fool. Ye’ve missed us this tide. We should’a been gone two hour since.”

  There was no reply. Simon was already hurrying to the winch and the big black sail of the wherry began to lift. Jim Wooddall had indeed been in a hurry, to start quanting his wherry round to the staithe to look for his mate, and old Simon knew that hoisting sail was better than excuses.

  Suddenly Starboard dropped her knapsack and her rug and shouted at the top of her voice.