Читать книгу Coot Club - Arthur Ransome - Страница 13

WILLIAM was not aboard the Teasel. He had had a rather upsetting day, what with being left alone in the boat in the morning and having to make room for these newcomers in the afternoon. For some little time after tea he had lain as usual on the foredeck, catching the last of the sunshine and knowing that he made a noble sight for anybody who might be sailing up or down the river. But the short spring day was ending. People were settling down for the night. There was no one to admire him. He went back into the well and heard Dorothea say what a handsome pug he was, but those newcomers seemed unable to do their washing up without splashing. He went on into the cabin. Mrs. Barrable was writing a letter and took no notice of him. He was annoyed to find some of her paint brushes soaking in a jam-pot half full of turpentine, left on the floor just where he could not help coming across it. If he had not been prudent in sniffing, that turpentine might have ruined his nose for a week. How careless people were. Thoroughly sulky, William went out again through the well, getting dreadfully splashed as he did so, climbed on deck, and went off along his private gangplank to the shore to dig up and enjoy anew one or two treasure smells that he had hidden, some little distance away, on the strip of firm ground that lay behind the fringe of reeds.

Mrs. Barrable was making little drawings in the margin of her letter and on her blotting-pad. This was a habit of hers and, when she was writing to the mother of Dick and Dorothea, it did not matter. Writing to strangers, she often had to copy her letters out all over again, because of the illustrations that had somehow crept in. Once she had had to pretend she had lost her butcher’s bill and ask him to send her another because, without thinking what she was doing, she had decorated it with a row of three cats with black mourning bows, weeping large tears at the sight of a string of sausages. But writing to her old pupil, Mrs. Callum, Mrs. Barrable could send her letters just as they were, no matter what drawings she had scribbled in the margins. Today the margins were full of small sailing boats, because Mrs. Barrable was still seeing those little white-sailed racers, and because she was still thinking of the disappointment of Dick and Dorothea. They had been very good about it. Dick was busy making a list of birds seen, and Dorothea, on hearing how Mrs. Barrable and her brother had had to give up their plan of sailing round to the southern rivers where they had spent their childhood, had almost seemed to forget her own disappointment as she saw scene after scene in the woeful story of the returning exile wrecked almost within sight of the ancient home he had hoped to see once more before he died….

“Very nice children they are, my dear,” Mrs. Barrable had written, “and Dorothea is very like the little girl you used to be, but, you know, I should have been afraid to ask them here if I had known they both had such a passion for sailing…. They have told me now about those children they met in the north, those mumpy children” (here was a picture of a child with mumps) “who seem to have got it into their heads that sailing is … what it really is, my dear, as no one knows better than I. And, of course, they want to learn and I fear they will find it very dull to be cooped up in a yacht that is moored to the bank and really no better than a houseboat with only an old woman like me to keep them company.” (Here she had let her pen run away with itself and there was a picture of a pair of lambs and an old woman in a poke bonnet all frisking together.) “Now, if only my brother were here instead of painting his Begums and Ranees, we should be sailing all over the place, though then, of course, there would be no room for Dick and Dot. I really had not thought how tempting it would be for them to see the other boats going by. There was one they saw today with two little girls…. Poor Dot! I ought to have remembered that windmills and reeds and slow rivers plaiting reflections and just asking to be painted may be enough for me but not for the ambitious young. But there’s no one to come with us and sail the Teasel and tell them the names of the strings…. I know them myself, my dear, but she’s a hired boat, and I don’t know what brother Richard would say if I were to go sailing away without some expert hand to pull me out of scrapes. No, my dear, it’s a pity, but Dick and Dorothea will have to be content …”

Mrs. Barrable drummed on her teeth with the end of her penholder and glanced through the cabin door into the canvas-roofed well, to see Dick earnestly wiping plates, and Dorothea, with a hand luckily small enough to get inside, scooping the tea-leaves out of a little tea-pot. What fun it would have been to take them round the old haunts, away down to Yarmouth and through Breydon Water and up the Waveney to Beccles, where she had been a child herself…. And then she looked out of the opposite port-holes, and forward through the children’s cabin. There was a port-hole right forward, beside the mast, through which she could see a charming circular picture of the bend of the river upstream. Interesting, she thought, to paint just such a picture…. Her mind wandered from Mrs. Callum and her two guests busy in the well, and she thought of canvas and paints, and of what her brother would say to such a subject…. And just then, into that picture seen through the port-hole, there came a boy in an old tarred punt, shooting round the bend of the river and paddling as if in a race. Instantly Mrs. Barrable forgot everything else.

People in a hurry always interested her. She was always ready to take sides with anybody running to catch a train, and had been known to clap her hands when she saw somebody make a really good dash for an omnibus. “Good boy,” she murmured to herself, and waited to see him again when he should come paddling past the port-holes on the opposite side of the cabin.

THE TEASEL (SAILS AND INSIDE)

But he never came past those port-holes at all. There was the faintest possible jar as he caught hold of the Teasel. There was a sudden, slight list, very slight, for Tom was not heavy, but enough to make Dick and Dorothea wonder what Mrs. Barrable could be doing. Mrs. Barrable leaned forward again and, through that same round port-hole by the mast, caught a glimpse of a rubber sea-boot on the foredeck. There was the faint but unmistakable noise of the opening of the forehatch, a fumbling with ropes, the shifting of a heavy weight, quick steps on the foredeck, a bump, a slow, sucking gurgle, the slam of the forehatch closing, a thud on the bank, the crackle of dry reeds and then, a few moments later, a tremendous salvo of barking from the watchdog, William, leisurely returning to duty.

Mrs. Barrable pushed away the folding table and hurried out of the cabin. The washers-up looked at her in astonishment. Both were down on their knees stowing things away.

“What’s happened?” asked Dorothea.

“What’s the matter with William?” said Dick.

“I don’t quite know,” said Mrs. Barrable. “A boy in a punt …” she worked her way out from under the awning, expecting to see that punt, or whatever it was, lying alongside the Teasel. But there was no punt at all. It had vanished, like the boy. And from behind the reeds there came the frenzied barking of the pug.

“William!” called Mrs. Barrable. “William! Come here!”

She went forward along the side-deck, steadying herself with a hand on the awning. There was wet on the foredeck. What could that mean? And a rope led from the forehatch over the side. Mrs. Barrable lifted the hatch and looked down into the forepeak. Why in the world, when the Teasel was safely moored to the bank, should anybody want to anchor her with the mudweight as well?

“William!” she called again, and William came out of the reeds, stopping on the gang-plank to do a little more barking, over his shoulder, to show people that he was afraid of nobody and that a better watchdog did not exist.

“Quiet, William!”

Dick and Dorothea looked out with wondering faces. They, too, climbed out from the well.

“Quiet, William!” said Mrs. Barrable. “He must have been running away from something. Shut up, William! Listen!”

Yes. They could all hear that something was coming down the river. There was the deep, booming roar of a motor being run at full speed. Another of those motor-cruisers. A very loud loud-speaker was asking all the world never to leave him, always to love him, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, bang, bang, bang. And beside the loud-speaker there were other voices, loud, angry voices, not singing love songs but shouting at each other. There it was, a big motor-cruiser, coming round the bend.

William was now on the foredeck, but still looking behind him and barking at the reeds on shore. Mrs. Barrable, her eyes sparkling, her mind made up, encouraged him, but pointed towards the motor-cruiser that was roaring down towards them. William was puzzled. Quick work, if that boy in the reeds had managed already to be out there on that noisy thing coming down the river. But he supposed his mistress knew, and anyhow he hated that kind of noise. So, with Mrs. Barrable whispering “Cats! William, Bad Cats!” into his ears, William faced the oncoming cruiser and put into his barking all he thought about boys who startled honest pugs by lying hid in reeds so that the honest pugs ran into them face to face on their own level. There was a good deal of noise, what with William, and the loudspeaker, and the quarrel going on among the people aboard the cruiser, who were all shouting to make themselves heard above the roar of their engine. Old Mrs. Barrable, hiding her excitement, held William by the fat scruff of his neck, as if she feared he might leap overboard in his eagerness to tear to pieces the loud-speaker and its accompanists. Dick and Dorothea worked their way forward from the counter along the side-decks. What was happening? Dorothea was trying one story after another, but none seemed to fit.

Suddenly the quarrel aboard the cruiser seemed to come to an end. There was a furious shout from the man who was at the wheel. Everybody was pointing straight at Dick. The big cruiser swerved towards the Teasel. Her engine was put into reverse and there was a frantic swirl of water as she lost way.

“Whaddo you mean by it?” shouted the steersman of the cruiser.

But by now another of the Hullabaloos was pointing at the Teasel’s little dinghy lying astern of her.

“That’s not the boy,” he shouted, trying to make himself heard. “Can’t you see the boat, you ass? It wasn’t like that. Bigger boat! LONGER! And that’s a white boat. The other one was dark—a sort of punt.”

“It wasn’t you turned us loose?” That was the steersman again.

“I,” said Dick. “I …”

Mrs. Barrable spoke. “He had nothing to do with you. He has been with me, moored here, the whole afternoon.”

“Oh. Have you seen a boy go by?”

“In a sort of long black punt.”

“Nobody’s gone by since the racing,” said Mrs. Barrable.

“Eh?” shouted one of the Hullabaloos.

“Do turn that thing off,” shouted another.

Everybody aboard the cruiser seemed to be shouting at once, and the loud-speaker was still begging all the world never to leave him, nor to deceive him, bang, bang, bang, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle.

“It must have been one of those three guttersnipes this afternoon.” “Bothering us about a beastly bird’s nest.” “Taking up our anchors and casting us loose.” “All right. All right. I’ll wring the little brute’s neck.”

A girl in the gaudiest of beach pyjamas may have thought she was whispering to the man at the wheel of the cruiser, but she had to shout to be heard by him and what she said was just as clearly heard aboard the Teasel.

“No good talking to the old woman. He must have gone by.” Mrs. Barrable’s eye hardened slightly.

“I shall be obliged to you if you will mind my paint,” she said, as the cruiser was coming dangerously near.

“Paint!” said the girl rudely, and then, shouting into the steersman’s ear, “Don’t waste any more time. Let’s buzz along. We’ll catch him if you only get on. He can’t have got very far.”

The engine roared again. The water at the stern of the cruiser was churned into foam. There was a heavy bump as her stern swung in and struck the Teasel, and the Margoletta went roaring, singing and quarrelling down the reach and out of sight. William, after giving a good imitation of a hungry lion being with difficulty held back from the savaging of helpless victims, turned round towards the reedy bank and barked once more.

Mrs. Barrable also faced the reeds.

“They’ve gone on,” she said, in a very clear voice, though quite low. “Hadn’t you better come out and explain?”

There was a rustle and stir among the reeds, and Dick and Dorothea saw the boy they had met in the train come out, looking rather shy and bothered, close by the pug’s gang-plank.

“Were you lurking all the time?” said Dorothea.

“You?” said Mrs. Barrable. “We’ve seen you once before today.”

“Twice,” said Dick. “Once in the train, and once when he was cooking in his boat.”

“That was most awfully decent of you,” said Tom, “sending them off like that.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Barrable, “it was five to one, wasn’t it? But what was it all about? And what have you done with your boat? And why did you put my mud anchor overboard?”

“It was the only thing I could think of that would be heavy enough,” said Tom. “You see, I had to sink her.”

“Sink her?” Mrs. Barrable exclaimed. They all looked down into the brown water. “Do you mean to say your boat was here right under our feet all the time those people were talking?”

“She went down all right,” said Tom, “once I got her properly under.”

“But how will you get her up again?”

“She’ll come when the mud-weight’s lifted. And anyhow I hitched the painter to your rope. She’ll come all right. But I’m very sorry. You know I didn’t think there was anybody aboard. There was no pug on deck, and there usually is. And I knew I wouldn’t be doing any harm to the anchor. Just for half an hour till those Hullabaloos had gone by. There wasn’t time to do anything else. I could hear them already …”

“Hullabaloos?” said Mrs. Barrable. “What a very good name for them. But what had you done to them? And don’t you think they may be coming back any minute? It wouldn’t look well for them to find you here. Come inside and wait till we can be sure they are not turning round again. No, William. No! Friend! Friend! But what had you done to them? Whatever it was, I expect they deserved it….”

The noise of the Margoletta was now far away, but it could still be heard, and it would certainly be awkward if the Hullabaloos came back and found him where he was.

“I can stay hid in the reeds,” said Tom.

“But we want to hear about it,” said Mrs. Barrable, “and I don’t want to have to hide in the reeds while I listen. Much better come inside.”

Tom looked anxiously at the anchor rope that disappeared into the water at his feet. It was just as he had left it. The Dreadnought was all right down there at the bottom of the river. She could be taking no harm. He followed Mrs. Barrable down into the well.

“And now,” said Mrs. Barrable, when they were all in the well and under cover, including William, who was slowly changing his mind about Tom, “do tell us what it was all about. But, of course, you needn’t if you don’t want to.”

“It was birds,” said Tom.

“Herons?” broke in Dick, who had spent a lot of time watching one on the opposite bank during the afternoon.

“Coots,” said Tom. “You see, the birds are nesting now, and when people like that go and shove their boat on top of a nest anything may happen. And this is our particular coot. She’s got a white feather on one wing. We’ve been watching the nest from the very beginning. An early one. And the eggs are just on the very edge of hatching. And then those Hullabaloos moored clean across the opening where the nest is, and frightened the coots off. Something simply had to be done.”

“I can quite understand that,” said Mrs. Barrable. “But what was it you did?”

“Well, they wouldn’t move when they were asked,” said Tom.

“Who asked them?”

“The Bird Protection Society,” said Tom.

“But how did they come to know about it?”

“They were down this way inspecting, because I was up the river and Port and Starboard had to be racing. You must have seen them, I should think. Three of them, in an old black boat.”

“We saw them,” cried Dorothea delightedly.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Barrable. “The pirates … turbans, knives in their belts…. We all saw them.”

“Well,” said Tom, “you can’t expect them to be Bird Protectors all the time.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Barrable.

“They asked them to go, and they wouldn’t, and then, when they found it was no good being polite to Hullabaloos, they came and reported to the Coot Club, the rest of us, at Horning, I mean, and luckily my old punt was in the water. So I came down. They were making such an awful noise, they never heard me put their anchors aboard and push them off. The coots’ll be back by now if they haven’t been frightened into deserting altogether.”

“Um,” said Mrs. Barrable, “I’m glad I’m not moored on the top of somebody’s nest. I shouldn’t at all like to find myself drifting downstream.”

“But it wouldn’t ever happen to you,” said Tom. “You wouldn’t be beastly like they were if somebody came and explained that there were eggs just going to hatch.”

“I think it was splendid,” said Dorothea. “It’s just what Nancy would have done. Nancy’s a girl we know.”

“They sounded very unpleasant people,” said Mrs. Barrable.

But Tom was looking rather grim. Somehow it sounded awful, casting loose those Hullabaloos, when Mrs. Barrable said how much she would dislike finding herself adrift. Dorothea had said, “It was just what Nancy would have done.” But, whoever Nancy was, that made no difference to Tom, who knew that he had done the one forbidden thing and got mixed up with foreigners. Why, even now, sitting in this boat … But at that moment Mrs. Barrable made this, at least, seem better. It was almost as if she knew what he was thinking.

“You’re not altogether a stranger,” she said. “Aren’t you a son of Dr. Dudgeon?”

“Yes,” said Tom eagerly. “Do you know him?”

“In a way I do,” said Mrs. Barrable, “though I’ve never met him. He was very kind to my brother last summer when he was here sailing by himself and cracked his head coming out of the cabin in a hurry.”

Well, thought Tom, even that was better than nothing. If not a friend, at least the sister of a victim, not an absolute foreigner. All the same he was in a hurry to go. He answered a lot of questions from Dick about coots and their nests. He explained to Dorothea that it wasn’t the Titmouse that was at the bottom of the river, but only the old punt. And then he told Mrs. Barrable that he ought to go. They listened.

“They’ve gone right down the river,” said Mrs. Barrable, “or we’d be able to hear them whether their engine was running or not.”

Tom hurried along to the Teasel’s foredeck. Dick and Dorothea hurried after him. Already he was hauling up the Teasel’s mud-weight. Up it came, with the painter fast to the rope above it, and after it, with a tremendous stirring of mud, the Dreadnought herself rose slowly through the water, like a great shark. Up she came, and lay waterlogged, now one end of her and now the other lifting an inch above the surface.

“May I use your peak halyards?” asked Tom.

“Anything you like,” said Mrs. Barrable. “But keep the mud off the awning if you can.”

Tom, with Dick anxiously watching, unlaced the awning by the mast, freed the peak halyards, used the painter to make them fast to the Dreadnought’s thwarts, and delighted Dick and Dorothea by asking them to haul away, while he and Mrs. Barrable, who, after one moment’s hesitation, seemed not to mind getting her hands muddy, fended off from the deck of the Teasel.

“Steady,” said Tom. “Don’t lift her out of the water. She’s very old and the thwarts won’t bear it.”

Up came the punt, tilting over on one side. Water and mud poured out.

“Lower away,” called Tom, and the Dreadnought, no longer a submarine, floated with a few inches of freeboard.

Dick, his mind for once on the business in hand, saw what was wanted before anybody had time to tell him, hurried aft, hauled in the Teasel’s little dinghy, and was back in a moment with a baler.

“Good,” said Tom, who was already in the punt, thick brown water sloshing to and fro as he moved. He took the baler and settled down to scooping up the water and throwing it out with a quick swinging motion.

“What would you have done without a baler?” asked Mrs. Barrable.

“Used a sea-boot,” said Tom, without a moment’s stop in his work. “I’d got water into one already, when I was kicking her under.”

“Good boy,” said Mrs. Barrable, and then, lightly, as if it was a question that did not really matter, “You are sailing most of the time, aren’t you?”

“All the time,” said Tom, “except when I have to be at school.”

“Could you make anything of sailing a boat as big as ours?”

Tom looked up at the Teasel’s mast.

“She isn’t bigger than the one the three of us sail when Uncle Frank has his holiday. Of course I couldn’t manage her all by myself.”

“Three of you?”

“Port and Starboard.”

Dorothea’s eyes sparkled. Always those two seemed to be coming in.

“She’ll do all right now,” said Tom, handing back the baler and tugging at his paddle which he had firmly wedged before sinking his ship. “And thank you very much. I know I ought not to have come aboard and borrowed that mud-weight. And thank you very much indeed for not minding. Some people would have been pretty fierce about it.”

“You can’t sit on those wet thwarts,” said Mrs. Barrable.

“I’ll stand up,” said Tom.

“Isn’t she very crank?”

“Not if you know her,” said Tom. “She’s really much steadier than some.” And, perhaps just a little because of the spectators watching from the Teasel, he stood in the stern of the old punt and drove her up the river, using his paddle as if he were a gondolier or one of the old-time marshmen who, they say, could keep their balance on a floating plank.

Mrs. Barrable, Dick, Dorothea and William watched him out of sight.

“That’s a very good boy,” said Mrs. Barrable at last.

“Wouldn’t it have been awful if they’d caught him,” said Dorothea.

“He deserved not to be caught,” said Mrs. Barrable.

All the rest of the evening, they went on talking of Tom and the pirates, and the Hullabaloos, and the little racing boats they had seen in the afternoon. It was very late that night before Dick and Dorothea were stowed away in their bunks in the little fore-cabin, and Dick had tired of experimenting with the electric light above his head by switching it on and off, and Mrs. Barrable had taken out her letter to their mother, and was sitting at the folding table, finishing it up.

“Do you think we’ll see him again?” asked Dick’s voice out of the darkness forrard.

“I don’t see why not?” said Mrs. Barrable.

“And Port and Starboard, too?” said Dorothea.

“They seem to hang together,” said Mrs. Barrable. “Now, go to sleep, both of you.” And she crossed out a couple of sentences or so in her letter and added a few more. Then, listening to the quiet lapping of the water under the bows of the dinghy astern, she began drawing pictures as usual, and before she knew what she was doing, she had drawn a little sketch of the Teasel, with the awning gone, and her sails set, and a much larger crew than three aboard her, a little old woman at the tiller, Dick and Dorothea at the sheets, two girls on the foredeck, a boy at the masthead, and a row of three pirates, all with turbans and ferocious knives, sitting on the cabin roof.