Dolly and the Singing Bird by Dorothy Dunnett Read Free Book Online Page A

can’t tip even when you go about, and keep hot and everything. You’ve no idea the wrinkles they have.”
    The woman had joined the man. Both their faces were mahogany with weather and flattery. The man Bob said, “Well, you know. A tidy ship is an efficient ship. And an efficient ship is a happy ship. We keep the Good Book handy and do what we can.”
    The woman Nancy hit him on the arm. “Bob, Madame Rossi will be wondering. That’s just the name we give the C.C.C. Sailing Directions; don’t heed him.” She suddenly knelt. During all this, Victoria was attaching the entire dinghy to
Binkie
with one calloused hand on their gangway. We bobbed up and down but she showed no signs of discomfort. The woman Buchanan addressed me at close quarters.
    “I’m not meaning to be cheeky, but Bob and me and the others at the Clubhouse think your coming with us is great. And in a good working boat:
Dolly
’s been up here a few times before, and she’s a good boat with good people in her. We get the carriage trade slumming up here from Formentor and Alghero with their wigs and their fancy men and their beagles doing the bathroom at every lock gate west of Cairnbaan, but it takes a real lady to try her luck in the Minch. Not that I’ve anything against dumb animals: I’m a vegetarian and a member of the R.S.P.C.A. and I’ve never worn an animal’s fur in my life, but it’s the principle… Are you a good sailor, Madame Rossi?”
    “I don’t know yet. I hope so,” I said. I was fascinated.
    She clicked her small, blackened teeth. “Tell Johnson to give you a pill. And remember, we’re vegetarian but we’re not a dry ship. If yon debutante’s dream Rupert’s forgotten the booze, there’s enough here lying snug in the bilges to see us both right.”
    I thought of it; and I was still thinking of it when, having made out suitable farewells, we left the Buchanans and arrived at last at Johnson’s yacht
Dolly
.
    She was bigger than I had feared. She was a long white boat, with two tall masts, brass rails and a polished wood companionway. At the top of this, two heads emerged in welcome. One was Rupert Glasscock’s, tousled and blond, above glittering chrome yellow oilskins. The other belonged to a small, middle-aged man with large ears and an old navy yachting cap whom Rupert, blowing kisses to both of us, introduced as Lenny Milligan from Golders Green, ex-Royal Navy, ex-Royal Yacht, ex-a very fancy job with a millionaire’s steam yacht in Monte. “Signed on for a season to slum it in Britain,” said Rupert as Victoria flung up the painter and planted a prehensile bare foot on
Dolly
’s gangway, ready to board.
    “Good show,” said Victoria absently, turning to lend me a hand. “It won’t take him a season to find out there’s nothing wrong with British yachting but lousy old British weather.”
    “Lousy weather and herberts like Cecil,” said Rupert, helping us aboard and down into a large and well-cushioned cockpit. “You’re dotty, darling. You know that you’re dotty. Your soul-mate’s an incurable nut. He got
Seawolf
from Santa in a polythene bag with a tube of soluble gum. He did. I swear it.”
    “You’re just jealous, my Rupert.” Victoria was unperturbed. “My God, new bedspreads.” She withdrew her head from the aft cabin. “I wish I had Johnson’s income tax to live off, that’s all I can say. How’d you like it?”
    This to me. I didn’t answer. I was still looking.
    This, I was glad to find, was quite a suitable boat for Tina Rossi. To luxury yachts, of course, I was no stranger. But the small kind one sees at Monte and St. Jean and Gibraltar—I have observed them. This was different. She had aft a double cabin, with bathroom and shower, which would be mine. Through the cockpit, one descended into the saloon, by way of various amenities, including good lockers. The saloon, with bedcouches and hammocks, would sleep four, but was shared, I was told, by Johnson and Glasscock. Beyond