Rum Affair by Dorothy Dunnett Read Free Book Online Page B

pass, of a rather disgusting shade of dark red.
    “What does Binkie do?” I asked gloomily. Johnson. And Ogden. And Hennessy. My God. This particular racehorse of the seas was smaller than most of the others, and was engaged in washing up its breakfast dishes on three inches of deck. As I spoke, a small round person in a knitted cap lifted and emptied the washing-up bowl, to a screaming of seagulls and a man’s voice crying: “Nan! Nan! Did ye feel for the teaspoon?”
    It was the man and wife seen last night in the bar, their arms full of bottles of tonic. “Bob and Nancy Buchanan. He runs a garage in Falkirk,” said Victoria, rapidly, and hailed them. “Hallo! This is Madame Rossi: I’m taking her out to the Dolly. Well, are you cosy, Bob? How’s the Wee Stinker?”
    The face of the man Buchanan split into an affectionate grin. “Fine. Grand, absolutely. You can hang your socks on her and they’re dry in ten minutes.”
    “They’ve got a new stove,” explained Victoria. “Binkie’s got everything, haven’t you Bob? Wee Stinker’s their stove, and their engine’s called Buttercup: an absolutely stunning great object by Kelvin. And they both eat out of dog dishes: a perfectly super idea because they 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 RSPCA 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 blonde, 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