Lifeboat! (11 page)

Mike was not following a particular course from his map as he would have been doing for a distance flight, but it was vital to have a map in order to avoid prohibited areas in his search for lift. In his enthusiasm it was so easy to forget to read his map when his eyes were scanning the cloud formation overhead which would take him higher and higher …

The signal came that they were ready for another launch and Mike said, ‘All clear above and behind?'

Toby answered, ‘All clear above and behind.'

‘Take up slack,' Mike requested and raised his index-finger vertically. The huge lights at the end of the caravan flashed a slow on/off signal and Toby swung his left arm backwards and forwards as if marching, until Mike shouted, ‘All out.' Then Toby's signal changed to a similar arm movement but this time above his head, and the lights gave a faster intermittent signal.

Mike felt himself being tugged forward and the glider began to move smoothly across the grass, gaining speed. After only a few yards the glider became airborne and began to climb steeply. At twelve hundred feet, Mike released the cable and below him the tiny parachute opened and gently lowered the cable to the ground.

Immediately Mike found a thermal and banking and turning to the right, he began circling, climbing higher and higher, all the while watching the building cumulus above him as a sign of the thermals waiting for him.

He was on his way.

After being airborne for some ten minutes, Mike called Toby up on the radio. ‘Golden Eagle Base, this is Great Awk. Over.'

‘How's it look?' Toby wanted to know.

The excitement was evident in Mike's tone even over the crackling radio. ‘ There's a promising cumulus to the west with a base of about three thousand feet. Here I go! Out.'

He felt the glider sink a little just before it entered the swirling thermal and then the surge of lift began. Banking and turning to the right, Mike worked the thermal, spiralling up and up at a rate of climb of about eight knots until he reached a height of three thousand feet which was, in fact, cloud base. Just as he was about to leave this thermal, he pulled back on the stick and the nose of the glider came up sharply and with a final sudden thrust upwards the Blanik gained an extra two hundred feet. It was a technique Mike had perfected for himself in his quest for height, but each time it was like a high-speed elevator, causing his stomach to heave into his throat and leaving him with a sensation of nausea. But it was worth it, anything was worth it to get that little bit of extra height.

He straightened out into the wind and soared into the clear air. Ahead was another cumulus, bigger than the last. Finding its core, Mike achieved a smooth climb of some five knots and this time he was able to venture right into the cloud reaching a height of some eight thousand feet. This short cloud climb confirmed that all the blind-flying instruments were working correctly and that Mike himself was not out of practice at this type of flying. He came out of this cloud to continue his search for further thermals. There was nothing at present that would take him much higher than he was already. Now he was losing height and soon he found he had sunk below cloud base which had by this time reached four and a half thousand feet.

‘Blast!' he muttered and set his instruments for a course heading south-west. It was from this direction that the storm-clouds would come and Mike intended to meet them.

Macready arrived home for a late breakfast just before eleven. Julie—forwarned by telephone—had bacon, egg, sausage and tomatoes frizzling in the pan.

Of Howard Marshall-Smythe—there was no sign.

Julie greeted him. ‘Dad—the Sister from St Botolphs rang about Nigel Miller, is it?'

‘Milner. Aye, how is he?'

‘Out of Intensive Care and in the Children's Ward and doing nicely.'

‘Aaah,' Macready gave a long sigh of satisfaction. ‘That's good news.' He sat down at the table smiling—a smile that broadened as Julie placed his breakfast in front of him.

‘Mmm, this looks good, hen.' Between mouthfuls he asked, ‘Any plans for today?'

‘Well, I thought we'd take a picnic out this afternoon if it keeps fine.'

‘The forecast said thunderstorms this afternoon.'

Julie grimaced, ‘Oh well, perhaps we'll have to think of something else.'

There was silence between them. Macready was thinking about the sailing-dinghy, hoping that they were not thinking of using that, but he could not bring himself to voice his fears, not even to Julie. For the first time in their close relationship there was a constraint between them, caused by Howard.

Was that the reason he couldn't quite take to the young man as he would like to have done. Macready was honest enough to question his own motives, but could honestly answer that it was not jealousy of the fact that he was her boyfriend and might come between father and daughter. Macready just could not feel easy with Howard. He had known the time would come when there would be another man in her life—he would not have wanted it otherwise—but if only it could have been someone like young Tim perhaps.

Macready cleared his plate, drank his tea and watched in silence as Julie set a breakfast-tray. He noted the careful preparation, the items placed just so, the Sunday paper folded beside the plate.

‘What on earth is
that?
' Macready could no longer hold back the words as he saw her pouring an unusual type of breakfast cereal into the bowl on the tray.

‘Muesli—it's very good for you.'

Did he detect a hint of defensiveness in her tone? Macready murmured, ‘ Och, you'll no beat porridge for ya breakfast, hen.'

Julie turned to face him and then Macready was relieved to see the impish humour—so like his own—twinkling in her brown eyes. ‘Och away to yon bed wi' ye,' she mimicked him.

Macready chuckled and levered himself up from the chair. ‘Nay—I'm away back to the boathouse. The visitors were beginning to drift in when I came away.'

Concern showed on Julie's face. ‘Oh Dad, you've been out all night. Surely Bert's there, isn't he?'

Bert was an elderly, white-haired man who had been a crew member for twenty years and since his retirement had virtually run the souvenirs stall in the boathouse. He knew as much about the history of the Saltershaven lifeboats as Macready and at every launch Bert could be found weaving his way amongst the watchers on the sands, rattling his collecting-box under their noses and recounting the vivid stories of the dramatic rescues he remembered.

The Lifeboat Institution owed a great deal to all those like Bert, the ones who beavered away behind the scenes—the Service was in their blood.

‘Aye,' Macready replied confidently. ‘Bert will be there and Tim too I expect.' He cast a sideways glance at his daughter, but she was avoiding his gaze and making a great play of setting the breakfast-tray.

Macready sighed inwardly. ‘Dinner at one?'

‘Er—well—yes. Yes, Dad, of course.'

‘Take care, hen,' he said as he left by the back door.

‘And you. Dad,' Julie replied as always.

On the way out to his eight-year-old car, relegated to the kerbside by Howard's Ferrari Berlinetta Boxer, Macready paused to look over the long, almost rocket-shaped model, its nose pressed up against Macready's garage door whilst the back end of the boat trailer was only just inside the gateway. His glance ran admiringly, yet without an ounce of envy, over the red car with its huge tyres on the well-known Cromodaras five-spoke wheels. It looked sleek, very powerful and very new. But the personalised number plate—HMS 4—gave no indication of the year of registration. Macready bent to look in the side window. The plump leather bucket seats were in black and between them was a centre console of controls under the driver's left elbow. On the dashboard Macready could just read the mileage on the clock—four hundred and thirty-one miles. It was this year's model all right, this month's in fact.

Behind the car sat the sailing-dinghy, just as new and sparkling, looking as if she had yet to dip her bows into water.

Macready climbed thoughtfully into his own car. There was certainly money behind this particular undergraduate—there must be well over forty-five thousand pounds all together sitting there on his driveway. And yet …

It was a curiously peaceful morning at the station. Out across the putting-green the beach thronged with people. Macready could hear faintly the shouts and the noise, but here in the boathouse in spite of the shuffle of sandy feet and the muted voices of the visitors, there was a tranquility.

Yet beneath that superficial calm there was always that hint of expectancy, an underlying alert readiness.

The morning was sultry and to the south-west Macready could detect the faint rumble of thunder.

Jack Hansard called in at the station and he and Macready climbed the ladder to the open-sided loft at the seaward end of the boathouse. Through their binoculars they viewed the holiday-makers; the sailing-dinghies; the speed-boat with its water-skier behind; the children and their airbeds playing in the shallows and their indolent parents lolling on the sands.

‘Never changes, does it?' Jack Hansard remarked philosophically. ‘Whatever we try to do, they persist in taking no notice. Earlier on I caught three swimmers going into the water and the red warning flag was still flying! They'd walked right past the damn thing and never noticed it—or at least if they had they didn't know what it meant.'

‘Aye,' Macready agreed. He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I'll be away for my dinner now. Though I'm not sure there'll be any waiting.'

‘Oh? Where's Julie then?' Jack asked.

‘She's a boyfriend down from college to see her.'

There was a pause and then Jack remarked, ‘You don't sound best pleased, Iain.'

‘Jack,' Macready felt the need to confide in his friend of many years, ‘you know how I've missed my Mary these past years?'

Jack Hansard nodded sympathetically as Macready continued, ‘And it's not that I mind my girl growing up, y'ken, even growing away from me, only—I don't know how to talk to her about—about this young man, not like I know Mary could have done.'

‘What's the trouble?'

‘I canna put my finger on what's bothering me really. It's just this feeling I have. Och, I dunna know. Maybe I'm misjudging the laddie. It's obvious he's from a very wealthy family.'

Jack cast a shrewd glance at Macready. ‘It's not like you to judge someone by their wealth—one way or t'other.'

‘No—and I'm nay doing this time. It's his attitude, Jack. He's so—so superior. Makes out he knows it all. You know the type?'

The coastguard nodded. ‘And really he knows nothing at all, you mean?'

Macready sighed. ‘That's exactly what I'm afraid of. He's brought this brand-new sailing-dinghy with him and …'

‘Hello there!' They heard the shout from below and Macready turned away to descend the ladder, the moment of a shared confidence lost.

Tim Matthews's face grinned up at him as Macready reached the bottom rung. ‘ Hello, Mr Macready. Anything I can do for you this morning?'

‘Well now, son,' Macready greeted him. Despite the untimely interruption, he was always pleased to see young Tim. ‘I was just about to shut the shop and go and get a bite of dinner. Bert's just away home. But …'

‘I'll stay, Mr Macready. They're still wanting to come in and take a look. It'd be a shame to close the door on their money, now wouldn't it?' Tim winked and grinned.

Macready laughed. ‘All right. I'll be away then. I'd better not be late seeing as we have company.'

‘Er—Mr Macready—er, about Julie. I mean this fella from the university. Is it—well, are they serious, do you reckon?'

Macready could detect the underlying anxiety in the boy's voice, even though he was trying to keep the question conversational, as if it didn't really matter. But Macready knew it did. To Tim and to himself.

He didn't know how to answer the lad, but he was never one to evade the truth. ‘I honestly don't know, Tim. But I hope not.' He turned away. He didn't want Tim to see the worry mirrored in his own eyes. ‘I'll be back within the hour.'

‘That's all right, Mr Macready. I'll be here.'

Macready was thoughtful as he went home. He would miss young Tim, and knowing of the lad's keenness to get into the crew, he regretted that he had not been able to give him a trip before he left Saltershaven. Of course the lad had been on practice launches, but that could never be quite the same as a genuine service.

He opened the back door to the smell of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Julie was alone in the kitchen.

‘Where's …' he was about to say ‘ his lordship' but thinking better of it said instead, ‘Howard?'

Julie banged the saucepan she was holding on to the cooker top with such vehemence, so totally uncharacteristic of his gentle daughter, that Macready winced.

‘Gone to play golf. He always plays golf on a Sunday morning,' she told him shortly.

Mildly Macready said, ‘Didn't you tell him what time dinner was?'

‘He said he'd be back for dinner.'

Macready glanced at the electric wall clock. ‘But,' Julie went on, stressing each word, ‘dinner to him is six-thirty in the evening, not one o'clock.'

‘You should have said, Julie hen. I'd not have minded having it tonight instead of now,' Macready said. ‘You should have gone with him …'

‘I—wasn't—asked!' she said pointedly.

‘Oh,' he said and then again, ‘Oh, I see.' He glanced at the window. ‘Well, I reckon he could get rained off any time. It's very black over to the south-west and I heard a rumble of thunder as I came home.'

Macready applied himself to the meal Julie had placed before him. He was sorry to see her upset and yet he could not help but feel a stab of relief that although the Ferrari was gone from the drive, the sailing-dinghy was still safely on its trailer outside Macready's front door.