‘What’s happening, Ray? Where are we?’
Ray didn’t look up from his computations, which earned him a frown.
‘We’ve got a bloody awful navigator, that’s all,’ he said. I don’t even know what happened,’ Jonathan protested, clearly hoping for a show of sympathy from Angela. None was forthcoming.
‘But where are we?’ she asked again.
‘Good morning, Angela,’ I said; I too was ignored.
‘Is it an island?’ she said.
‘Of course it’s an island: I just don’t know which one yet,’ Ray replied.
‘Perhaps it’s Barra,’ she suggested.
Ray pulled a face. ‘We’re nowhere near Barra,’ he said. ‘If you’ll just let me retrace our steps – ‘
Retrace our steps, in the sea? Just Ray’s Jesus fixation, I thought, looking back at the beach. It was impossible to guess how big the place was, the mist erased the landscape after a hundred yards. Perhaps somewhere in that grey wall there was human habitation.
Ray, having located the blank spot on the map where we were supposedly stranded, climbed down on to the beach and took a critical look at the bow. More to be out of Angela’s way than anything else I climbed down to join him. The round stones of the beach were cold and slippery on the bare soles of my feet. Ray smoothed his palm down the side of the ‘Emmanuelle’, almost a caress, then crouched to look at the damage to the bow. ‘I don’t think we’re holed,’ he said, ‘but I can’t be sure.’ ‘We’ll float off come high tide,’ said Jonathan, posing on the
bow, hands on hips, ‘no sweat,’ he winked at me, ‘no sweat at all.’
‘Will we shit float off!’, Ray snapped. Take a look for yourself.’
‘Then we’ll get some help to haul us off.’ Jonathan’s confidence was unscathed.
‘And you can damn well fetch someone, you asshole.’
‘Sure, why not? Give it an hour or so for the fog to shift and I’ll take a walk, find some help.’
He sauntered away.
I’ll put on some coffee,’ Angela volunteered.
Knowing her, that’d take an hour to brew. There was time for a stroll.
I started along the beach.
‘Don’t go too far, love,’ Ray called.
‘No.’
Love, he said. Easy word; he meant nothing by it.
The sun was warmer now, and as I walked I stripped off the sweater. My bare breasts were already brown as two nuts, and, I thought, about as big. Still, you can’t have everything. At least I’d got two neurons in my head to rub together, which was more than could be said for Angela; she had tits like melons and a brain that’d shame a mule.
The sun still wasn’t getting through the mist properly. It was filtering down on the island fitfully, and its light flattened everything out, draining the place of colour or weight, reducing the sea and the rocks and the rubbish on the beach to one bleached-out grey, the colour of over-boiled meat.
After only a hundred yards something about the place began to depress me, so I turned back. On my right tiny, lisping waves crept up to the shore and collapsed with a weary slopping sound on the stones. No majestic rollers here: just the rhythmical slop, slop, slop of an exhausted tide. I hated the place already.
Back at the boat, Ray was trying the radio, but for some reason all he could get was a blanket of white noise on every frequency. He cursed it awhile, then gave up. After half an hour, breakfast was served, though we had to make do with sardines, tinned mushrooms and the remains of the French toast. Angela served this feast with her usual aplomb, looking as though she was
performing a second miracle with loaves and fishes. It was all but impossible to enjoy the food anyway; the air seemed to drain all the taste away.
‘Funny isn’t it – ‘ began Jonathan.
‘Hilarious,’ said Ray.
‘ – there’s no fog-horns. Mist, but no horns. Not even the sound of a motor; weird.’
He was right. Total silence wrapped us up, a damp and smothering hush. Except for the apologetic slop of the waves and the sound of our voices, we might as well have been deaf.