Levkas Man by Hammond; Innes Page A

own business, Florrie. He’s the charterer, after all.’
    â€˜I know that, Bert. But still … it is our boat. I think we should know.’ Her voice was subdued, but quite determined.
    I don’t think she suspected anything. It was just that the hasty fixing of the charter made her uneasy. And rather than attempt to invent a reason, I told them about my father’s expedition.
    She relaxed at once. ‘Oh, that explains it.’
    â€˜Is it caves he’s exploring?’ Bert asked. ‘Or just a dig?’
    â€˜I’ve no idea,’ I said.
    He asked me where the camp was, and when I told him he went up into the wheelhouse and returned with a chart of the west coast of Greece. ‘If it’s caves I might be of some use,’ he said, spreading it out on the table. ‘As a kid I belonged to a speleological group—pot-holing, you know. We went to Spain one year—had a look at Altamira. That’s the cave that’s full of prehistoric paintings, on the north coast near Santander.’ His tubby finger indicated Jannina. ‘It looks as though Preveza would be the best port—Jannina is about sixty miles away and a good road by the look of it. We can make our entry at Pylos and then go straight up the coast, through the narrows between Meganisi and Levkas. Do you know the Levkas Canal?’
    I shook my head.
    â€˜A queer place—for Greece, that is. More like Holland really. Very flat, and a bloody great fort at either end. Preveza is only about eight miles beyond the north end of the canal.’
    We studied the chart for a bit, and then I said I was tired and went to bed.
    I saw very little of Malta during the next two days, only Manoel Island and a few of the narrow balconied streets of Sliema. Whilst Bert finished the installation of the automatic steering gear and Florrie dealt with the stores, I completed the varnishing of the brightwork and started on re-painting the bulwarks. ‘Not often I get a charterer who’ll work as hard as you,’ Bert said. But I didn’t mind. There was something very satisfying about getting that old boat ready for sea, and the work kept my mind off my own problems.
    Saturday morning we took on bonded stores, cleared Customs, and after a meal ashore, we slipped and headed out towards the entrance of Sliema Creek under engine. It was blowing hard from the south-west and we turned under the battlements of St Elmo and winched the gaff mainsail up and then the mizzen. The sun was shining on the piled-up mass of Valetta’s honey-stoned buildings, and as we cleared Dragut Point a machine-gun rattle of firecrackers burst from the roof of one of the churches, little puffs of smoke against a cloudless sky to celebrate some saint’s day.
    Outside the entrance the sea was rough and it was cold, so that I was glad of the oilskins I had purchased. We were hoisting the jib then in flurries of spray, and when we had got it properly set at the end of the short bowsprit, Bert switched off the engine, and in the sudden quiet we sailed close under the stern of an American carrier of the 6th Fleet and set course for Greece on a bearing just north of east.
    Visibility was good and it was not until almost 1700 hours that we lost the low line of Malta below the horizon. An hour later we broke the seal on the bonded stores locker and had our first drink at sea, the boat sailing easily at about six knots with the wind on our starboard quarter. We had an early meal, and then, as darkness fell, we went into watches, Bert and I sharing the night turns, with Florrie relieving us for the dawn watch.
    When I called her, at the end of the last night watch, the wind had strengthened to nearly force 7 and the helm was heavy with the ship showing a tendency to yaw. I think she was already awake, for her eyes were open when I switched on the light in their cabin. ‘Do you want to shorten sail?’ she asked as she slipped quickly out of