Read Online On Green Dolphin Street by Sebastian Faulks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sebastian Faulks
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clothes, overnight things and records.
“And a New York journalist, if you don’t mind,” said Charlie.
“That’s fine,” said Katy. “Is he the one I met at your party? My sister’s coming down from Boston.”
They left early on Saturday morning in the Renshaws’ station wagon, Edward driving, with Katy and her sister, whose name was Sal, on the bench seat beside him, and the others in the back. The rear was piled with boxes of provisions, candles, gas lamps in case of electrical failure and extra blankets. There was only light traffic in town as they drove east and picked up Route 50. Washington seemed unmanned by the weekend; the closure of its government buildings, institutions and attorneys’ offices robbed the city of its raison d’être; the empty streets seemed sheepish and unreal.
Their early start meant that it was still not yet nine when they arrived at the Bay Bridge toll booth. From the shallow water in front of them the bridge rose up on its graduated stilts, like a gentle ramp at first, until it reached its main span across the bay to Kent Island. High above, the blue sky was broken up with white vapor trails from light aircraft going to the small landing fields on the island or the larger one at Easton on the shores of Maryland.
“Anyone got forty cents?” said Edward.
For once Mary was able to produce the right money from her purse; she found American coins hard to handle, those dimes, nickels and pennies: Charlie’s solution was to throw anything less than a quarter into the children’s money boxes.
Edward ground the column shift into first and they moved off across the bridge. The homemade appearance of its engineering reminded Mary of Richard’s short and emotional encounter with Meccano; she tried not to look down at the surface of the roadway, the trembling rivets or the drop into the water as the car was swept along at a speed determined by the hastening vehicles around them. Edward turned on the radio, Charlie wound down the window and Mary lay back against the seat, gazing up through the windshield at the huge open skies above the bay, ripped and flagged with puffs of white vapor.
Half an hour later, they were afloat. The sailing boat at once caught the spring breeze, its mainsail bagging out greedily on the wind, as the bow carved a bubbling gash through the dark waters of the bay. The women, in head scarves and sunglasses, sat along one side of the boat; the men, according to Edward’s barked instructions from the tiller, switched sides beneath the swinging boom to keep them on an even keel. Charlie, who had sailed before, pulled on ropes, or sheets as he knowingly called them, stiffening or slacking the spinnaker as the plaited cord ran through its screeching metal pulleys. No one on the boat could have said how seriously he took himself at his work, except Mary, who knew that his view of all human activity was satirical. His hair was whipped back and forth across his face, revealing patches of bare scalp from where it had forever retreated. Mary looked at him fondly; she laughed, with Katy and Sal, athis inappropriate flannel pants and nautical oaths. Frank passed round cigarettes as he ducked beneath the boom; once back in his seat, he held firmly to the rail with an expression of mild suffering.
“Better than Lake Michigan, Frank?” said Mary.
“Sure,” he said, and nodded at the view. “Beats looking at Evanston.”
The shores of the bay were wooded on all sides; around the water, from vegetation protected and unchecked, there were wild birds calling; it was hard to believe that the world’s future was decided just the other side of the dense woods, in a clearing in the jungle.
“Do you know these lines, Eddie?” called out Charlie from the bow. “ ‘The world diminished to a surge of wind, / Flung clouds break up within my heart / The fitful joy of breathing.’ ”
“Sure,” said Edward. “It goes on … wait a minute. Yup. ‘Land listening for
“And a New York journalist, if you don’t mind,” said Charlie.
“That’s fine,” said Katy. “Is he the one I met at your party? My sister’s coming down from Boston.”
They left early on Saturday morning in the Renshaws’ station wagon, Edward driving, with Katy and her sister, whose name was Sal, on the bench seat beside him, and the others in the back. The rear was piled with boxes of provisions, candles, gas lamps in case of electrical failure and extra blankets. There was only light traffic in town as they drove east and picked up Route 50. Washington seemed unmanned by the weekend; the closure of its government buildings, institutions and attorneys’ offices robbed the city of its raison d’être; the empty streets seemed sheepish and unreal.
Their early start meant that it was still not yet nine when they arrived at the Bay Bridge toll booth. From the shallow water in front of them the bridge rose up on its graduated stilts, like a gentle ramp at first, until it reached its main span across the bay to Kent Island. High above, the blue sky was broken up with white vapor trails from light aircraft going to the small landing fields on the island or the larger one at Easton on the shores of Maryland.
“Anyone got forty cents?” said Edward.
For once Mary was able to produce the right money from her purse; she found American coins hard to handle, those dimes, nickels and pennies: Charlie’s solution was to throw anything less than a quarter into the children’s money boxes.
Edward ground the column shift into first and they moved off across the bridge. The homemade appearance of its engineering reminded Mary of Richard’s short and emotional encounter with Meccano; she tried not to look down at the surface of the roadway, the trembling rivets or the drop into the water as the car was swept along at a speed determined by the hastening vehicles around them. Edward turned on the radio, Charlie wound down the window and Mary lay back against the seat, gazing up through the windshield at the huge open skies above the bay, ripped and flagged with puffs of white vapor.
Half an hour later, they were afloat. The sailing boat at once caught the spring breeze, its mainsail bagging out greedily on the wind, as the bow carved a bubbling gash through the dark waters of the bay. The women, in head scarves and sunglasses, sat along one side of the boat; the men, according to Edward’s barked instructions from the tiller, switched sides beneath the swinging boom to keep them on an even keel. Charlie, who had sailed before, pulled on ropes, or sheets as he knowingly called them, stiffening or slacking the spinnaker as the plaited cord ran through its screeching metal pulleys. No one on the boat could have said how seriously he took himself at his work, except Mary, who knew that his view of all human activity was satirical. His hair was whipped back and forth across his face, revealing patches of bare scalp from where it had forever retreated. Mary looked at him fondly; she laughed, with Katy and Sal, athis inappropriate flannel pants and nautical oaths. Frank passed round cigarettes as he ducked beneath the boom; once back in his seat, he held firmly to the rail with an expression of mild suffering.
“Better than Lake Michigan, Frank?” said Mary.
“Sure,” he said, and nodded at the view. “Beats looking at Evanston.”
The shores of the bay were wooded on all sides; around the water, from vegetation protected and unchecked, there were wild birds calling; it was hard to believe that the world’s future was decided just the other side of the dense woods, in a clearing in the jungle.
“Do you know these lines, Eddie?” called out Charlie from the bow. “ ‘The world diminished to a surge of wind, / Flung clouds break up within my heart / The fitful joy of breathing.’ ”
“Sure,” said Edward. “It goes on … wait a minute. Yup. ‘Land listening for
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