Free Dolly and the Singing Bird by Dorothy Dunnett

Railways a towel, and the Northern Lighthouse Commission a miscellany of objects, including three Brasso tins and a clock.
    The light, of a theatrical isolation, came from an engineer’s inspection lamp slung on a festoon of flex. The bedding, which lay rolled up under one of the benches, was as supplied by H.M. Prisons. Beside it, under this and the second bench opposite, was Ogden’s working equipment: old chocolate boxes filled with rusty screwdrivers, mouldering insulating tape, wire clippers and nails, tacks, hooks, hammers, odd bits of chalk and a spirit level, inscribed clearly WIMPEY. There were some engineers’ waste, and a number of old, dirty flags strung together, with some anonymous cans reeking of spirit and oil which clinked together as
Seawolf
began to sail up to her tow.
    There was another clinking too, which I was investigating in the fo’c’sle, a kind of after-care unit for nail-sickness, when a whoop from Victoria in the bows told of success with the chain: a moment later and from above there came the squeak of a hand-operated winch and rhythmic crash from the chain locker as the anchor was brought up from the sea to the bows. Soon after that,
Seawolf
’s gentle sauntering stopped; Johnson spoke, and there was a splash and a racing rattle as the anchor was thrown in again and the chain ran out, properly this time, to reach the sea bed. Casting a last, fascinated glance at my immediate scenery, I prepared to return to the saloon.
    On the inside of the cockpit door was a painted legend, insufficiently sandpapered off, reading LADIES. I was studying it, entertained, when it flew open and the owner vaulted down the stairs.
    I was not tempted to laugh now: indeed I was not. Cecil Ogden was wet, cold, tired and in a towering temper. “Who the hell gave you leave to break in and meddle down here? You’ve squawked before all the zombies in Europe, and that makes you the bloody Queen of the May?” His eyeballs were bloodshot, but his ducking had practically sobered him.
    Before I could answer, Johnson spoke matter-of-factly behind me, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, the building of a boat with your own hands, Ogden. Madame Rossi is a friend and a guest of mine, not a Hennessy, you know.”
    Then Ogden’s long, high-boned cheeks flamed under the streaming tails of his hair; and he muttered, directing it somewhere between us, “It’s the end of the season, that’s all. After a hard season’s wear, you can’t expect the same service from the best engine there is.”
    He was almost sober, as I have said; but the whole boat still reeked of spirits. Of course he didn’t want strangers exploring his fo’c’sle unaccompanied. But it wasn’t the boat he was ashamed of.
    But now Victoria emerged from the chain locker, talking excitedly; the man from
Evergreen
in immaculate uniform appeared in the cockpit and began testing the engine; Lenny, rather wet, vaulted into the cabin and announced
Seawolf
’s pram in good order and tied to its parent again; and last of all Rupert, a godly figure quite nude but for a pair of bathing trunks, appeared glistening negligently on the stairs and announced calmly that the rope was freed from the screw. As he said so, under the surgical fingertips of
Evergreen
’s skipper the engine stirred, chattered and then boomed into life.
    There was a deafening cheer. The paid hand from
Evergreen
, his face severe, slowly entered the crowded saloon and confronted Cecil Ogden. “I think that’ll be all right now sir, although your clutch, if you’ll pardon my saying so, is in a verra poor kind of condition. Would there be somewhere I could wash my hands, sir?”
    Pressing back, we gave him passage through to the galley. There was no tap. He put an oily, efficient thumb over the open vent of the old trawler pump, and after a moment the water gushed into the sink, which he hadn’t yet plugged.
    Alas, he had not yet noticed—why should he?— that the sink and the waste pipe