The Lost Sister by Kathleen McGurl (i can read book club .TXT) 📕

‘Good grief, I can’t imagine it’d be that bad,’ Sheila said, as Harriet raised her eyebrows after overhearing another passenger say the ship was going to sink.

‘That’s what they all said when the Titanic first hit the iceberg,’ the woman said sharply. ‘I’m going to pick up my valuables, just in case.’ She marched off, and Harriet stifled a giggle.

‘This is hardly the north Atlantic, is it? Even if the ship’s damaged we are more or less in port.’

Sheila nodded. ‘And we have enough lifeboats, and there are no icebergs. Anyway, look.’ She pointed, and Harriet could see that the gap between the QM2 and the container ship was definitely widening.

‘Just hope the stern doesn’t swing round too much and hit it anyway,’ she said.

It was close, but it missed, and there was a collective sigh of relief from all who were watching.

‘Imagine being in an actual shipwreck,’ Sheila said. ‘I’d be hopeless. Can’t row, can’t even swim.’

‘With life jackets you don’t need to be able to swim,’ Harriet replied. ‘Anyway, the excitement’s over. The mist is clearing just in time for our trip into Amsterdam. Shall we get some breakfast?’

‘Ooh, yes. I’m more than ready for it now.’ Sheila took Harriet’s arm as they made their way to a restaurant serving breakfast.

While they ate – yogurt with granola and fruit for Harriet and a full English fry-up for Sheila – Harriet found herself remembering the nearest she’d ever come to being ship-wrecked once before, many long years ago.

It had happened when Harriet had been sailing a small dinghy, with her brother. Harriet and Matthew, then in their teens, were on holiday with their parents and some old family friends, camping in a field beside an estuary in Cornwall. The other family had brought a couple of sailing dinghies on a trailer, and the father of that family – whom they called Uncle Pete – spent much of the week teaching the children the basics of sailing, assigning one of their boats to Harriet’s family for the week. Harriet’s parents had not wanted to trust the rather battered-looking wooden dinghy, but Matthew had taken to it like a duck to water. By the end of the week he was competent enough to be helmsman, with Harriet alongside as crew. Her job was to handle the small jib sail, untying it when Matthew said ‘ready about’ then hauling on the sheet – she’d learned not to call it a rope – to pull the sail across to the other side, remembering to duck under the boom as it swung over, when Matthew gave the command ‘lee ho’. He managed the mainsail and the rudder.

Out on the water, with the little dinghy skipping over small waves as they tacked back and forth across the estuary, always within sight of the small shingle beach they’d launched from, there’d been a feeling of freedom that Harriet had never forgotten. Just her and her brother, the boat responding to their commands, the wind and water at their service, the sun on her face and her hair flicking about her shoulders, Matthew grinning as they set a course for the opposite bank of the estuary – magical times. Even then she knew they were special moments that she would remember for ever, and wished they could live like that always – camping, cooking on small Primus stoves, their parents managing the practicalities of shopping and cooking while the two of them mucked about on the water all day.

‘It’s like we’re the children in Swallows and Amazons,’ Harriet said, and Matthew laughed.

‘We could do with an island, and some buried treasure, and maybe an evil pirate to do battle with,’ he replied.

‘We can always pretend,’ Harriet said. ‘Look, that other dinghy over there – perhaps they’ve captured that girl on board and mean to sell her into the slave trade. We have to stop them. After them!’

‘All right! Let’s get tight into the wind and see if we can outrun them!’ Matthew adjusted his sail and told Harriet to pull hers in a little, and soon the boat was sailing faster than ever before, leaning over so much the centreboard was almost out of the water. Harriet and Matthew sat on the very edge, leaning back, to stop it from capsizing. There was a fine line to judge to keep the speed up but also keeping the boat upright. They were gaining on the other dinghy, then passing it, and Harriet waved and whooped as they did so, and then the wind veered round a little and suddenly the boat was over, capsized, and she found herself floundering in the water. She was thankful for the life jacket she was wearing as she bobbed to the surface, spluttering and laughing. Matthew was near, already standing on the centreboard and pulling with all his weight on the side of the boat until it righted itself, river water running off the sails.

‘Come on, climb in. We’re true sailors now, having capsized. Well done!’

She hauled herself over the side and set to work bailing water out of the bottom, using a plastic container that Uncle Pete had tied to the boat with a piece of string. The sails flapped uselessly while they worked to make the dinghy shipshape again.

‘Everything all right?’ yelled an occupant of the other dinghy that floated nearby.

‘Yes, we’re fine, thank you,’ Matthew responded, and soon they were under sail again, more sedately this time, tacking back and forth towards the little beach so they could land and dry off.

‘I saw what happened. You did well, to right the boat,’ Uncle Pete said, clapping Matthew on the back.

‘Oh my goodness. You could have been drowned! You’re not to go out in that boat again unless you’re with Pete,’ their mother said, fussing around Harriet with a towel.

‘Mum, I can swim,’ Harriet said, as she went back to their tent to change her clothing.