That afternoon Tracy joined in the search for suitable driftwood for the fire. Arthur had intended to set up a video camera in one position on the island, filming the changes that happened during a twenty four hour cycle. Once the fire stocks were replenished they set off around the island looking for a likely spot. Walking in the opposite direction to the cliffs Phil and Reuben had encountered the previous day they were able to skirt round all the way to the beach beyond the house. As the shoreline curved away from the mainland they noticed the height of the rocks above the sea was diminishing as if the island was built on a rocky ramp leaning over towards the ocean. By the time they reached the beach they had sunk below the level of the sand.
They had tried several places, setting up the camera on a tripod. Arthur spent a fair bit of time lining up the view but each time there was something wrong.
"Why don't you set it up on top if the hill?" Reuben had suggested tentatively.
"There would be too much sky there. I'm looking to frame the picture naturally with rocks or hillside. I like to use trees, but we're rather lacking those here."
"What about the tunnel?" Phil had suggested. Arthur duly set the camera up again in the mouth of the tunnel. The trailing brambles and creepers created an effective border to the screen, but the centre of the picture did not hold sufficient interest for Arthur. They took a break from the search and showed Arthur Tracy's antique transport.
"That's some boat!" Arthur was impressed as they arrived at the sleek wooden craft. "How long does it take you to get back to the mainland?"
"About half an hour at the most, but then I have to go along the coast a little way to the boathouse. From there it's a short bike ride to the bus shelter in the village. Quite a lot of us use bikes so there is a bike rack in the pub yard nearby."
"Does the school know you are living here?" Reuben asked.
"Don't be silly! One whiff of anything out of the ordinary and the welfare officer would be round at our house like a shot! That's why it's so important to keep up attendance."
"You don't go dressed like that do you?"
"I keep my uniform in the boathouse. There is a washer drier in there for sailing clothes and an iron."
"You've got everything sorted out well now haven't you." Phil grinned.
"Not quite."
"What do you mean?"
"I had everything sorted out. Now I have a problem."
For a while Reuben thought she meant that they were the problem. This was uncharted waters for him. He didn't know why she was here. Should they alert the authorities? Was it right for her to be out on the island, after all they only had her word for it that it belonged to her. Somehow he didn't think he could let her down. She had obviously shown so much courage already, whatever the reason for her exile.
"You wont be getting any trouble from us. " Phil's words echoed his feelings.
"No. I know that." She replied with a smile. "My problem is more basic than that. I've run out of petrol."
"Ah! No petrol, no school on Monday, right?"
"I could probably get away with a day or two away from school. It's not too hard to produce a sick note, but the less waves I make the better."
"You won't be making any waves if you cant get the boat working!" Arthur was looking in the tank. "Funny, there seems to be quite a bit of fuel left. Are you sure it's not working?"
"It stopped on me last night." Tracy went over to have a look. "I was about thirty metres from the shore. I rowed the last bit."
She pulled the cord starter on the engine. It spluttered but died immediately. "See?"
Arthur looked for the spark plug. He located it in the lower half of the engine.
"The connection seems fine." he said. "Try it again."
Tracey repeated the action, but with the same lifeless result.
"Excuse me." Phil joined the mechanics convention. "This might be a silly question, but is the petrol switched on?"
"I certainly haven't turned it off." Tracy was getting annoyed. "Look don't you think I haven't tried all these things."
"No, the fuel switch is definitely on." Arthur confirmed. Tracey made an 'I told you so' face.
Phil smiled. Putting his hand under the tank he gave the switch a half turn, past the off position so that it faced in the opposite direction. Then taking hold of the cord he gave a tug. The engine started first time.
"What!" Arthur was bemused.
"The reserve tank. It's like my moped. Not a separate tank, just the bottom of the main tank. There's probably enough to get back to shore."
It was decided to take the boat over to the mainland there and then. Launching the boat was easy. Arthur said he would rather not go, but agreed to be dropped back at the cove which was now accessible with the high tide. He planned to set up his equipment not far from the place he had sat for the painting. Reuben made a brief visit to the tents to pick up some postcards and cagoules.
The crossing was uneventful. Phil and Reuben were ready to take up the oars should the reserve fuel be insufficient but there was no need. Reaching the shore, Tracy pointed the bow up the coast and for a while they followed the shape of the coves and headlands. After about five minutes they arrived at a narrow inlet which cut inland and culminated in a small pebble beach. A small stone building stood just above the beach. From the pair of doors at one end they realised that this must be the boathouse. Tracy expertly manoeuvred the small craft so that it stopped just short of the rocky landing place.
Nimbly she jumped ashore and wound the painter loosely around a larger boulder.
"Hang on here a minute." she called over her shoulder as she ran towards the stone hut. A concrete slipway led up to the road by the boathouse and a few seconds later she reappeared wheeling a light trailer down to the waiting boat.
"It wouldn't do to scratch the varnish. Dad would go spare!"
As they helped to push the boat up to its resting place Reuben found himself wondering how she managed to pull it alone. Even with three of them it was an exertion to reach the top of the slope.
"What do you do at low tide?" he asked.
"The slipway goes all the way down." she replied. "I have to move some debris occasionally but it's usually clear."
"It's quite a task first thing in the morning." Phil observed.
"I manage. It gets easier with practise!"
Once the boat was safely stowed Tracy disappeared yet again into a small room at the back.
Phil bolted the main doors of the boathouse and picked up the petrol can. Looking around them they noticed the walls were hung with pictures of sailing boats, rowing boats, even a steam launch. Other photographs showed groups of smiling men with silver cups and other trophies. In the eaves over their heads they could see lobster pots crafted in the old fashioned way and nets with shining round glass floats. Along one wall two sets of oars rested on wooden pins. These were no sea going oars, they were more akin with the Thames at Henley.
"Dad used to row for Oxford." Tracy startled them. "That's him, third from the left. He wasn't in the boat race or anything. He was more of a solo man, skulls I think they call it."
She had changed her clothes. Wearing a tweed skirt in place of the worn jeans and stout leather walking shoes in place of her trainers she led the way out of a side door. Locking the door behind them they set off in the direction of the village.