Turning the Tide (27 page)

‘I’ve had the time of my life,’ said Frankie, turning up his collar and twirling on his toes, as he passed Trevor throwing Sandra from Rose & Son through his legs.

‘What a great evening!’ said Trevor, who looked thrilled to show off his dancing skills. ‘You wouldn’t think Little Spitmarsh could rise to the occasion.’

Sandra came up for air and Trevor spun her across the room. Frankie, having coped magnificently with Lola Moult, was finding Carmen more of a challenge. ‘When’s Sophie coming up next? Have you managed to sort anything out with Jane?’ he yelled, grasping Carmen firmly by the waist so he could keep the twins firmly at bay.

‘The week before she’s due back to school,’ said Trevor, preparing himself to throw Sandra in the air. ‘I’m glad she likes the revamped website.’

Frankie noted Roy Moult returning to the fray. ‘It looks fab, doesn’t it? Blacknarcissusscent.com: beautiful, sophisticated and extortionately expensive designs.’

‘Frankie! You didn’t say that, did you?’ said a shocked Trevor, reaching out only just in time to catch Sandra.

‘Don’t be a fool, Trev. Besides, anyone who can afford to order these won’t think about the money. We’re not an online supermarket, Trev, we’re offering exclusivity. All yours,’ he said, spinning Carmen back to Roy. ‘Hey, Trev. I
am
having the time of my life! It’s been a great summer, hasn’t it?’

He almost added that it was shame Harry wasn’t there to enjoy the evening, but didn’t want to spoil Trevor’s mood. Sacking George had felt like a step too far – but who was brave enough to tell Harry? No, she’d have to work it out for herself.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Matthew had been looking right troubled. Fish and guests, they both stank after three days so there had to be quite a pong after his prolonged stay. George had made up his mind to address both issues. Despite the heatwave he had rustled up some nice lamb chops, which he served with mashed potatoes and some slightly overcooked cabbage liberally doused in rich gravy. That would make up for all that there salad and seafood nonsense Matthew was so fond of.

‘There we are, Matthew, get that down you.’ He opened the bottle of good red wine he’d bought in the off-licence and poured a glass for Matthew and some water for himself.

Matthew frowned at the label. ‘Some kind of occasion, George?’

George shook his head. ‘Bit of a thank you. For putting me up. Couple more over there,’ he said, waving his knife. He cleared his throat. ‘The fact is, Matthew, it’s time I moved back. I’m getting a bit soft here; I’m not used to all this luxury and modern whatnots.’ He was a nice feller, Matthew, thought George – polite enough to look quite shocked as he absorbed what he’d been told.

‘George, you’re not going back to that place, surely? You’ve only just recovered from a really nasty infection. No, George, you stay here as long as you like.’ Matthew raised his glass.

George looked him in the eye. ‘I know you don’t reckon the caravan’s much, Matthew, but it’s home to me.’

Matthew’s frown deepened and George winced as a hefty measure of good red disappeared. ‘It’s a total disgrace,’ Matthew snapped. ‘It’s bare, it’s cold and I don’t know how Harry Watling had the nerve to let you live there.’

George tutted; that wasn’t the way to treat a decent wine, he thought, piously. ‘Don’t go blaming Miss Harriet, now. I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s offered me an alternative.’

Matthew deflated visibly. ‘She has?’

There was a little flicker of hope in his eyes that George noted with satisfaction. Thinking the worst of Miss Harriet hadn’t done Matthew much good either; maybe it would all turn out for the best in the end. In the meantime, it was George’s duty to make a clean breast of it.

‘Definitely. She don’t ’ave a lot of cash, Miss Harriet, but she’s full of ideas. She’s offered to convert one of the workshops for me, asked if I’d like one of the ’ouseboats if one came up.’ He chuckled softly. ‘She’s all bark, Miss Harriet, you should know that by now. Yes, I could live somewhere you would call comfortable, and I’ve even got a bit of money put by, and when the time comes I’ll find meself a little bedsit somewhere, mebbe.’ He leaned back to make sure he was getting his point across. ‘But the thing is, Matthew, I’ve chosen to live there because I like it. There’s no palace that’s in a better spot than that caravan: I can watch the water and the sky, I can lie in bed and listen to the rain on the roof, or hear it creaking in the sun. Now how bad is that?’ He paused to let it sink in, then added, ‘And I likes to keep an eye on Miss Harriet.’

Matthew snorted. ‘How can you say that after the way she’s treated you?’

George took a deep breath. The first step, that was the hardest. He’d tell Matthew what he’d done and take the consequences after. ‘It’s more how I’ve treated her …’ he began.

Matthew waited whilst George found the keys to the caravan. An oystercatcher rebuked them with a sharp ‘kip, kip’ for disturbing the peace of the evening. A bit like Harry, he thought wistfully, always warning everyone off. Although George had done his best to do that, too. No wonder Harry had struggled. In a misguided attempt to bring the boat yard to a state where Harry would have to turn to Matthew for help, George had seen off just about everybody.

‘Miss Harriet was working ’erself to the bone,’ he’d said sadly. ‘The boat yard was already in trouble when you turned up, with so many part-time sailors preferring the easy life of the marina. Oh, the order book is full all right, but there’s always plenty of nothing jobs.’

‘Nothing jobs?’

‘Meaning Miss Harriet gets paid bugger all for taking on jobs that most people would be too scared of. No wonder there’s nothing of her. Thing is, Matthew, that boat yard is the last link to the man she idolised. She wasn’t going to give any of it away willingly; it would be like giving up on him. So I thought a bit of pressure would make her see that a tidy sum from the sale of a parcel of land would at least give her the option to share the load. Besides,’ George added furtively, ‘it’s better that Miss Harriet gets what she can for that land now, before anyone else gets their hands on it.’ He shook his head. ‘And that’s all I’m saying.’

To that end, George had set about driving away anything that might drip some lifeblood into the business. He’d hinted to any of Samphire’s customers who made enquiries about keeping their yachts there that Harry was about to give the land to eco-villagers who would shun modern conveniences for eco-friendly loos. ‘Told ’em it would be like a sewage farm!’ George recounted, shaking his head. ‘With a wind farm spreading the fumes about.’ The motorboat owners had been redirected to Great Spitmarsh marina. ‘Do a nice steak and chips at the bar there! None of yer fancy muck.’ And Harry’s regulars were all warned of an impending price hike.

George had certainly screwed things up for Harry, but he’d nearly paid very dearly for his well-intended meddling. Matthew sighed and followed him inside. However hard George protested that he wanted to be in the caravan, Matthew still felt Harry could have made more effort to make the place more comfortable.

But, to his surprise, the caravan – warmed by long hours of sunshine, with views of a barely rippling creek and a sky like amethyst shot through with pewter greys and liquid amber – didn’t seem as stark and uninviting as he’d remembered. He could suddenly see why George was happy with the minimum of fuss and clutter. Anything more elaborate would look horribly contrived against a backdrop of water and sky. So who cared if the interior wasn’t tastefully decorated in Farrow and Ball colours? It was simple, clean and, Matthew realised as he looked around more closely, had everything George needed close to hand.

‘Might be a bit old-fashioned to your eyes, Matthew,’ George said, reading his mind. ‘But this place suits me fine. I know I can’t stay here forever. One day I’m going to have to forgo waking to the sound of the waves whipping up or taking me tea outside and watching the birds of an evening, but I’m not there yet. Nearly was right enough, but there’s life in this old dog yet.’

‘Plenty, I hope,’ said Matthew, setting George’s holdall down.

The pleasure on George’s face at being home abruptly disappeared behind a cloud. ‘I’ve got to put things right with Miss Harriet first,’ he said, sadly.

Matthew patted him lightly on the back, feeling shabby that George had been the only one to make a clean breast of things. Somehow he hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell George about the charter. He justified the omission by telling himself it was because he didn’t want to jeopardise George’s full recovery; but the truth was he’d just got too fond of the old boy and didn’t want to lose his good opinion.

‘She’s hurting, that girl,’ George nodded.

Loyal to the last, thought Matthew, reluctantly leaving him to it. He couldn’t say he was sorry to get his rented house to himself; living in such a cosy space, he was now more familiar with George’s personal habits than he would have liked. The early morning coughing fits had been particularly alarming. Hearing one for the first time, Matthew had raced into the spare room clad only in his boxers, ready to call an ambulance – only to find a surprised-looking George happily sitting up in bed and, very much against doctor’s orders, smoking a roll-up.

George’s cooking was equally memorable. Unforgettable, you might say. Matthew doubted if he would ever get rid of the smell of cabbage that now pervaded every nook and cranny. Even so, part of him would miss George. Needing to be convinced that the old boy was settled and comfortable before he left, he looked back over his shoulder at the yellow lights of the windows twinkling against the black of the silhouetted caravan and the Byzantine blue of the sky. George’s patch of paradise. Who was he to disagree?

And Harry? Sometimes he had the feeling that George wasn’t quite telling him the full story, as if he alone knew what lay behind the face she presented to the world. Given the way George had been sabotaging operations at Watling’s, it was a miracle she was still in business at all. She had guts, certainly, guts to hang on when the tide was turning against her and, although he’d been mad at her at the time for doing it, guts to fire George, the most enduring presence in her life.

Poor Harry, she’d really had a rough time when he thought about it; no father, an absent mother and George! Hadn’t he been a bit quick to judge her? It hurt him to think of her battling away against hopeless odds, not one person by her side; she must have loved her father very deeply to find the inner strength to keep going. He was also feeling pretty bad about all the times he’d scoffed at the way she dressed – those dreaded dungarees! Jesus, she wasn’t a footballer’s wife, was she? What chance did Harry Watling have to pamper and preen – she was always too busy doing her job. Given those beautiful eyes and that wide sensual mouth, he was willing to bet that she’d knock spots off the competition if she relaxed just enough to smile. What a pity he wasn’t the one who could make that happen.

Walking back across the yard, Matthew thought he saw a flicker of light at the periphery of his vision. He hesitated, and the light flashed again in a brief sweeping movement. Harry didn’t need to go around with a torch on her own property, so who was sneaking around in George’s shed?

Why hadn’t the security light gone on? Harry backed away from the glass door and huddled on the stairs in the dark, cursing the instinct that kicked in whenever there was a problem in the yard. Why couldn’t she have just carried on sleeping, oblivious to whatever disasters were waiting to happen? It was, she supposed, some kind of primitive maternal response. Only in her case, her vulnerable infant was the boat yard. But, whereas other women saw their children grow up and leave, she would always be responsible for her charge. And there were times, like now, with a possible prowler just feet away from her, when she was beginning to think what a relief it would be to hand the responsibility to someone else.

Right now, if this was a creepy film, thought Harry, slowly reaching for the substantial hand torch she kept by the door, everyone would be screaming for her not to do it. Or at least to put some proper clothes on first.

Despite her best efforts to move as quietly as possible, there was a sharp click as the door opened. She paused, straining her ears for the slightest sound or movement and trying not to think about someone in the shadows doing the same. When she was as certain as she could be that no one was lying in wait, she inched one bare foot across the threshold and, with her back to the building and her eyes peeled, edged bit by bit along the perimeter of the yard and into a warm and solid wall.

A hand went round her mouth to gag her at the same time as the other snaked round her waist, pinning her so close that Harry really wished there was more than an oversized tee shirt between her backside and someone’s crotch. More angry at herself for walking into such an obvious trap than afraid, Harry eyes darted round the yard, looking for the best escape route whilst she gathered her strength to fight back.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Matthew hissed. ‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’

Harry longed to tell him that she was doing just fine until he started playing fright night with her, but his hand was still clamped around her face.

‘Harry, shut up,’ he said in a low voice. ‘There’s someone in George’s shed. And no, it’s not George, because I’ve just taken him back to the caravan.’

Harry would have slumped against him with relief had it not been for the sound of a door banging open and Matthew pushing her aside to go racing towards the noise. She shrugged and ran after him. It was too cold to be standing around.