Follow a Star (19 page)

‘Your bed,’ May said firmly, ‘is too crowded for me. Whatever Mum owes you, I’ll repay it.’

She started to walk away, but Aiden called after her, ‘Oh you will, angel. What’s yours is mine – you still belong to me, remember? And the sooner you come home, the sooner you can clear the debts.’

May kept walking, keenly aware of his eyes on her back. She was certain he wouldn’t do anything as obvious as following her back to the boatyard, but nevertheless, she felt shaky and needed the reassurance of a familiar voice as she wound through the streets of Little Spitmarsh.
Bill
, a mischievous thought whispered, before May silenced it. How unfair would it be of her to run to Bill, a decent, kind man, when she was so defiled and weighed down by the weight of her personal baggage?

She took a deep breath of the fresh salty air and refocused. On notice boards, layers of old flyers gave a snapshot of a town trying hard to adapt to a revival of staycationers as cash-strapped families looked for alternatives to the Canaries: carnival days and bingo, mingled with art exhibitions and a film festival. It was anyone’s guess, she supposed, whether or not these attractions would be sufficient to hold their interest when – and if – better times came.

A few hardy families had already set up windbreaks on the beach determined to make the most of every minute of their holiday. May felt that by standing up to Aiden, she too had drawn a line in the sand. Maybe this marked the start of better times for her? Feeling that she deserved a small reward, she snaffled a few bargains in Little Spitmarsh’s retail outlet shop on the seedier side of town. She then decided to splurge on some fat, deep pink peonies from Black Orchid, a very upmarket florists she passed on the way back to the boatyard, where she was served by two men with shiny new wedding rings.

‘Mind Kirstie,’ one said, as she almost tripped over a dog basket on her way out. ‘She’s not very happy. She and Phil have had a tiff, and he’s gone off for a sulk.’

‘Oh, there,’ said May, bending down to pat the matronly Jack Russell but thinking better off it when Kirstie bared her teeth at her in return for her troubles. With her tissue-wrapped flowers in one hand, a carrier bag in the other and a handbag over her shoulder, she needed all her limbs to make it back to the boatyard.

Tyler, Harry’s apprentice, beaming down at her from a ladder up the side of a boat, greeted her on her return and offered to help carry her shopping back to the caravan. ‘Be right with you,’ he said, before she could stop him, smiling and complimenting her on her hair as he took her carrier bags.

May smiled back at him. As she came up the high street, she’d mistaken the sign above the hairdressers as Chimps, until a second look showed her it was actually Crimps – which to her mind was a terrible name for such a modern salon. Nevertheless the temptation to give in to some unashamed pampering was too strong to resist. Intending to pop in just to see how busy they were, she was somewhat apprehensive when the voluptuous manager with her plunging neckline and vertiginous heels directed her to a wash basin. She’d been pleasantly surprised by the result, even though almost anything would have been good after a week of boat hair and coping without any styling tools. Certainly, she’d had to cough up much more in the past at far trendier salons and been left wondering exactly where her money had gone.

‘Not your usual style, though, is it?’ Tyler added, stopping her in her tracks. ‘S’alright,’ he went on, without breaking a step. ‘I won’t say anything. Everyone deserves some space, you more than most. I mean, man, anxiety attacks – that must be crippling in your line of work.’

At the caravan, May reached awkwardly for her bag, wondering if he was expecting a tip. He spotted what she was doing and shook his head. ‘You’re among friends here. People who will look out for you. Just take the time you need and get better.’

Restored to his calm, rational self, Bill completed his inspection of the farmhouse without further visitation and walked back into the bright sunlight, pleased that his team had got the balance about right. Sometimes a restored building could end up as pastiche, a smoothed-out featureless copy of its former self. Or conserved to the point of becoming a museum piece; authentic but quite out of odds with modern life. The farmhouse before him was going to make a lovely home for some fortunate family. All the conveniences of modern living, like under floor heating, comfortable bathrooms and a solid wood kitchen whilst retaining enough of its original quirks and curved walls for its personality to shine through. If only he could apply the same skills to people. Was it possible or even sensible to wish he could break through the barrier of May’s newly erected façade and catch another glimpse of the funny, endearing May who’d sailed with him on
Lucille
?

Relieved that after all the stress and heartache this project at least had been completed to his satisfaction, he was about to turn the key in the oak front door when a car horn tooted and a battered bottle-green Volvo – the disgraceful old wreck that Matthew still insisted on running – rolled into the drive. Even Harry had caught the vintage Volvo bug, but at least hers was in better condition. The door opened and Matthew’s annoying dog shot out and cocked his leg up the new lime plaster on the front elevation.

‘Oi, Flinty!’ Matthew groaned. ‘Sorry about that, Bill, mate!’

Bill shook his head. He was getting fed up of people pissing down his back and telling him it was raining. He was convinced that May hadn’t come entirely clean about her ex and disappointed, after all the intimacy they had shared, that she couldn’t even confide in him as a friend.

Matthew slapped him on the shoulder, bringing him back to the present with a jolt. ‘You’ve done a great job, mate’

‘What can I do for you, Matt?’ said Bill, who knew that Matthew’s charm assault usually meant work. ‘What’ve you got in store for me now?’

Matthew grinned at him. ‘A beautiful old chapel. Built eighteen thirties. Thought it would make a couple of luxury apartments, you know. A mouth-watering combination of sacred and divine.’

‘Okay,’ Bill said and nodded. ‘Where is it? And how soon do you want me to take a look? I’ll be free this coming weekend, but next week I’ll have my hands full looking after Cecil.’

‘Flinty! Will you come here now?’ Matthew clicked his fingers in vain at his boisterous mongrel, who was off on a wild scent chase. ‘Sorry, Bill. How
is
Cecil? You were up at the hospital this morning, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, I wanted to be there when the consultant spoke to him about which option to choose for his operation. There are two; both carry risks, but Cecil’s desperate to get out on that boat so he’s keen for them to take the endovascular surgery route where they go in through an artery in the leg and repair the aorta that way. It’s a safer procedure in the first instance …’

‘But?’ asked Matthew.

Bill pulled a face. ‘The disadvantages are that the graft sometimes splits and there’s a higher risk of infection. Just under half the patients who choose that option require further surgery.’

‘And Cecil’s prepared to take that chance?’

‘Yes,’ Bill agreed. ‘He’s keen to get on with his own life, as he puts it, as soon as possible.’

Matthew whistled at his dog who pretended he hadn’t heard. ‘So what’s the problem?’

Bill shrugged. ‘I’m worried that the main reason he’s doing this is to make my life easier. Not his. Traditional surgery – cutting him open – means he’ll have to stay with me until he’s fit and well and he’s afraid he’ll be a burden.’

Matthew leaned back against the car and folded his arms. ‘What would you want for yourself, if you were in his shoes?’

‘I’d want to be up and running as soon as possible,’ Bill replied, but he was a lot younger and fitter than Cecil.

‘Well there you are,’ Matthew observed, keeping one eye on his dog who was skittering towards them. ‘Give the old boy the respect he deserves. Don’t treat him like a baby, let him make his own decision. When do they want to do it?’

Bill watched Captain Flint make an abrupt detour round the back of the Volvo. ‘On Friday morning, three days’ time. They’ll do it under an epidural apparently, so the staff can talk to him during the procedure, then he’ll spend the next day in the high dependency unit while they monitor him for infection and if all goes well he’ll be out on Monday.’

‘Just in time for the Little Spitmarsh Regatta the following weekend,’ Matthew told him, grabbing hold of Captain Flint as he came up beside him. ‘You’ve got to be there. Fun and games for all the family at Watling’s.’

Bill frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound like something Harry would come up with!’

Matthew laughed, showing off the dimple in his cheek. ‘No, you’re right, mate. But love is a many-splendored thing and I persuaded her that both our businesses – the boatyard and the restaurant – could do with a boost from all those lovely tourists with time and money on their hands.’

‘You’re incorrigible,’ Bill said as he shook his head.

‘No, I’m Corrigan, Matthew Corrigan, remember?’ He opened the car door and Captain Flint scampered in. ‘That’s settled then. Tell your uncle he can take the boat out for a bit of punt, then you can come over to the restaurant in the evening. We’re holding a bit of a do to raise money for the local hospice. Jimi’s got the most fantastic taster menu lined up – The Regatta Platter. Genius. Oh, and make sure you bring May.’

‘I can ask her, I suppose,’ Bill said, not convinced she’d accept.

Matthew’s eyebrows rose. ‘Bill, mate, you give up too easily, that’s your trouble. If I can get round someone as prickly as Harry used to be, a sweet girl like May ought to be no trouble!’

Another manic morning rolled around. The trouble was it wasn’t only manic Monday but Tuesday and Wednesday too, thought Fiona, surveying the breakfast room with despair. And she was still feeling grotty from whatever was affecting her. Dizzy spells, queasiness, it had to be a bug, she told herself hastily. She couldn’t possibly be pregnant. It was enough to make her feel sick just thinking about the possibility. In the office days she would have taken sick leave and stayed in bed. All she needed was a chance to rest and for her body to heal. Instead of being grateful for the business, she wished her guests would all go away. Mr Cavanagh had been in a black mood since returning – alone, she was pleased to see – from yesterday’s mysterious date with May Starling and had snapped at her when she’d accidentally spilled some coffee on the table cloth. Anyone would think he was the one who had to get the stain out, not her.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ she asked coldly when he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back.

‘My bill,’ he replied, letting his arm drop. ‘As soon as you like. I’ve some unexpected business to attend to and I don’t want to sit around this dead-and-alive hole all day.’

Fiona hoped for May’s sake the unexpected business didn’t involve her. She seemed far too nice a person to be associated with such an odious little man. Her latest crop of staycationers were doing her head in too. One glimpse of a property price tag that equated to the cost of the second car in SW18 and they were already mentally eyeing up whole rows of houses and shouting, ‘Buy!’ These days, there was apparently no better way to demonstrate your green credentials and your abstinence from air miles than by reclaiming and renovating a dear little cottage and filling it with terribly clever junk-shop finds. She looked up to find Paul beside her. He caught hold of her arm and steered her to one side.

‘Come on, Fee, at least try to smile, you’ll scare away the guests,’ he said, only half joking. ‘“If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy”, remember? Look, I can manage here now, if you wouldn’t mind seeing to reception. There’s a visitor wanting to book in. Lundy’s still free although I think we’ve got a possible taker for Fastnet.’

Fiona headed for reception hoping to find a lovely, quiet, single customer with no family in tow, but her hopes were dashed at the sight of an old and far too familiar face.

‘Hello, baby!’ said Thunder Harwich, leaning in for a kiss. ‘Remember me!’

How could she forget the ancient rock singer who’d stayed with them for the duration of his come-back performance at the Palace on the Pier last summer? Little Spitmarsh’s unlovely slab of a theatre was gradually attracting a better quality of acts, but Thunder Harwich, referred to sotto voce between themselves as Mr Undercarriage, wasn’t one of them.

‘The trouble with Matthew,’ said Harry over at the boatyard the same day, wielding a power washer hose like a gunslinger as she sized up a grimy boat bottom, ‘is that he can twist me round his little finger. How I let him talk me into holding a regatta here, I don’t know. The Spitmarsh Yacht Club used to run an event at the marina, but a lot of them have gone over to caravans now so it’s died a death. Along with several of them. There’s lot of extra work involved just tidying up the boatyard, so I hope it’s worth it.’

From the little she knew of Harry Watling, May didn’t think she was the type to let herself be twisted round anyone’s finger, not even when the finger belonged to her good-looking husband, and especially not where her precious boatyard was concerned. Having been on the receiving end of Harry’s displeasure, May was simply relieved that the other woman was more accepting of her and seemed to be enjoying some female company for a change.

‘But the boatyard looks great,’ she said, meaning it. ‘I love the black-stained weatherboard of the buildings and it couldn’t be a lovelier setting. It wouldn’t look like a working yard, would it, if it wasn’t a little ramshackle in places.’

‘It breaks my heart to see some of these old boats never being put to sea. This lovely old girl made by David Hillyard, for example,’ said, Harry, looking up sadly at
Maid of Mersea
, ‘or this pretty little Stella,’ she said, waving the hose at
Evening Star
. ‘It’s so sad to see them propped up out the water, but all the time no one’s buying them and the owners can afford to pay us to store them, what else can I do? If they were mine, I’d drop the price and let someone else get some pleasure from them.’

May couldn’t think of anything positive to add. Whilst everyone loved a bit of shabby chic, to her untrained eye both of these boats looked like expensive projects. Why would anyone go to the bother when they could buy a plastic trailer sailing boat and get out on the water at an instant’s notice?

‘Poor old Cinderella,’ Harry sighed, reaching up and patting
Maid of Mersea
’s hull fondly. ‘No one’s going to take you to the ball, but I can at least make sure you have a clean bottom for the public.’

May guessed that having the public in for a regatta would be challenging for Harry, who, she noticed, kept a close eye on the business and an even closer one on any strangers who turned up at Watling’s. But this time, perhaps because they were shouting to be heard above the electric motor as Harry wielded the powerful jet, neither of them heard the man approaching them until it was too late.

Harry turned off the washer while a familiar figure, who must have been sweltering in his black leather trousers and Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, stood there grinning at them. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t—’

‘May Starling’s my given name. May will do.’

Thunder Harwich nodded and stuck out his hand. May sighed and offered hers and was surprised to find his grip was firm and reassuring. ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding, is it?’ he said, looking round with interest.

‘And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep that information to yourself,’ Harry said fiercely, drawing herself up to her full height somewhere at his chest level and brandishing her power hose menacingly.

‘It’s cool,’ Thunder laughed, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I don’t blame anyone for wanting to drop out for some peace. In fact it’s what I’m planning to do myself. Do either of you lovely ladies know where I can find this bloke Harry Watling?’

‘I’m Harry,’ Harry said, narrowing her eyes. ‘And this is my boatyard.’

Thunder nodded. ‘Respect.’

‘How can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for a boat.’

Harry shook her head. ‘Sorry, but we don’t have anything in the kind of bracket you’d be looking in. You’re selling that monster
Valhalla
up at Great Spitmarsh marina, aren’t you?’

‘Guilty as charged. But this is more like it; this is what I’m searching for,’ said Thunder, shading his eyes against the glare as he surveyed the sunlit creek. ‘I didn’t know places like this existed anymore. I thought they were all great big car parks crammed full of plastic boats.’

‘They do,’ Harry acknowledged. ‘But you can’t keep anything the size of
Valhalla
here – it would take up most of the yacht basin – assuming you could even get it through the channels and even then it would need to be a very high tide.’

Thunder snorted. ‘Bloody
Valhalla
. Someone saw me coming when they sold her to me. Saw some egotistical old has-been with more money than sense, looking for a symbol of what a big dick he’s got – excuse me, ladies. If anyone’s a dick it’s me, for falling for it. Nope, the sooner
Valhalla
goes the better. I’m going back to the simple life – a little boat in a place like this would suit me fine.’

From her pocket, Harry’s mobile started to ring. ‘You can have a wander round, by all means,’ she told Thunder as she took it out to answer it. ‘The “for sale” boats are clearly marked, but you won’t find anything very grand here.’

‘It’s not exactly a rock star playground,’ May pointed out, wandering along the lines of boats with him to give Harry some privacy. ‘The facilities are pretty basic.’

He laughed. ‘Listen, May, I know about basics. I grew up on the coast not far from here, on an estate in a town that once topped Britain’s most deprived table.’

Ah, May thought to herself. That would explain why Thunder’s faux transatlantic accent sometimes slipped. He probably saved it for his stage persona.