Little Kiosk By The Sea (11 page)

‘I made us some hot chocolate,’ Harriet said. ‘Thought we might sleep better. Well? Is he catching the next Virgin flight over?’ She looked at her friend, waiting for her to speak.

Listlessly Sabine held her hand out for the mug. ‘He’s married,’ she said.

‘You knew that,’ Harriet said gently.

‘To his third wife,’ Sabine said. Fifteen years of hoping that one day when he was free she and Reid would meet again all wasted. Instead, each time he’d been free he’d stayed in America and married someone else. ‘Bastard.’

‘Oh, Beeny, I’m so sorry.’

‘Says he never received the obit notice about Dave. Didn’t know I was a widow. Didn’t take the trouble to find out though, did he after his first divorce.’ Sabine took a gulp of hot chocolate.

‘He’s been divorced twice? Never a widower?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Not what you’d call good husband material then,’ Harriet said.

Despite herself, Sabine smiled. ‘Suppose not. Oh, Tatty, I’ve been such an idiot all these years, dreaming of him coming back to me when he was finally free.’ How could she have been so stupid as to imagine he loved her enough to travel halfway across the world? ‘Goes to show there’s no fool like an old fool.’

‘Hey, less of the old. We’re women in the prime of life,’ Harriet said. They looked at each and laughed. ‘Okay, maybe not the actual prime, but we’re certainly not past our sell-by-date yet. Seriously, Beeny, you’re better off knowing the truth even though it hurts.’

Sabine sniffed as she tore his photograph into bits of confetti. ‘I know, but right now I’d like to castrate the bastard.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JOHNNIE

Dawn was beginning to break as Johnnie steered
Annie
out to sea. A light sea mist was clinging to the hills and he could just make out the silhouettes of several cormorants on the Mewstone as they motored past. The wind, currently a light north-easterly, promised some good sailing for the next couple of hours.

Always an early riser, he loved the solitude this time of day offered out on the water – no distractions, just time to enjoy the quiet and, today, to think about what he was going to find when he got to France. Neither he nor Sabine had been able to work out what Martha’s problem could possibly be.

The smell of bacon drifted up from the small galley where Rachel was busy making them breakfast and, no doubt, drinking a large mug of tea. An hour ago, when she’d arrived on the quay carrying a red kitbag she’d barely managed to mutter ‘Good morning’ as she’d stepped on board. ‘Not a morning person, I’m afraid. Be all right when I’ve had some tea.’

Johnnie, feeling his spirits sag, hoped he’d done the right thing by inviting her to crew for him. The last thing he needed was some moody woman on board. He’d simply told her to put her stuff in the small cabin in the bow and then to come and help him cast off. To his relief she’d been more than competent with the ropes and within minutes they were underway, motoring out towards the mouth of the river.

‘There’s breakfast stuff in the galley. Want to go and rustle us up some food?’ he said. ‘I’ll host the sails and we’ll hove to for breakfast.’ He realised he was being a tad chauvinistic, telling Rachel to do the cooking but no way was he prepared to hand the tiller to her until he knew how good a sailor she really was. She’d disappeared down into the cabin without a word.

Now, as he headed out into Start Bay, she reappeared with a large plate of bacon butties, two mugs of tea and, importantly, a smile on her face Johnnie was pleased to see.

‘You awake now?’ he asked.

Rachel nodded. ‘Always need tea first thing. Didn’t want to make a noise in the kitchen and disturb BB before I left.’

‘He’s settled in all right then?’

‘Seems very happy. It’s good having someone to keep an eye on the place while I’m away.’ Rachel took a bite of her bacon sandwich. ‘Mmm. Why does food always taste so much better when eaten at sea?’ she said.

Johnnie didn’t answer. He was too busy enjoying his own breakfast. He glanced at the main sail as it flapped in the wind.

‘Think you’ve picked a good day for the trip,’ Rachel said. ‘Good steady wind.’

Johnnie nodded. ‘We should make good time. Where were you based in the south of France?’

‘Antibes.’

‘Know it well. I’ve done a few deliveries down that way,’ Johnnie said. ‘So I guess you sailed mainly in the Med?’

Rachel nodded. ‘France. Spain. Italy. Corsica. Malta. Places like that. The last couple of years we’d started to explore further east, but stopped when things began to get nasty over that way.’

‘How big was your boat?’

‘Last one was sixty foot. Hugo has it now. He has plans to charter it.’

‘You miss your life down there?’

Rachel hesitated. ‘If I’m truthful, yes. Although I’m really enjoying living in Dartmouth. I miss my husband though. He’d been ill so his death wasn’t unexpected. It was still hard though, accepting it was all over.’

‘It’s the finality of it all, isn’t it? Johnnie said.

‘This is the first time I’ve been sailing since he died,’ Rachel said. ‘I’m only now realising how big a part it played in my life and how much I’m missing it.’ She finished her sandwich before glancing across at Johnnie and asking. ‘Annie? What happened to her?’

‘Big C.’ Johnnie said briefly. ‘Right – want to take the tiller for an hour?’ It was too soon for them to have a conversation about Annie. There was no way he was going to discuss Annie and how much he missed her. Easier to change the subject and give Rachel the tiller.

‘I’d love to.’

Over the following hours they settled into an easy on-board comradeship, both enjoying the sailing. Rachel prepared lunchtime cheese sandwiches which they ate sitting in the cockpit and afterwards they took it in turns at the tiller.

The wind was with them and they did make good time as Johnnie had predicted, arriving in Roscoff some eighteen hours later. Rachel got the sails down while Johnnie motored them into harbour. Once moored up, he took over culinary duties for their supper, heating up a ready meal and an apple tart.

Rachel, her offer of help having been declined, sat in the cockpit with a glass of wine looking out at the lights of the ancient town on the other side of the quay.

‘Not high cuisine,’ Johnnie said, joining her with plates of steaming risotto. ‘Don’t tell my French relatives how low I’ve sunk! At least the wine is a decent vintage!’

‘Tell me about your French family,’ Rachel said.

‘Natives of Roscoff from time immemorial. Farming family and from the early twentieth century onion growers and exporters.’

‘So how come you ended up on the other side of the channel?’

‘Both Grandpapa and Papa were Johnny Onion boys,’ Johnnie said. ‘Travelling over to England every year to sell the onion harvest.’

‘Oh I remember those from my childhood,’ Rachel says. ‘Bicycles loaded down with garlands of onions. There was a man who used to come to our small town every September. Always wore a striped shirt and a black beret. You could barely see his bicycle for onions. My mother always bought at least two large bunches. Swore they were the best onions she could buy.’

‘That’s them,’ Johnnie said. ‘By the fifties though the trade virtually died out. Which was when Papa met and married my Devonshire mother and settled in Dartmouth.’ He drained his tea. ‘Calling me Johnnie was his idea of reminding me where I came from. My sister got a proper French name though – Sabine Le Roy. Do you know her? She’s Sabine Wills now. Runs the kiosk on the quay for the boat trips.’

Rachel caught her breath and choked before shaking her head. ‘Sorry, something went down the wrong way.’

Johnnie looked at her, concerned for a minute, before saying, ‘So where was this small town?’ Johnnie asked.

‘Small town? Oh where I grew up? Highbridge, Somerset. You’ve probably never heard of it.’

Before Johnnie could answer, Rachel finished the last of her wine and stifled a yawn before standing up. ‘I’ll just wash up and then I’ll hit my bunk, if that’s okay? Bit tired. Been a long day.’ She picked up the plates as Johnnie went to help. ‘No, you stay here and finish your wine. I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight, sleep well.’

‘Goodnight and thanks for today’s efforts,’ Johnnie said, puzzled as to why she was making such a hasty retreat. What had he said?

Johnnie was already out on deck the next morning when Rachel surfaced. ‘Kettle’s boiled,’ he called. ‘Help yourself to a mug. Thought we’d have breakfast ashore today. Ready in fifteen?’

Johnnie led the way to a small cafe down a side street that was busy with fishermen and sailors all enjoying versions of the local speciality, crepes.

While they were waiting for their crepes to arrive, Johnnie said, ‘Would you like to come with me and meet Cousin Martha?’

Rachel instantly shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t dream of intruding on a family problem. Besides, I’m really looking forward to having a wander around Roscoff.’

‘Okay. You’d better take these then.’ And he pushed the keys to Annie’s cockpit hatch across the table to her. ‘Just so you can at least get inside if you want to. I shouldn’t be too long. I’m hoping we’ll be able to catch the next tide.’

Rachel picked the keys up and put them in her bag without a word. Johnnie opened his mouth to say something but the waitress arrived with their coffee and crepes and the moment was lost.

Apart from a muttered ‘delicious’ from Rachel, breakfast was eaten in silence and finished quickly. Johnnie pushed his chair back and stood up. Placing a twenty-euro note on the table, he said, ‘Okay, I’ll see you back at the boat. Shouldn’t be too long.’

Walking through town to Martha’s, Johnnie thought about the difference twelve hours had made in Rachel. Yesterday he’d thought they were getting along fine, enjoying the sailing and each other’s company, but then during supper, the shutters had come down. Today there was a definite chill in the air between them.

It was almost as if Rachel had decided not to talk to him. Damned if he could figure out why. Get this business at Martha’s sorted and on their return trip he’d try to get her to tell him what had upset her so badly.

The front door to Martha’s terraced cottage was unlocked and he gave a quick knock before calling out, ‘Martha,
J’arrive
,’ and walking in.

‘Finally you’re here,’ Martha said as they kissed cheeks when he found her in the small conservatory at the back of the house.

‘So tell me, what’s the problem? Oh, who’s this?’ Johnnie said, seeing a small girl in a buggy. Martha had numerous grandchildren but he didn’t remember seeing one this young for some time.

‘Hello, who are you?’ he said to the child, who simply sucked her thumb and stared at him.

‘She’s Carla,’ Martha said before adding quietly, ‘And she’s all yours.’

‘Hello, Carla, I’m John …’ He swung round to face Martha. ‘What the hell do you mean, she’s all mine?’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SABINE

‘Just a few places left for tomorrow’s river trip, folks,’ Sabine said as a group of holidaymakers walked past the kiosk. ‘Don’t miss out.’ She smiled as they shook their heads and carried on. Couldn’t win them all.

Inside the kiosk she switched the kettle on. Time for a coffee. While she waited for the kettle to boil, she checked the bookings spreadsheet on her laptop. Bookings were slightly up on last year and there were also a few more private parties booked for Owen’s other boat,
Daughter of the River
, with its dance floor in the saloon and catering facilities. Tonight there was a twenty-first birthday party on board for fifty people.

Sipping her coffee, Sabine watched as
Daughter
, already alongside the pontoon, was loaded with the evening’s supply of champagne and food. Watching Peter as he helped the suppliers carry stuff on board, she wondered how Trevor Bagshawe was getting on with sorting out the legal stuff. Owen had said it would take a few weeks and then he planned to take them both for a slap-up dinner and break the news to Peter.

‘What is it you English say? A penny for your thoughts?’ BB asked, appearing at her side and making her jump.

‘Oh hi, BB. I was miles away. How are you?’ Sabine said.

‘Great. Just great. Thanks to Johnnie I’ve found a room in an old cottage and while the landlady is away for a few days, I’ve got the place to myself.’

‘I’m pleased for you. Any news on the relatives?’

‘Not yet,’ BB said. ‘It’s frustrating and fascinating at the same time! I’ve kind of got hooked too on researching the history of this place rather than looking for any cousins. I bet you have no idea how many people called Seale or Holdsworth lived in this town back in the day. Sadly, none of the ones I’ve found so far appear to be my ancestors. Right, I’m off to the marina to talk boats. Don’t suppose Johnnie is around?’

‘No, he’s in France. Should be back tomorrow or the day after if you want his advice. Before you go, scrawl your signature on the Save the Kiosk petition, will you?’ she said, handing him a pen.

‘Sure thing.’

Watching BB stroll off in the direction of the marina, Sabine’s thoughts turned to Johnnie. Had he sorted out whatever the problem had turned out to be over in Roscoff? He hadn’t phoned, which was unusual when he was visiting Martha. Normally he’d ring to ask was there anything she wanted brought back apart from the inevitable sack of onions. This time, when she’d planned to ask him to pick up a Kouign-amann as a special treat from the award-winning patisserie near the harbour, he hadn’t rung. Probably just as well really, there was no doubt the delicious butter-laden gateau posed a serious threat to her waistline.

A harassed-looking Owen arrived late afternoon as she was unhooking her pictures from the open door and preparing to close up for the day.

‘Any chance you can help out tonight? Caterers have said they’re short staffed.’

‘I’ve told Tristan I’d start to get my pictures down to him tonight,’ Sabine said. ‘He wants to start planning where to hang them for next week’s exhibition. It’ll take me a couple of hours.’

‘Work tonight and I’ll give you a hand in the morning,’ Owen said. ‘I can carry more than you at a time so be quicker anyway.’