Snowflakes on Silver Cove: A festive, feel-good Christmas romance (White Cliff Bay Book 2) (5 page)

Suddenly the pager in his pocket beeped and vibrated incessantly and as he grabbed it in shock he noticed other people’s pagers going off as well, including Big Dave’s. Shit.

The pub suddenly went silent as people realised the weight of what was happening.

George had been a volunteer for the lifeboat crew for years, but so were hundreds of other people, which meant that he was only on call twice a month. The lifeboat rarely got called out in their little bay; Port Cardinal, a few miles down the road, got the main call-outs with all the boats coming and going into their harbour, but he knew that the White Cliff Bay lifeboat had been called out to assist them on the odd occasions. George had only been called out himself a handful of times.

Suddenly there were lots of quick hugs and kisses from the husbands and wives of the crew on call. It was always dangerous when they went out – the weather was unpredictable and you never knew what you were going to face. Kat rushed over and kissed Big Dave, her earlier mood obviously forgotten. George had no one to wish him good luck. They all moved to the door, when suddenly he felt a hand on his arm. He turned round to see Libby looking worried. She reached up and kissed him on the cheek, squeezing his hand.

‘Be safe, do you hear me?’

He smiled and nodded, and he still had a big smile on his face when he caught up with the rest of the crew a few seconds later.

The RIB was already being prepped ready for launch when he arrived, which suggested it was an inshore rescue not one out at sea.

‘George, Dave, Richard, you’re going out in the RIB, but we will be ready to assist if you need the other boat,’ said Eric, the operations manager.

They quickly got changed into their drysuits, kitting up in record time as they were briefed about what had happened.

‘A boy has fallen off the slip near Main Street, a woman has jumped in after him.’

That was going to be a tricky manoeuvre. Even on a calm day, getting in and out of that bay was tricky because of all the rocks; in this weather it would be very difficult, especially with two bodies in the water. A child too. If the boy was panicking and uncooperative, it might require lifeboat crew to go in the water as well.

George started the engine and, as the other two men climbed in, he took off, fighting through the waves easily as he negotiated round the headland towards White Cliff Bay, which gave the town its name.

People were already lining the slipway in the bay and they all started waving and pointing as he approached.

He shifted the boat into second gear, slowing the engine as he got nearer, scanning the water for any bodies.

‘There,’ shouted Big Dave as he pointed.

The woman and the boy were together. She’d managed to get hold of the boy but they were now bobbing around in the sea as she desperately fought to take them both back towards the slip.

As she turned round to see the boat, George recognised his friend Penny in the water with Sam, one of the Mayor’s young boys.

There was a sudden movement on the slip as a man tried to jump in the water. The crowd around him held him back. The man wasn’t Sam’s dad, which made George think he was more concerned for Penny than Sam. The last thing they needed was another body in the water to rescue. Though George knew if it had been Libby fighting for her life in the waves he would have jumped in the water too, despite knowing the dangers.

He quickly manoeuvred the boat so it was upwind of them.

Big Dave threw the floating swimline to Penny with incredible accuracy and she grabbed it with the one hand she was using to hold on to Sam and they pulled her alongside the boat.

As the boat bobbed closer, she held Sam up out of the water for them to grab, but the action pushed her under the waves.

George reached down and grabbed her, pulling her back to the surface as Big Dave grabbed Sam with ease.

As soon as Sam was in the boat, Richard reached over and grabbed Penny’s arm and between the two of them they hauled her into the RIB, where she lay huddled against the cold on the bottom of the boat. Both of them were breathing and conscious. They just had to get them warm and dry now.

Big Dave was tending to the boy and George quickly knelt next to Penny.

‘Are you OK?’ he said, taking the spare lifejacket from Richard and pulling it over her head.

She nodded.

Seeing Sam’s parents lining the slip with the rest of the concerned town, George carefully manoeuvred the boat to the side of the slip. Richard threw a rope to one of the waiting people and they tugged the boat in close. Big Dave leant over and handed Sam back to his dad who whisked him away up the slip, quickly followed by the boy’s heavily pregnant mum.

George helped Penny to her feet and Big Dave and a huge man on the slip helped her ashore.

The drama was over.

G
eorge was lying
in bed awake later. After a call-out he was always pumped with too much adrenaline to sleep properly. It had been a simple enough rescue. No one from the crew had had to risk their life by jumping in and he had been back in the Bubble and Froth before his ale had even gone warm. Walking back into the pub to tremendous applause, he had felt like a hero, even though he had barely done anything that could be considered heroic. It was Penny who had saved the little boy, she deserved all the credit. But one proud look and a hug from Libby made him feel like the bravest man in the world.

Suddenly there was the sound of a door slamming and a few seconds later he heard his own front door slamming open. He knew straight away it was Libby.

He quickly got out of bed and went into the lounge. Sure enough she was pacing in front of his sofa.

He watched her for a moment, as she paced barefoot in the Christmas pudding onesie he had bought her a few days before and she’d sworn she would never wear. She was muttering incoherently to herself before he took her gently by the hand and led her back out of his flat.

‘It won’t work,’ she muttered angrily.

‘What won’t work, honey?’ He guided her gently across the hall towards her flat.

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Try me.’ He ushered her through her front door and into her bedroom.

‘Clint Eastwood.’

‘Clint Eastwood, what about him?’ He pushed her gently back down on the bed, and covered her with her duvet.

‘He’s buying my car.’

‘Right, I’ll look out for him then.’

‘Thanks George.’ She sighed, sleepily, before closing her eyes and drifting off back into a deeper sleep again. He went back to his flat.

He had become used to her sleepwalking by now. The first time she’d done it, she was standing in the street, in the rain. Just staring into space with a completely vacant expression on her face. He had assumed she had received some bad news and had gone into shock. He had rushed out onto the road and his suspicion was confirmed when all attempts to rouse her had failed. He had taken her back to her flat, wrapped a blanket round her and held her in his arms until she was ready to talk. When she had finally woken a while later, she had screamed hysterically at finding herself wrapped tightly in the arms of a man she couldn’t see in the darkness of her lounge.

When she had realised it was him, and that she had been sleepwalking again, she had explained that it was something that happened now and again, particularly if she was worried about something.

Since then it had happened quite a lot, normally once or twice a month. Sometimes she would be pacing, sometimes just staring into the nothingness, sometimes muttering incomprehensibly, and sometimes he could actually have a coherent conversation with her. Well, semi-coherent; ‘Clint Eastwood’ indeed.

Luckily she didn’t walk too far – sometimes to the bottom of the steps just outside the flats, but mostly to his flat. He had found her pacing round his lounge on numerous occasions or just sitting on the sofa staring at the blank TV. One time he had woken up and she had been standing over him. His screams had woken her up that night.

He hadn’t minded taking on the role of her protector and returning her back to her bed, in fact he quite liked it. It was just another thing that he found sweet and endearing about her.

The only time it had interfered with his social life was the one occasion he had managed to persuade a woman to come back to his flat. Sinead had been well up for helping him back into the sexual saddle and they had come through the door and fallen onto the sofa in a pile of legs, discarded clothes and kisses. He had looked up to see Libby sitting on the other end of his sofa, staring at her hands like the ill-fated Lady Macbeth.

Sinead had freaked, mostly because of the wild, manic look in Libby’s eyes. He had never thought her eyes looked manic before, he always thought they looked lost, scared, and vulnerable.

Sinead was also less than impressed with the tenderness he’d shown Libby, and had suggested he slap her round the face to bring her round, before kicking her out the flat. By the time he had gently manoeuvred her back to her bed, Sinead had gone, leaving a note that said, ‘You and the freak deserve each other.’ A tad hurtful, he thought.

As he got back into bed he thought about Libby sleepwalking tonight. She had seemed fine today, all cheery and bubbly as normal, but clearly something was worrying her or she wouldn’t have been in his flat again. He resolved to ask her about it the next day.

T
he problem was
, Amy decided, as she rubbed the purple dye into her hair, she was nothing like Marie, Seb’s late wife – they were polar opposites in fact. Marie was tall and thin, where Amy was a classic hourglass, large breasts, and large bum. Marie was sweet, quiet and kind and Amy was loud, dry and bolshie. Marie dressed in jeans and t-shirts, whereas Amy didn’t even own a pair of jeans. For Seb to admit he loved Amy would be a huge slap in the face for Judith, not least because she couldn’t stand her, but also because Judith would wonder if Seb had really loved Marie if he now loved someone so completely different.

Amy sighed as she looked in the mirror. The Cadbury’s purple hair dye didn’t seem to be making much difference to her dark, almost black hair. She lifted a strand of hair and wondered if her other boss, Marcus, had actually heard of wigs, rather than having to go to all this trouble. A purple wig would have made much more of a dramatic statement.

She wandered into the bedroom to wait the twenty minutes developing time and peered out on the view. Up here at the very top of White Cliff Bay, she had an amazing view of the sea in front of her, and the surrounding hills and cliffs.

A movement down below in her back garden caught her eye: evil Philippe, Judith’s beloved psycho cat from next door. Philippe was apparently no ordinary moggie, he was an exceptionally rare breed; Judith had proudly told her so. She had explained at length what he was, but Amy had switched off after she had heard the words ‘minskin’ and ‘munchkin’, which sounded like characters from
The Wizard of Oz
. Philippe was pure white, with short stumpy legs and huge ears and was actually the devil incarnate. Amy had made the mistake of trying to stroke him once and he had cut her so deep she wondered if he had been bred with razor blades instead of claws.

She watched him now, up the tree in her garden, and realised that he was stuck, his paw wedged or caught somehow. She watched him pulling frantically, starting to panic as he couldn’t get himself free. What if he hurt himself, tore a ligament in his plight, or broke his leg? As much as she hated Philippe, she wasn’t about to leave the poor animal to suffer. Judith was out – she’d seen her leave earlier – so it was down to Amy to do something about it.

Fastening her robe tighter around her, she ran barefoot down the stairs and out into the garden. Without even thinking about it, she swung herself up into the tree and quickly made her way up the long, twisted branches.

Philippe was howling as she drew close, yanking and pulling desperately at his paw. She reached out for him and he took a swipe at her, slashing her hand so fiercely he drew blood immediately.

‘You little bastard, I’m trying to help you.’ She went for his paw to try to free it and Philippe sank his teeth into her hand, making her howl louder than him.

Suddenly Philippe managed to free his paw and launched himself at her head, digging his claws into her scalp. She tried to shake him off, but he clung on tight and every time she tried to grab him, he took a swipe at her with his claws.

Somehow she managed to free him from his hold on her head and pulled him into her arms and realised, to her horror, he now had purple patches all over him.

A
s Judith let
herself back into her house, her friend Claudia, the local town councillor, followed her into the kitchen.

‘Well that’s what I told him,’ Claudia said, ‘he can’t just park a caravan outside my house and leave it there…’

Judith moved to the sink to fill up the kettle, looked out the window and froze when she saw Amy halfway up the tree, her purple hair sticking out at all angles. She was struggling with something in her arms, and trying to get down the tree at the same time. To her absolute horror, she saw Amy suddenly whip her robe off, revealing a large tattoo of a shark swimming over her naked bum.

‘What are you looking at?’ Claudia said as she drew level with her. ‘Oh my…’

Judith grimaced as Amy wrapped her robe round something, scratched her bum and then made her way down the tree and ran back into the house, her large breasts bouncing as she ran.

A
my ran
upstairs with the yowling, struggling bundle and threw it unceremoniously into the shower cubicle and slammed the door.

She looked down at her body. She was bleeding so badly she looked like she had been butchered. She tended to her wounds as quickly as possible then stepped into the shower, closing the door behind her. Her dressing gown howled and thrashed, but Philippe couldn’t get out. She had purple dye all over her now, her shoulders and arms covered in purple blotches.

She washed her hair and scrubbed at her body, then turned her attention to the writhing lump.

She grabbed the shower head and untangled her dressing gown. As Philippe launched himself at her she sprayed him with the shower head so he flinched away, backing into the corner, though he continued to hiss. He was almost purple all over now, the dye looking even brighter against his white fur. Grabbing her deluxe shampoo, she squirted it in his direction and, keeping him at bay with the shower head, she managed to rub bits of it into his fur. But as she rinsed him off, much to his disgust, the purple dye didn’t shift.

How could she return Philippe to Judith looking like this? Maybe she should just keep him, tell Judith that she hadn’t seen him. She could keep him locked up in her house for the rest of his life so Judith would never find out. But as Philippe took another swipe at her ankles, she knew she would probably end up killing the evil monster before the week was out.

Feeling panic rise in her, she grabbed her electric razor and aimed it at the most heavily purple parts. Fur flew off and Philippe yowled, taking a swipe at her, but she kept him pinned in the corner with the shower spray.

Eventually, after she had done as much as she could, she turned the shower off and, leaving Philippe wet and howling in the cubicle, she went to get changed into her uniform.

She surveyed herself in the mirror a few minutes later and rolled her eyes. Dressing as a purple blackberry, complete with purple tights and shiny purple oversized shoes, wasn’t an ideal way to spend her Monday, but it paid the bills – paid them very well as it happened.

She called a taxi and then surveyed the damage she had inflicted on the purple monster through the cubicle door. He was still purple – the shampoo had done nothing to change that, the dye having seeped through the fur and marked his skin. Shaving him had achieved nothing either, other than making him look like he had been tortured. The fur had not come off evenly, leaving bald patches all over his body.

She opened the door and threw a towel over him, scooping up the hissing bundle and plodding downstairs, hoping against hope that Judith was still out and that she could leave Philippe on her doorstep.

As soon as she stepped outside and saw Judith’s car, her heart plummeted.

Waddling across her garden, she rang the doorbell, hoping that overnight Judith had developed a sense of humour and she would find the whole thing hilarious.

Amy surveyed her neighbour’s house. It was lacking in any kind of Christmas decorations at all. Amy never went overboard with the decorations in her own house but to have nothing this close to Christmas was a little sad, though she wondered if that was because the thought of celebrating anything since the death of Marie was not something that Judith could comprehend.

The door opened.

‘Judith, hi, I…’

‘Amy…’ Judith faltered at seeing a large purple blackberry on her doorstep but then carried on. ‘I would thank you not to parade around naked in your back garden when I have visitors. In fact, I don’t appreciate seeing you naked at any time.’

Amy flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry if my nudity offended you but I was actually trying to help Philippe.’ She gestured to the yowling lump in her arms that Judith suddenly noticed for the first time.

‘Philippe, that’s Philippe! Oh my God, what are you doing to him?’ Judith snatched the lump from her hands and he became suddenly still and subdued at the sound of his mistress’ voice.

Judith started to unwrap the towel, but Amy reached out to stop her. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, he was stuck in the tree and when I went to get him down he jumped on my head and got covered in purple dye. I tried to wash him, but it wouldn’t come off and… I shaved him. I thought I could shave some of the purple off but that didn’t work either and… well I’m sorry.’

The taxi beeped behind her.

‘You shaved him?’ Judith stammered and Amy was grateful she was focussing on the shaving rather than the fact Philippe had been dyed bright purple.

‘I’m sorry.’ Amy gestured to the taxi driver that she would be a minute.

Judith carefully unwrapped the lump and gasped in horror at the full torture that poor Philippe had endured

‘You brute, you horrid girl, how could you…’ Judith said, cradling Philippe in her arms.

‘I’m really sorry, I was trying to help him, but he doesn’t like me and—’

‘I’m not surprised he doesn’t like you, you’re a horrible, foul person. Seb is always moaning about you at work, he doesn’t like you either, no one does, you vile, cruel girl.’

‘I really am very sorry.’ Amy sighed sadly, as she turned and shuffled over to the taxi.

‘You’ll never set foot in his pub again; I’ll make sure of that.’

Amy stiffened then turned back to say something. But realising whatever she said now would just make the situation worse, she got into the taxi and it drove off.

G
eorge had been out
, helping his mum with an antique wardrobe she had bought at some fair. He was tired after the night before and was looking forward to having a small kip on his sofa.

‘Hi honey, I’m home,’ he called to Candy in the bedroom, the mannequin he had rescued from a skip a few years before. One day, he would come home and she would answer him, having changed into the beautiful Kim Cattrall, just like in the film
Mannequin
.

‘Hi darling. Dinner is in the oven; I’ve polished your shoes and starched your shirts for you.’

He smiled, as he moved through to the kitchen, poured two glasses of apple juice and carried them back through to the lounge.

There was Libby lying on his sofa, still in her Christmas pudding onesie, her hair all tousled and unbrushed. She grinned hugely at him when she saw him. She was lying on her front, her legs swinging behind her, busy typing away on her laptop, with several sheets of paper lying around her. Tucked behind her ear was a red biro and tucked between her toes a purple one.

He passed her the glass of juice and threw himself down in his easy chair, flicking up the footrest in one swift movement.

‘How’s your mum?’ Libby asked.

George smiled. ‘She’s fine. You know what Verity is like. She always has someone she needs to take under her wing, whether they like it or not. She’s set her mind on helping poor Judith Axe now. She says Judith has been mourning her daughter for too long and it’s time she got over it. Mum wants her married off to Uncle Bob by Christmas because, apparently, “They’d make the perfect couple.”’

‘I love your mum.’

George smiled. He loved that Libby had so much time for her.

‘So, is there a reason you have invaded my territory on this fine Monday morning?’

‘Do I need a reason?’

‘Not at all, you are always welcome, you know that.’

‘I did have a reason actually, Rosie and Alex; I just can’t concentrate on writing when they’re upstairs going at it like rabbits every second of the day. It seems Alex has a day off today.’

‘But you write all that romance stuff. Surely a bit of sex would help to inspire you?’

‘You’d think, wouldn’t you? It’s actually more of a hindrance than a help at the moment.’

He surveyed her. She had always said she didn’t want him to read her books and he wanted to respect that, but he was often tempted so he could find out more about the inner workings of her mind. Would there be a clue in there about why she felt the need to always move on?

‘So you’re having problems writing lately?’

‘Yeah, I think it’s the lack of romance in my own life, I’m finding it hard to be inspired at the moment.’

‘Do you normally have boyfriends and go on dates in the places that you stay to inspire you to write all the romantic stuff?’

‘No, I can’t say I’ve ever had a boyfriend. I’ve had men I’ve gone out on a few dates with, but there’s never been anything serious. When I write, I used to write as Eve Loveheart, my pseudonym, and it was easy to imagine what she would do in the different scenarios I throw at my characters. I also watch other people, draw experiences from real life but make it sound so much better. I write the relationships that women fantasise about. The rugged hero who saves a small boy from drowning at sea, comes back and declares his love for the woman who fills his dreams and every waking breath because he suddenly realises that life is too short and you need to grab it with both hands.’

George smiled. ‘Are you writing about me?’

‘Maybe.’

He sighed. ‘I can see how a dashing lifeboat crewman who perhaps only wears waterproof trousers and no top, with soaking wet abs, who risks his life to save a boy would be miles better than the reality of me coming home from a very quick, easy rescue, sorting out my laundry and never being brave enough to tell the woman of my dreams that I’m completely and utterly in love with her just in case she rejects me.’

‘I’m going to help you with that. It’s about loving the person you are so other people can love you too. Women love to read about the big, strong alpha males who are mean and broody but in reality they want someone who would take care of them, who is sweet and kind, someone who would make them smile every single day. You have that in spades.’

He looked out the window over the sea. No woman would ever choose sweet and kind over dashing and sexy. He was living proof of that. Josie had left him for the dynamic Chase Kent. George was boring, Josie had told him so on many occasions, along with dull, predictable and pathetic. He quickly changed the subject before he dwelled too long on that.