Turning the Tide (18 page)

So if anyone in Little Spitmarsh lay awake listening for strange noises outside, they didn’t mention it, and if anyone blamed Matthew Corrigan for drawing unwelcome attention to the place it certainly wasn’t apparent from all the support he’d received. Turning such an inauspicious beginning round and taking advantage of the annual film festival had been a masterstroke.

The Little Spitmarsh Film Society had been a half-hearted effort by a small bunch of film buffs to make up for the loss of the town’s cinema. Like so many other ventures typical of the town, it had begun with high hopes – but, in a very short space of time, had become the preserve of a few diehards who revelled in select screenings of worthy and obscure foreign language titles. Quite how Matthew’s chef had persuaded them all to allow the culmination of their year to be dumbed down into something so unashamedly populist as a favourite film competition, Frankie couldn’t begin to speculate, although he was willing to bet that free meals at Samphire were involved. If whoever started the fire at the restaurant had planned for Little Spitmarsh to fade back into obscurity, their plan had spectacularly failed. Even Trevor, forgetting to voice his usual concerns when he’d heard that Frankie had organised some publicity for the unveiling, was caught up in the excitement.

‘You wouldn’t think the local rags would be so interested, would you?’ Trevor said, looking round in amazement as they posed in their Black Narcissus tee shirts outside the newly painted shop to a strobe-like accompaniment of flashes.

‘Just smile and think of the money we’re going to be taking,’ said Frankie, not mentioning that he had called in a few favours and a couple of ex-boyfriends with the right connections. ‘There,’ he said, pressing vouchers on reporters and public alike. ‘Ten percent off your first order. Treat your granny to an exotic arrangement today.’

‘She sees one of them every night when the old man takes his clothes off!’ some passing wag observed. ‘I’ll send her some roses to commiserate.’

Gina Weston’s article for
What’s Hot
had created quite a stir too. ‘Kiss Me Quick’,
her cheeky article about the joys of slipping off for a passionate weekend, wasn’t entirely complimentary about Little Spitmarsh. ‘Britain’s last resort – but at least you won’t bump into anyone you know,’ she’d written. The accompanying photos taken in Samphire were sensational, however, and Black Narcissus
had received several enquiries since being credited for the floral arrangements.

‘So what do you think of the idea of this film festival?’ one of the reporters asked.

Frankie was impressed. It looked as if Jimi had also been working the media. ‘Great idea. Great fun. It’s a real opportunity for everyone in the town to work together,’ he said.

‘And what film will you be voting for?’

Frankie laughed, showing off his newly whitened teeth. ‘Hmm, well, there’s a lot to be said for
An Officer and a Gentleman
but there’s really only one choice at the end of the day. For visual sumptuousness and breathtaking colour’ – he stepped back and pointed with a flourish at the new shop – ‘you have to pick
Black Narcissus
.’

Taking a five-minute break from the engine she was trying to lever back in place, Harry looked up to cries of ‘Cool!’ and saw a gaggle of thirty-somethings who might once have posed in a Jamie Oliver recipe book and thought they still could.

‘Awesome!’ nodded one of the men, sporting chunky retro-framed glasses. ‘Just the kind of contrast we need.’

‘Big skies, open waters, little boats scattered against the bleak landscape. You can almost feel the modern world recede,’ agreed his Gul-clad, would-be-surfer-dude colleague.

‘Yuk! It certainly has in there!’ complained a skinny blonde in a lemon camisole, as she emerged from the loos. ‘I’ve seen better facilities on French campsites. Talk about primitive.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ a pretty black girl mused. ‘It’s kind of a romantic place to sail from.’

‘Don’t even think about it, Corinne,’ said Specs. ‘I refuse to trek up here every Friday night to spend two nights on a boat if I can’t even have a decent shower at the end of it.’

‘How about a speedboat at the marina then?’

‘Throw in a luxury hotel and you might be getting close,’ someone joked.

Probably safe to assume that they weren’t there because of one of her adverts then, thought Harry, watching them laugh, take their photos and walk off along the creek. Before Matthew, she would have taken only the briefest look at the occasional group of visitors wandering round the boat yard, out of curiosity; now she couldn’t help but wonder if they were the vanguard for a sustained invasion of wealthy incomers.

‘You can’t stop them, Harry,’ said a voice beside her.

Harry acknowledged Jimi Tan with a tentative smile. He ought to know – he was one of them, standing there in his skinny jeans, white tee shirt and a black scarf slung round his neck. There was nothing about him Harry could relate to either. He bore her gaze with tolerant amusement as someone who was used to being the object of naked speculation. Harry realised, with a jolt of embarrassment, that Jimi was different from all of them. The blend of his dual heritage both distinguished and separated him from the pack. How soon in his life had he become aware that almost every encounter would begin with a curious glance and an unframed question about his identity?

She was sorry that her reaction could have been misinterpreted. Besides, did it sound any better if she tried to explain that, to her, he was just part of the new wave of visitors who were threatening to change forever the town she loved?

‘Congratulations. You got the job.’

Jimi returned her smile. ‘Never any doubt about it. The only problem at the moment is that I don’t have a kitchen to work in. Someone tried to burn the place down.’

Harry dabbed at the engine with a greasy rag.

‘You know, they’ll keep coming; the whiz kids, the young families, the GBGs.’

‘The what?’

‘Grey but Groovy,’ he grinned. ‘Everyone’s looking for their own piece of paradise.’

Harry stretched her aching back. ‘Yes, well this is my piece of paradise and, if the Spitmarsh Yacht Club hadn’t sold out to a property developer, it might have stood half a chance of staying that way.’

Jimi shook his head. ‘If it hadn’t been Matthew Corrigan it would have been someone else. Everyone’s on the lookout for the next big thing; the next Watergate Bay, the next Padstow, the next Burnham Market.’

‘Just my luck to get Matthew Corrigan then,’ said Harry. ‘And just his luck to come across the one thing that will probably put me out of business.’

He removed his sunglasses and blinked at her.

Harry wasn’t in the mood to play games. ‘Oh, come on!’ she said. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know – he
must
have told you! Isn’t that why you’re here? To check out phase two of the development?’

Jimi took a step back and Harry frowned, annoyed with herself for lashing out so quickly.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, letting out a long breath. ‘That was a bit unfair of me, it’s not your fault you work for a money-making machine. I just don’t know what I’m going to do. You can understand that this manorial rights thing is worrying me sick.’

‘
What
manorial rights thing?’

She shook her head. ‘You really don’t know?’

‘Tell me.’

She looked up at him and saw that the dark eyes were serious. For a moment she saw past the flashy clothes and carefully presented image and caught a glimpse of something that made her think of the past when she was still a child and her dad was there to take care of her. She shrugged. What did it matter if she told him or not? He’d find out soon enough anyway.

When she’d finished Jimi whistled softly. ‘So the business your father founded and which you’ve spent five years building up could be valueless?’

‘Well, it certainly looks that way. Unless I can find evidence to the contrary, Matthew Corrigan owns the access to the boat yard; he could take the lot away from me at a stroke. God, I’m glad Dad’s not here to see this mess.’

‘Sounds to me as if your dad was responsible for the mess. Isn’t that something he ought to have known about?’

Had he known about it? Was this yet another unwelcome discovery? Harry shivered, picturing the unnerving calm of an empty boat. Of
Calypso
tethered and fretful on her mooring, the dinghy hanging uselessly at her side. No, that was a crazy idea. Everyone knew her father’s death had been an accident. She rubbed in vain at a new oil stain on her dungarees. ‘Dad built this place out of nothing,’ she insisted. ‘The boat yard meant everything to him.’

‘So you say, but would he have wanted you to be burdened with the price you’re having to pay to keep it going? Doesn’t it make sense to get the best price you can for the land Matthew wants to buy, before he puts the screws on you and gets the whole business for nothing?’

She glanced up to find his dark eyes watching her intently. Was it worth it? Okay, so she worked really long hours and had weathered ups and downs like any other business. But she did have a really lovely home and it didn’t matter if not many people ever got to see it, because she liked her privacy. George was around to keep an eye on the boat yard; all right, she had to check up on everything he did these days and she was beginning to worry about his health. She had friends in the town, and if Trevor and Frankie had been too busy with their refit to tell her anything about it before they reopened, well, she quite understood. Of course it was worth it. As soon as she could swallow the huge lump in her throat, she would tell Jimi just that.

‘No, I’m not going to give up something he worked so hard to make a success. I can’t do it,’ she croaked, shaking her head. ‘I’m not going to let Matthew Corrigan walk all over me
and
I’ll find a way to make the boat yard a success. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.’

‘It’s no good talking the talk now,’ Jimi persisted. ‘You might as well try to get the best deal you can – unless there’s a way out.’

Would he run back to Matthew and report their conversation? Harry hadn’t missed the swift flicker of anger cross his face as Jimi realised Matthew had been holding out on him. On the other hand Jimi was a chef, wasn’t he? Did it really make any difference to him whether or not Matthew went on to develop the site further, when his reputation rested on the success or failure of the restaurant?

Because she had nothing else to lose, Harry decided she did feel i
nclined to confide in Jimi. Besides, she’d already warned Matthew she would do all she could to stop him
−
surely he would have worked out she would be trying to find a way to do just that?

‘It depends if I can find anything to repudiate Matthew’s claim,’
she volunteered. ‘If I can lay my hands on any documents to prove that the manorial rights were relinquished by a previous owner, I might just have a chance of staying in business.’

Jimi wasn’t impressed. ‘You might as well give up now if you’re relying on that to bail you out. I mean, where do you start looking?’

‘I know, I know.’ She threw up her hands. ‘My mother made it clear that she certainly wouldn’t have kept anything to do with the boat yard and, whilst George has a few bits and pieces of sentimental value, the chances of uncovering something as useful as Matthew managed to put his hands on are looking pretty thin.’

Jimi touched her arm lightly. ‘I’m a great chef, Harry. The restaurant could bring in more business than you think. It could make all the difference to the boat yard’s future prosperity.’

Harry looked up at the sky. ‘Customers I need. But not like that,’ she said, nodding at her trendy visitors who, having taken their photographs, were wandering back again. ‘I need people who love this landscape for itself, not because it’s flavour of the month, the kind of people who want to preserve the beauty of the backwaters for future generations. The trouble is, I really don’t know if they’re out there any more. You know, even before Matthew Corrigan came along I sometimes worried that I was fighting a losing battle.’

‘Look around you; the place is buzzing and it’s not just because a few food tourists are visiting. People in the town have started to believe in themselves again. Surely you don’t want all that energy to be wasted?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s just another false dawn. Everyone’s putting so much effort in but it won’t last, will it? Once the novelty of Samphire has worn off, it will be back to normal. Worse really, because everyone will have lost so much – especially me.’

‘Just think about how it could be for a moment; what the town would be like if it could get people to return, if there was a focus to attract them. Gradually, other organisations will come on board; arts, schools, local producers – and soon there’ll be fewer reasons for young people to leave. Surely you’d want to be part of that?’

‘I hope you’ve got some good ideas, because you’re going to need them to achieve that little lot.’

Jimi looked pleased with himself. ‘Well, for starters what do you think of the idea of boosting up the local film festival? I know it’s not Cannes
−
well, not yet anyway
−
but it would certainly offer another attraction to people who might not otherwise be drawn to the town. We’re carrying out a poll to see what everyone’s favourite films are, showing one runner-up each week and having a grand finale
at Samphire where everyone can dress up, have a meal and watch the winner.’