Turning the Tide (23 page)

The thunder sounded again, practically overhead. Behind him the door opened and someone walked in. Matthew looked into the mirrored wall lining the back of the bar as the figure dropped the hood of the yellow oilskin. It wasn’t the sexiest sight he’d ever seen, yet he felt a warm frisson of pleasure at seeing her.

‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.’

Harry, her small face splashed with raindrops and her fringe plastered to her forehead, did not return his smile. Wintry-grey eyes accused him beneath the wet black lashes. Matthew turned round to face her.

‘I hope you’re proud of yourself,’ she spat, looking at him balefully.

Must have been a shiver of dread rather than delight. Just as well, there had been a nasty moment that day over coffee in her house, when he had looked into her unguarded face turned up at him and thought the unthinkable. He guessed why she had come, but was far too weary to deal with a Harry Watling tantrum now. ‘What’s the big deal, Harry? Surely you’re not getting your knickers in a twist about George playing the piano, are you? Poor old boy deserves some time out with all the running around he does for you, doesn’t he?’

Harry shook her head. ‘You don’t have the slightest idea of what you’ve done, do you? George is an alcoholic. Hasn’t touched a drop for three years but, thanks to you, he’s not only fallen off the wagon, he’s set fire to it and is doing a war dance round it too.’

Matthew looked up at the ceiling and blew out slowly. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I see.’

‘Oh, I doubt that very much,’ said Harry, sourly. ‘What on earth did I do to you that you had to interfere with every aspect of my life? You took over the old clubhouse, you’re turning the town into a place I don’t recognise, and now you’re just counting down the days until you can stop me trading.’

He kept silent.

‘But even that’s not enough for you, is it? You couldn’t bear to think that I had one loyal member of staff, someone who’s chosen to be there for me. Oh no, you thought he was under my thumb and to prove it you took him out and did the worst thing you could possibly do – you bought him a drink.’

It was more than a Harry tantrum and it was beginning to hurt, because he had gloated slightly at the thought that he and the old boy were getting one over on her. Why hadn’t he put two and two together? Why had he never seen George touch alcohol?

But Harry hadn’t finished. ‘Well, I hope you’re proud because here’s what you’ve done; you see, I can’t have an alcoholic wandering round the place. It’s not safe for him, it’s not safe for anyone else, and, hey, although you’ve probably worked this out for yourself, it’s not all that great for business. So, well done, Matthew. Thanks to you, I’ve had to let George go.’

‘
What
?’ Matthew fought to control the anger that coursed through his body.

‘You heard,’ she said, with contempt. ‘I can’t let George work for me any more – unless, of course, you’d rather I fished his dead body out from under a pontoon one day?’

She was right, of course, but that didn’t mean he liked her very much for spelling the danger out to him. But if he didn’t feel much warmth towards Harry, he positively loathed himself. George hadn’t even wanted a drink; he, good old Matthew, had forced one on him. That must have been the start of some bender; once he’d got a taste of gin, the old boy clearly hadn’t been able to stop.

The doors closed behind Harry, and there was only a puddle of rainwater on the polished floor and his own deep sense of shame and self-recrimination to show she’d even been there. Matthew groaned. He’d promised to attend some awards ceremony with Gina in London the next day and wouldn’t even be able to catch up with the old boy. Poor old sod must be feeling pretty low. But he was a tough old bird. Yep, thought Matthew, crossing the empty room. Torpedoed twice by Jerry and blown up countless times by Harry, George would come through this crisis, too.

As the last of the lightning flickered across the creek, Harry sat in the dark and turned the glass slowly in her hand, hoping that, by placing her fingers where her father had once touched the cut patterns of its surface, she could bring him back to her in some small way. Within the glass a hefty measure of malt whisky revolved and gleamed in the fading light. But not even the familiar notes of sea spray, peat smoke and tar that rose into the air brought back anything but memories of the man who had once savoured them.

Closing her eyes, Harry took a sip and drew some comfort from the fire which burned her throat and warmed her body. She ached with loss. If she had acted harshly, it was for George’s own good. Her father, even though he and George went back such a long way, would have done the same. She was almost sure of it. This time she really thought George had beaten the bottle; she really had believed him when he promised he wouldn’t touch a drop ever again. It was easy to blame Matthew, but maybe a relapse was inevitable? And George had been acting pretty strangely, with minor accidents and careless incidents seeming to follow him all round the yard.

She was desperately sorry she’d had to sack him, but he was a danger to himself and everyone else. And then there was the business. You had to stop the rot, she knew that for certain. She hadn’t been able to save her father, but she would do everything in her power, whatever it took, to make sure he lived on in the business he had founded. Even if that meant not having George at her side.

Chapter Twenty

Matthew walked up to the caravan and immediately felt a little less ashamed of himself and a lot more critical of Harry. He’d assumed, when George waved airily in the direction of his house, that he’d meant a modern mobile home. Screened as it was by trees and shrubs, with only a glimpse of the cream roof to show it was there, Matthew was rather shocked to discover that the place was little more than a tin shack squatting beside the creek. If Harry cared that much about the old man, what on earth was he doing living here? The poor old sod wasn’t getting any younger; you’d have thought the very least he deserved was a comfortable home.

There was no response to his knock, and Matthew was about to walk away when a weak voice called, ‘Just let yerself in, dammit. It’s open.’

His disappointment in Harry increased as he stepped inside. The place was immaculate
−
especially the galley, with its yellow Formica cupboards scrubbed and original sink gleaming
−
but, Christ, it was bleak and bare. A sliding plastic door separated the galley from a second meagre living area. Here George was stretched out on a narrow ber
th, which to Matthew’s eyes afforded little space even to turn over comfortably.

‘Ah, it’s you, Matthew,’ George said, struggling to push back a heavy grey wool blanket and very white, but darned, cotton sheets. ‘I thought it might be Miss Harriet.’ The strain of sitting up provoked a spasm of coughing in the old man. Matthew looked around for a glass for water, but George waved for him not to bother.

‘Sit down,’ he wheezed, pointing to a wooden-framed armchair, the only comfortable place that Matthew had seen so far. ‘It’ll clear when I’ve had a roll-up. Thing is,’ he said, pushing back fine, yellow-tinged hair which waved like a faded seed head, ‘I don’t much feel like a smoke at the moment. Mind you, I don’t much feel like a drink either.’ He gave Matthew a rueful smile. ‘That’s not why I’m still lying here though. I just don’t seem to have had the energy to rouse meself. Tell you what. A good strong cup of coffee might do the trick. Would you mind?’

Matthew got to his feet, feeling so churned up that he was unable to speak. How could Harry just turn her back on George?

‘There is a spare cup,’ George said proudly, ‘though if you want milk you’ll ’ave to ’ave it powdered. Oh, and help yerself to biscuits.’

Poor old bugger, he really had struggled to get that last sentence out. Matthew made coffee and, since George was still looking peaky, helped him to sit up. Through his striped pyjamas the old man’s shoulders were still strong and muscular, but his hand shook as he tried to drink his coffee and there were twin spots of vivid colour on his cheeks. Another fit of coughing made him wince.

‘How long have you been lying here, George?’

‘Couple of days mebbe, since … since you know when. Oh, I’ve got up to do the necessary, you know, clean meself, take a leak.’

Matthew felt wretched. If only he hadn’t been so keen to win the old man over with a couple of drinks, this would never have happened.

‘I’m sorry, George. This is all my fault.’

George lifted his hand in a feeble protest. ‘No, Matthew,’ he gasped, fighting fo
r breath. ‘It were
−
’

Matthew took the old man’s hand, with its translucent, papery skin and icy purple veins, and gently laid it down.

‘Don’t blame yourself, George. We’re going to sort this out. Once I’ve had a talk to Ms Watling, you’ll soon be back at
the yard.’

A look of despair crossed George’s tired face. ‘No, Matthew, Miss Harriet did the right thing.’

‘Come on. Anyone can make a mistake.’

‘True, but I’ve caused Miss Harriet real harm.’

The colour in George’s cheeks seem to grow more florid, in contrast to the rest of his face which was grey. To Matthew’s distress, there were tears in the old man’s eyes as he turned to him. ‘I was only trying to help, Matthew, I really was. What with trying to make her see that she needed new customers and ’elping some of the old ones on their way … I never thought old Johnny would react like that. What with that and all the worries with that boy sniffin’ round.’

Matthew frowned. ‘What boy, George?’

‘That chef feller. The one I’ve been trying to tell you about.’ Another fit of coughing racked the old man’s body, causing him obvious pain.

Matthew touched his arm. ‘Don’t worry about it now, George. I’m sure you haven’t done anything wrong, so stop tormenting yourself. There are more important things to concentrate on right now, like getting yourself better. Now I’m going to make you as comfortable as I can and then I’m going to fetch a doctor. Right?’

George nodded feebly. ‘Right, Matthew.’

Harry’s back was killing her. Her shoulders were a Gordian knot of tension and her hands, which were burning with all the extra pulling on ropes she’d been doing, were shaking as she poured petrol into the outboard. She’d give George a couple of days to think about what he’d done, then she’d go over to the caravan and see if he felt lik
e giving her a hand. There was an engine that needed to be dumped in oil quickly, before the salt water that had got to it caused any more damage. Hang on
−
Harry rubbed greasy hands through her hair
−
that wasn’t possible, was it? George had been given ma
ny chances over the years and blown every one. This time, he’d reached the point of no return.

‘Why don’t you get George to do that?’

Resplendent in his trendy black cardigan and white vest top, Jimi clearly wasn’t in the mood to get his hands dirty, Harry thought ruefully.

‘George doesn’t work here any more,’ she told him crisply.

Jimi’s eyebrows rose. ‘So, what about the manorial rights stuff? Did you get anything useful out of him about that before he left?’

Harry bent to tighten the lid of the petrol can. ‘George wasn’t making much sense about anything when I saw him last,’ she bit out. ‘And he didn’t leave. He was sacked. You see, unfortunately, George is an alcoholic. And I was stupid enough to think he wouldn’t relapse … so that’s it.’

Jimi whistled softly. ‘I didn’t realise.’

Harry straightened up and pushed her hair off her face. ‘Well, why should you? It’s not as if you can tell by looking. Besides, it was Matthew who started him off. Nice guy, your boss.’

‘In the circumstances you didn’t have a choice,’ he said, taking off his sunglasses to reveal dark eyes hard with resolve. ‘I’ve seen it all before; I’ve worked with one or two. They can stay dry for months, years even, and then something pushes them over the edge and the whole cycle starts again.’

‘Something or someone,’ Harry said with feeling. ‘If Matthew Corrigan hadn’t been so keen to make George one of the lads, this wouldn’t have happened.’ She examined her split nails and battered hands. ‘I’ve lost George and, unless my solicitor comes up with something fast, I’m in danger of losing the yard too.’

‘What about all the publicity the town’s had? And that sailing article? Won’t that help the business?’

Harry looked round for her life jacket. ‘I’m not counting on that. It could be months before that’s published. Besides, it could be all over by then. Let’s face it, the sort of people who’ll be coming up to dine at Samphire aren’t really the sort who sail from Watling’s. They want CCTV to keep an eye on the valuable boats they never sail, and locked gates and all that malarkey.’

‘But not everyone wants that, surely?’ Jimi mused, looking round at the straggly array of yachts lining the bowl of the creek. ‘I can’t believe you haven’t had a single enquiry; it’s such a beautiful spot.’

‘Until Matthew builds a block of flats here.’

Harry thought about Matthew sitting on her sofa, talking about Johnny. Listening to that intimate sexy murmur, she’d found it so easy to be seduced into believing that he cared – not only about Johnny but also, and she felt stupid just thinking it, about her.