Turning the Tide (6 page)

‘Sounds as if Harry’s had a tough time.’ Matthew decided to probe a bit deeper. ‘It can’t have been easy for her to get this far. Family businesses can get into considerable difficulties if they lose their driving force. The big personality, say, who keeps the place together, gives it a foundation. Once that’s gone customers start to get uneasy, they feel insecure and drift away. Small debts accrue and turn into large ones, and before you know it you’ve got creditors coming at you from all directions.’

George looked pensive. ‘I did what I could, of course,’ he went on. ‘But only one person had the heart to make Watling’s what it is today and that’s Miss Harriet.’ He stepped closer. ‘So if you’re asking me if I worry about what Miss Harriet does or doesn’t like then, yes sir, it’s my great honour to do just that. And if you and me, young fellow, are going to rub along then you better remember that or else don’t show your face round here no more. Right?’

‘Right.’ If Harry had a weak spot it wasn’t George; he would clearly defend her to the hilt. And yet the old man’s gaze was troubled as it travelled towards the boat yard. George was a man with too many burdens. Sooner or later, Matthew would lighten them.

Sometimes, thought Frankie, angrily pushing the Hoover round the spare room after a long, tense afternoon, it was hard to read Trevor. Anyone else would have been marking the biggest opportunity to come their way for years. They’d always closed early on Wednesday, supposedly to make up for being rushed off their feet on Saturday – although in truth they could stay closed half the bloody week for all the difference it made – and they ought to have been celebrating. Instead of the frivolous afternoon he’d been anticipating, it was business as usual with Trevor downstairs moodily starting the dinner – leaving him to do what? More housework?

What the bloody hell was Trevor doing anyway?

‘When’s dinner?’ he bellowed. ‘I’m starving to death up here.’

No reply. Maybe the silly fool had got the wrong end of the stick and forgotten he was the one who was supposed to be cooking? Frankie unplugged the Hoover and huffed downstairs, ready to give Trevor a piece of his mind.

Trevor was flopped out on the sofa, distractedly tickling Kirstie’s ears whilst Phil surveyed them jealously from the floor. One spoilt bitch had been quite enough, but since he’d had the chop Phil had taken to sulking nearly as much as Kirstie.

The sitting room had been designed with muted earthy colours and plain natural materials to create a tranquil space with a sense of inner calm; but the only face Frankie could see that wore anything like a beatific expression was Kirstie’s. Even that was ruined by the smug sideways glances she kept shooting at Phil.

‘Trevor?’

Trevor ran his large hand over the little dog’s back. ‘I just keep wondering what Sophie would think of me?’

‘You what?’

Kirstie went pop-eyed as Trevor’s hand applied extra pressure to the downward stroke of her coat. ‘Frankie, what happens if this restaurant takes off? What happens if the press cover it? Have you thought about that? What are we going to do once there are photographers swarming all over the place or some bloody commissioning editor from Channel 4 wants to do a piece about it?’

Frankie flopped down next to Trevor and picked up the glass of wine he’d poured himself as an incentive to get through the chores. ‘Come on, Trevor. I mean – as if?’

‘You know what it means though, don’t you? That’ll be it, won’t it? She’d never let me see Sophie again.’

Kirstie slid off Trevor’s lap before her head was crushed, while Frankie tried to curb his resentment. The prospect of fun had turned into the one topic that would send them spinning in endless circles.

‘Then seize the bloody initiative, Trev! Get Jane out of the driving seat. Sophie’s not a kid any more – she’s eleven now. It’s about bloody time you told her the full story and stopped conveniently pretending I don’t exist.’ For a moment Frankie was carried away by the thought of how it could be: arranging Sophie’s favourite flowers in the spare room for her when she came to stay; counting out all the spare change he threw in a drawer, so they could feed the slot machines in the arcade; buying bacon and eggs made of seaside rock for them to put on Trevor’s plate at breakfast time. Yeah, it could be good. Imagine being a family man! He looked at Trevor, waiting to see if any of the excitement he was feeling was reflected back at him. As he met Trevor’s eyes, the small tide of happiness surfing up his sunny beach was sucked back and surged forth in a bitter flood of resentment and disappointment.

‘You do it your way then, Trev, and when you decide the time’s right you’d just better hope that I’m still around.’

Back at his rented cottage, a lot later than planned, Matthew began to wonder what had happened to his business sense. Commissioning a couple of florists whose word was the only testimony to their skill, and hiring a lovely, sullen, big-bottomed girl who appeared to have an NVQ in rudeness was not where most managers would start. Although he had to admit that the contempt with which Lola treated her customers seemed to create a fair amount of erotic charge; which was more than could be said for Harry Watling, who was a pain in the arse whichever way you looked at it. She didn’t want money, she despised flattery and she all but refused to give him the time of day. Oh, Ms Watling certainly thought she’d got the upper hand all right.

The girl in the estate agent’s hadn’t done badly out of him either, although she’d been so taken aback that he could afford the rent on Sea Shanty that she’d left out some essential information. Such as – only people who didn’t have to live there all the time were daft enough to put up with the tiny bedrooms; and the dining room was so small that, once you’d taken your place at the table, you thought twice about getting up to go to the loo.

Ducking to avoid hitting his head on the low doorway, Matthew wandered from the adjoining bathroom into the so-called master bedroom. From here, he’d discovered, he could see out across the long grass of the meadow behind the cottage to a strip of stone-grey water where the boat masts speared the dove band of sky. Float with the tide back towards the land and you’d come to the old yacht club and, beyond that, the boat yard. Matthew thought about the dark waves licking the slipway at the foot of the converted boathouse where, he now knew, Harry lived. George, he’d discovered, liked to talk, especially once Matthew had adapted his approach to suggest that his interest in Harry was purely altruistic. Like a proud parent, the old boy had been unable to resist boasting about Harry’s achievements, her renovation skills being amongst them. ‘Right shipshape it is an’ all!’ was his judgement of the boathouse.

Matthew considered it further. Enviable location, double front doors, sliding glass panels leading to a sun deck off the first floor, probably the main bedroom, with unparalleled views across the water. Nice house. Although George had remained guarded about the exact state of the yard, there’d been plenty of nautical metaphors and hints about bad weather. It all suggested that if Harry didn’t look around to see what was happening she was certainly going to catch a storm. Matthew didn’t think it would be very long before he wandered over to the boat yard to have another concerned chat with George. Very nice house, he thought, feeling more cheerful. He might even buy it himself when, inevitably, Harry was forced to sell.

It would have been good to ring Gina to tell her that the development was working out, despite her predictions. She was a hard habit to break; the relationship had reached a stage where it wasn’t doing either of them any favours. There had been rows, silences, infidelities and intense, claustrophobic reunions – all of which only seemed to fuel their mutual addiction.

In the fading light he felt for his phone again and scrolled through until he came to the photo Gina had sent him; there she was at another nightclub, dark eyes smouldering directly at the camera, dark hair swinging against her cheeks. In one hand was a bottle of Bud; the other rested possessively on the shoulder of the DJ who, even on a screen this size, had a style and presence that shone out through the pixels.

Wdnt u like 2 no who this is?

No, thought Matthew, pressing delete. Not really, Gina.

Chapter Five

Harry rubbed her eyes. The figures on her screen didn’t look good, but they’d be a lot better if she could only get her clients to pay their bills on time. Was this the shape of her future? Forever hunched over a spreadsheet trying to make the sums add up? Closing the program down, she squashed the faint stirrings of fear uncoiling inside her. What if she couldn’t stop the steady trickle of cash leaking out of the system? What if people got to know about her financial problems? What if they started to whisper that maybe Harry Watling didn’t have what it took to take over from her father? What if she had no choice but to sell off land to pay her debts?

Leaning back to stretch her stiff neck, Harry stared at the ceiling; but her mind stayed as blank as the smooth white surface. Everyone had cash flow problems from time to time; her dad had certainly had his fair share. Getting up, she walked across the room to slide back the glass doors, stepped out onto her terrace and breathed in the fresh night air, seeking reassurance from her realm. Yet across the water, silhouetted against a clear, deep-blue sky, the old clubhouse was changing daily; from its worn, sloughed-off skin, the glistening carapace of something beautiful and sinister was emerging.

And now something with an equally tough shell – but a lot less beautiful – had also crept out from his shed, where he’d been sulking, to poke about in the last of the light. Harry watched George beetling along the pontoons, tugging on mooring lines, which she would undoubtedly have to double-check later, and realigning perfectly well-placed fenders. He walked away from one boat and Harry counted up to six before a rope mysteriously untied itself and a fender plopped into the water. Sometimes she thought she only kept him on because it was what her father would have wanted. Harry sighed and got up to find a jacket. Flaming June it certainly wasn’t, especially at this time of the evening.

George found her fishing in the water with a boat hook. ‘Blow me. That was safe as houses just now – had it tidied up proper.’ He stepped back as a wet fender landed at his feet. ‘Still, at least you found it. Wouldn’t do to have to replace it.’

‘You’re not wrong there,’ said Harry, drying her hands on the legs of her dungarees as she stood up. ‘Mind you, if a few people don’t start settling up soon I might have to put some of their kit in safe keeping until they do.’

George cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Trouble?’

Harry shrugged. ‘You know what it’s like sometimes.’ She didn’t even sound convincing to herself, let alone George. ‘Gets a bit tight when none of them can find their wallets.’

George shuffled on the pontoon, which let out a groan. Harry bent down and let out a curse. ‘Someone saw me coming when I bought that last batch of timber. Look at this,’ she said, pointing to a split in the wood. ‘If I fix this tomorrow, will you have a look around and see if any of the other planks have gone? The last thing we need now is someone breaking their ankle and suing me.’

‘Pah!’ said George, frightening a few roosting birds. ‘No one round here would do that. They can’t afford the solicitor’s fees in the first place.’

Harry frowned up at him. ‘They can’t, George, but if Matthew Corrigan gets his way there’ll be a few up here who can. All it will take is for some spoilt wife to trip up and break a fingernail whilst getting her five-minute fix of the real Little Spitmarsh, and we’ll be out of business.’

George hurrumphed to himself. ‘You’re not getting this out of proportion are you, Miss Harriet? Anyone would think the Prince of Darkness ’ad fetched up at yer doorstep. Matthew Corrigan’s only flesh and blood, you know.’

Harry tried not to let herself get distracted by the thought of Matthew’s flesh. She turned to the old man who had been part of her life for so long, and smiled. ‘You’re probably right, George. I guess I’m just feeling the strain. It’s one thing to hear there’s going to be a trendy eating place on your doorstep and another to watch it happen.’

‘Ain’t there yet, Miss Harriet,’ said George kindly. ‘We can all dream big. Doesn’t mean to say that it’s going to come true. There’s a lot of money being spent tarting that old place up, but they’ve still got to fill it when it’s done, eh?’

Harry nodded and remembered all the times when George had been there for her, handling all problems with equanimity; from scraped knees when she was a little girl, to letting her sob unashamedly when she missed her dad. Except for the odd awkward pat on the back, there was nothing demonstrative about their relationship; no hugs or kisses, no sense in any way that George had ever tried to fill her father’s shoes. Just his simple constant presence, the one continuous thread in her life.

‘George,’ she said, clearing her throat, ‘when you’re checking the pontoons tomorrow, if you come across any of the owners will you have a quiet word and see if you can get some of them to pay up?’

She heard him sigh. ‘Can do, Miss Harriet. Can do. But we’ve got to start thinking about the future. A few bob here and there isn’t going to make all that much difference, is it? We need to get in owners who can pay. And we need to put the prices up too; they’ve been dirt cheap for too long. The thing is,’ he continued, ‘if you carry on like this, you won’t need to worry about someone else putting you out of business. At this rate you’ll do it for yourself.’

Hmm, thought Harry. That was the other thing she remembered about George; years of him always thinking he knew best. Most of the time it took the form of one of his own peculiar pearls of wisdom: ‘Any fool can walk into trouble, Miss Harriet. Takes a wise man to know when to steer clear’; or ‘Better a sea cow you know than one you don’t’ – whatever that meant. Occasionally it took the form of a short sharp dressing-down – like the time he’d caught wind of a brief fling she’d had with one of the few eligible yachtsmen to fetch up at Watling’s: ‘Ain’t proper, Miss Harriet. That’s all I’m saying.’ This, delivered with a face like thunder, had certainly made her toes curl. But once in a blue moon, and especially in the old days when he used to drink, George could really get up on his hind legs and feel he had the right to lecture her.