Little Kiosk By The Sea (20 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

BB

The cryptic message Johnnie left on Rachel’s answer phone for him was intriguing.

‘11 o’clock by the kiosk this morning if you can. Might have some boat info.’

Several people were crowded around the kiosk booking tickets for the next river trip, when BB walked along the quay. Johnnie, crouching down and pointing out things on the river to Carla in her pushchair, stood up when he saw BB.

‘Glad you could make it,’ Johnnie said.’ You free for the next hour or two?’

‘Sure am. You found me a boat?’

‘Possibly. Forty-footer, name of
Chevalier
. Moored up at Stoke Gabriel. Once Sabine is free, I’ll hand Carla over to her and we’ll go take a look.’

Half an hour later, they were in
Annie
’s tender and motoring up river. Passing
Annie
herself on her mooring in the middle of the river, BB said, ‘Don’t suppose you’re thinking of selling her, are you? She pretty much ticks all my boxes.’

‘I was thinking of selling, but things have changed now I’ve got Carla,’ Johnnie said. ‘I’m going to sell the cottage and buy a bigger place but keep the boat.’

‘Tell me about this
Chevalier
then,’ BB said.

‘Built locally at Uphams, Brixham, late 1940s. She’s forty foot with a beam of nearly ten foot and recently been refurbished. Had several good sails on her. Belongs to a friend who’s going through a messy divorce. Looking for a quick sale.’

As they passed Dittisham, Johnnie pointed to a motor launch tied to the end of one of the mooring trots. ‘There’s a famous boat for you.’

‘Looks like it could do with a paint job,’ BB said.

‘It’s one of the Dunkirk little ships,’ Johnnie said. ‘Everything on her is in its original condition. Played a huge part in getting men back from France. Not what you’re looking for, but it’s also up for sale.’

BB took a long look at the launch as the passed it, shaking his head. ‘Amazing what they achieved. So much history.’

Johnnie slowed the outboard motor as they approached Stoke Gabriel. ‘There’s
Chevalier
. Middle of that line.’

‘Can we get on board?’ BB asked.

Johnnie nodded. ‘Keys in my pocket. Like the look of her, then?’

‘Sure do.’

Johnnie cut the outboard as he took the tender alongside
Chevalier
and BB tied a painter rope to the yacht’s rail before stepping on board and waiting in the cockpit for Johnnie to join him and unlock the hatch.

He didn’t say anything as he stepped down the four steep steps into the saloon and explored the yacht. The galley had the usual sink, gimballed cooker, small fridge and compact storage space. The chart table, easily accessible from the cockpit was opposite and the main saloon with its table and red leather bunk seats was inviting. A double cabin, shower and the heads were built into the remaining forward space with the sail locker in its usual place in the bow.

‘Great refurbishment,’ BB said as he joined Johnnie in the cockpit. ‘Old wooden boats always seem to have a soul, like a living thing. There’s something cosy about a teak-lined boat cabin.’ He glanced at Johnnie.

‘Sorry, a bit sentimental there but …’ he shrugged.

‘So, what do you think?’

‘You said you’d sailed on her? How does she handle?’

‘Good. Came a respectable third in a race at last year’s Regatta,’ Johnnie said, closing the hatch and locking it. ‘I can arrange a sail for you later in the week, if you’re interested.’

‘Thanks. I’m more than interested. I think you’ve found me my ideal boat,’ BB said. ‘I owe you one if it all works out.’

With Johnnie at the tiller of the tender as they moved away from
Chevalier
and began to motor down river, BB smiled as he looked back at the yacht. ‘She’s got lovely lines,’ he said. He turned to look at Johnnie.

‘Nobody else after her, is there? I’m not likely to be gazumped? Willing to put some money on the table to reserve her.’

‘Ian, the owner, was going to register her with the agencies this week. Once he knows how serious you are, I’ll get him to hang fire until you’ve had a sail and shaken hands on the deal. Okay?’

‘Thanks.’

They were almost back down at the kiosk when Johnnie said, ‘Is Rachel okay?’

‘She seems fine,’ BB answered absently, his thoughts still on board
Chevalier
. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Haven’t seen her around for several days. She was supposed to be getting back to me over something, but I haven’t heard a word.’

‘Want me to mention you’re waiting to hear from her?’

Johnnie shook his head. ‘No worries. I guess she’ll be in touch soon. If not, I’ll pop round and see her.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

RACHEL

Rachel glanced at the bedside clock. 5.30 a.m. Exactly five minutes since she’d last looked. She sighed. After tossing and turning for most of the night, she might as well accept the fact that she was unlikely to get any more sleep. Far better to dress and go for a walk. Try to let the fresh air clear her mind.

Dressing quickly and pulling on her jeans and sweatshirt, she crept downstairs. No shower. She didn’t want to disturb BB. Quietly she opened the front door and let herself out.

Passing Johnnie’s cottage on the way into town, she wondered how he was coping with Carla’s teething. She hadn’t heard from him for some days now – not since the night she’d fled, panic-stricken, from his cottage. Carla’s teething pain had probably been helped by a visit to the chemist, but she hadn’t liked to tell Johnnie the problem would be there for months yet.

Deserted streets felt strangely alien as Rachel walked quickly through Fairfax Place and onto Newcomen Road. She could sense the town stirring – the strident noise of an alarm clock coming from an open window, the smell of brewing coffee floating past, bundles of newspapers left in front of the closed newsagent’s door waiting to be sorted – but met no-one as she walked out of town. The absence of people served to reinforce her current sense of once again being an outcast.

Turning at Warfleet and walking in the direction of the castle, the jumble of questions in her mind had combined to form just two. To leave? Or to stay and to hell with the consequences? Decisions! Decisions!

St Petrox church, perched on its rock at the head of the river, beckoned as Rachel stood and looked out to sea. She hesitated before walking towards it and pushing open the gate and entering the church yard. Rose petals from a recent wedding littered the path. A typical ancient cemetery unfolded as she wandered around.

Humps in the grass where graves had lost their headstones. Ancient memorial stones at a crazy angle. Lichen-covered grave stones. Fallen slabs, their carved letters battered by the elements out here on the cliff undecipherable.

A headstone where she could just make out the inscription, ‘Beatrice. Beloved daughter. 25 May 1895–20 February 1896’, had her wiping a tear away. Seven months. Younger than Carla was now.

Carla. Should she accept Johnnie’s offer and become the child’s godmother? So much of her wanted to say yes. Longed to be in her and Johnnie’s lives. She could treat Carla as the daughter she’d never had. Accepting though would mean becoming involved. Being truthful about the past.

Rachel bent down and picked a daisy growing on the child’s grass-covered grave. To stay – one petal pulled. To go – another petal pulled. She liked Johnnie and that kiss had confirmed what she’d suspected. He liked her too. Wanted more. Moving the tentative friendship they’d formed onto a different footing – a full-blown relationship – wasn’t possible. Was it?

More petals pulled in the daisy game she’d not played since childhood – yes to stay, no to go, yes, no, yes. She should never have returned. Far better to leave the past undisturbed. Return to her life in France with Hugo and family.

The daisy had five petals left. No, yes, no, yes … no. Rachel’s lungs hurt as she let a deep sigh go.

Closing the churchyard gate behind her, Rachel began to make her way back to Dartmouth. She’d have a holiday somewhere and put the house on the market when she returned. Hugo could visit as planned and then she’d leave – go back with him to France. Decision made. Time to move on. Now to start the process of leaving.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

BB

BB took his breakfast coffee and toast out to the terrace and sat enjoying the quiet early morning silence. A silence occasionally broken by squawking seagulls and the distant sound of cars driving onto the Higher Ferry car ramp drifting towards him on the breeze.

Between eating his toast and drinking his coffee, he studied the bus timetable he’d picked up yesterday and began to plan his day out. A ride out to Torcross to look at the Sherman tank, lunch in a beachside restaurant and then back on a bus to go to Kingsbridge for the afternoon.

A shiver of anticipation ran through him as he thought about what he hoped to discover later that day. If he’d read his most recent genealogy research correctly, in a few hours he could have the confirmation of the existence of ‘The English Connection’ that he and Jessie had set out to find. Or not.

A deep sigh escaped his lips as he folded the timetable back up. He prayed placing so much hope on this one Kingsbridge name and address didn’t lead to a dead end and disappointment.

‘That was a deep sigh,’ Rachel said, making him jump in surprise. ‘Good morning.’ Holding a mug of coffee, she sat down in the chair opposite him.

‘Good morning,’ BB said, concealing his surprise at seeing her. He’d realised the first morning after moving into the cottage that Rachel was most definitely not a morning person, and he’d taken great care not to disturb her in the mornings.

‘You’re up and about early,’ he said.

‘Couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk,’ Rachel said, looking at the bus timetable. ‘Where are you off to then?’

‘Torcross and Kingsbridge.’

‘More family research?’

BB nodded. ‘Yep.’

Rachel warmed her hands around her mug of tea before asking, ‘You are happy here aren’t you, BB? The room’s worked out okay? You’re staying until September?’

‘Couldn’t be happier,’ BB said. ‘Why? You’re not about to give me notice, are you?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘No. It’s just … I thought I’d go away for a bit and wanted to make sure you’d still be around to keep an eye on the place.’

‘Sure thing. You planning on going on another yacht delivery with Johnnie, then?’

‘No. Thought I’d have a holiday. Go down to Cornwall or somewhere. No idea where yet really – or when. Just feel the need for a change.’

‘Happy to look after the place anytime – so long as you’re back before September,’ BB said. ‘I was going to ask you this later, can I invite a few friends around for drinks on the terrace sometime?’

‘How many is a few? Not a lot of room really,’ Rachel said.

‘About seven or eight. You too, of course, if you haven’t disappeared on holiday by then,’ BB looked at Rachel hopefully.

‘Don’t see a problem with that number. Okay.’

‘Thanks. Right. Quick shower and then time to get going. I’ll see you this evening, with some good news I hope.’

For BB the slowness of the bus journey from Dartmouth along the coast road to Torcross was just perfect. He admired the blue sea and the golden curve of Blackpool Sands bay as the bus climbed the hill towards Strete. Through Strete where he held his breath as the driver jiggled the bus through a seemingly impossible narrow space to pass a Dartmouth-bound coach.

He was given a quick glimpse of the long stretch of Slapton Sands with its sea sparkling in the sunlight in the distance as the bus drove along the final stretch before the final descent. Minutes later, the driver drove slowly down the hill, round the last bend and into Strete Gate at the start of the long, straight drive into Torcross itself, with only the wide shingle beach between it and the English Channel.

Getting off the bus in the centre of the village, BB crossed the road and made his way to the Sherman tank memorial. Standing to one side, he waited patiently for the crowd surrounding the tank to disperse and allow him to approach for a better look. A pile of paperback books were stacked neatly on a table near the tank and he picked up one.

The Forgotten Dead
by Ken Small. He’d briefly looked through this book in the reference library the other day, now he could buy his own copy and read it properly. He knew it detailed the tragic events that had happened out in the bay in front of him the night of April 27 l944. The night that Great-uncle Lance, one of the men involved in the naval exercise – code name Operation Tiger – had died. Hard to reconcile the dreadful events of that night with the peaceful scene before him now.

Listening to the man at the tank telling the story of how after forty years the tank was dragged from the bottom of Start Bay and placed here as a memorial to all the young men who died that night, BB felt increasingly sad for his late great-uncle. No wonder Grandfather had never talked much about his time here.

The book bought and safely placed in the folder with his research notes, BB made his way across the road and walked along the beach for a while. His head needed the sea breeze to blow away all the harrowing pictures his mind had conjured up listening to the tragic outcome of Operation Tiger and how it had affected the whole coastline.

Two hours later, his head cleared by the sea air, and fortified by some of the most delicious fish and chips he’d ever eaten, he was back on a bus for the last stage of his journey to Kingsbridge. He knew from the map he’d printed off the Internet that the street he wanted was at the top end of the town’s steep main street.

Reaching the top of town and following his map, he found the address with surprising ease. He stood in front of the terraced cottage, its front garden a mass of flowers and its white painted wooden garden gate firmly closed, for several moments. He was excited about the answers he was hoping to get. But what if he was wrong wanting to bring this family and their past into his life? What if they weren’t interested in having overseas cousins? Would they resent him appearing out of the blue and disrupting their lives? If they told him to get lost, then he would. Tell Jessie that there was no English connection, but he had to know one way or the other. He took a deep breath and put his hand out to lift the gate latch.