Turning the Tide (21 page)

Maybe Matthew had heard it too; a small frown creased his brow and he leaned back in his chair looking dazed. ‘I’d better go,’ he muttered.

Harry heard the door from a long way off. At least they agreed about something.

George had been sitting in his caravan, wondering what to do about the suitcase tucked away under his bunk, when the phone rang. Damn thing. It was only there because Miss Harriet had insisted he had to have one. As it was, he didn’t phone no one and no one phoned him. No point in having the damn thing. George sat still for a moment, hoping the caller would just go away. He could sense trouble; Miss Harriet had been lifting so many stones in her quest to uncover the past, there was no telling where the search would take her and no telling who would scuttle out. Feigning utter indifference would only put her off the scent for so long, and he was beginning to feel the strain of the burden he was carrying.

George had a nasty feeling that whoever was ringing could tell he was there. Eventually he picked up the phone to hear a voice he’d been half expecting, as if he’d summoned an unquiet spirit. George didn’t know how much more his nerves could stand. Maeve Watling
−
no, Kendall, he reminded himself
−
was still resentful about the past and longing to have her say.

He’d always had mixed feelings about Harriet’s mother. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine her slender frame touched by middle age, and silver threads
glimmering in her dark hair. She had once been a beautiful woman and, for a while, until the spell was broken, Harry senior had worshipped her and had been a happier, more stable man for loving her. Of course, she’d been very young and very much in love; but, however hard Maeve had tried to lock Harry to her side with a wedding ring and a child, there was always a fugitive aspect to his personality which escaped her. Even after all these years, George’s own bond with the man who had been her husband still rankled.

For her daughter’s sake and to try to break the chain of grief, George was prepared to give her the time of day.

‘How are you, George?’ she asked.

‘Not getting any younger,’ he said.

‘None of us are!’ she laughed.

‘Oh, I don’t know, Maeve. That girl who turned up here all those years ago don’t seem too far away to me.’ He hadn’t missed the emotion thickening her voice and guessed she was treading a thin line between laughter and tears.

‘Ah, she does to me, George. That girl existed in another time, when life was a great big adventure.’ There was a pause for a moment. ‘I still miss him, George.’

George ran a hand across his eyes for a moment to shut out all the pain.

‘And Harry’s still angry with me,’ he heard her say.

‘Well, what did you expect?’ he snapped. ‘Don’t you think she misses him too? We all do – but we didn’t run away. Who d’yer think cleared up all the mess once you’d scarpered? Of course she’s angry, she’s put her whole life on hold to keep the business together whilst you were off with yer fancy man.’ He held up a hand as she began to protest. ‘All right, all right, Maeve. I’m sorry. I know you’re married to ’im now, but you’ll always be Harry’s wife to me.’

He heard her let out a long, unsteady breath. ‘That’s the problem, isn’t it, George? Harry dominated my life when he was alive and he’s still doing it even though he’s been dead for fifteen years. Everyone forgets how long I ran the boat yard by myself and that I was trying to bring up a child at the same time; a very difficult, angry child who couldn’t understand why her daddy had left her.’

George couldn’t let that one pass. Anyone would think he’d been twiddling his thumbs all that time. ‘Who’s everyone, Maeve? Dammit, you weren’t quite alone.’

‘Oh yes, George, you were there and you were piddled half the bloody time because the only person you would listen to had gone. I can’t win, can I? No matter how hard I try, everything I do now is measured against my old life with Harry, as if he was some paragon.’

He shook his head. Blaming Maeve was the simple solution. The truth was that Harry had been as much to blame as Maeve. Kidding himself that he could settle down and forget about the past was a complete delusion. With parents who were so ill at ease with each other, it was small wonder that Miss Harriet pretended she didn’t need anyone. She’d had years of practice trailing round the boat yard in her father’s shadow, vying for his attention when his every waking thought was for someone else. Sometimes you could love too much.

‘You know, sometimes I’ve a good mind to tell Harry exactly what her precious father was like.’

‘Don’t, Maeve,’ he pleaded.

‘Well, why not, George? I’ve had enough of being held responsible for everything that went wrong, always getting the blame for letting the yard go. God knows I’ve been tempted. You know she’s been asking me if I’ve got any old documents?’

Her forced laughter made George feel even more uncomfortable.

‘I don’t know what’s stopped me telling her exactly where her father’s money went.’

‘Maeve,’ he warned, ‘you’d break her heart.’

‘What about
my
heart? Why didn’t you do anything to stop my heart being broken in two? You could have warned me, George. You could have told me not to get involved.’

‘He loved you,’ he insisted. ‘And anyway, you was expecting Miss Harriet and it’s her you’ve got to think of now.’ He took a deep breath and tried not to panic about why Maeve was being pestered about the past too. What had happened the day Jimi Tan turned up at the yard to make Miss Harriet so curious?

‘She’s just thrown because there’s a new restaurant opening where the old clubhouse used to be, and she’s convinced it means the end for the boat yard. She’s got it all wrong, though; this is the opportunity she needs to find new customers. The young feller developing the site isn’t going to put her out of business, Maeve, he’s not the type.’

‘And we all know what a fine judge of character you are, George. It would be much kinder if she knew exactly what her father was like, and then she could decide how much she really wants to keep the boat yard.’

‘You don’t mean that, Maeve. Don’t take away everything she’s got – she certainly won’t thank you for it.’

He let the silence draw out until Maeve felt compelled to break it.

‘I know,’ she said, barely above a whisper. ‘I just wish she didn’t blame me for everything.’

‘Yeah, well, rubbing her nose in the mess won’t help. You’ve got to be patient and, if she comes on the phone again asking about paperwork, just keep telling ’er you ’aven’t got anything. Miss Harriet don’t realise it yet, but Matthew Corrigan’s probably the best person to save the boat yard, and once she feels secure about that I’m sure things’ll get better between the pair of you. Just leave the past where it is.’

‘George? I’ve offered her money but she refuses to take it. I’m only trying to help; if there’s any way you can manage to persuade her to accept something from me, I’d feel a lot better.’

‘I’ll try, Maeve,’ he told her, wearily, ‘but I’m not promising.’

‘Just do what you can.’

George put the phone down, feeling drawn and exhausted. If Maeve could be persuaded to keep her thoughts to herself, he might be able to keep Harry safe for a bit longer. And then he remembered Jimi Tan and felt uneasy all over again. When he tried to stand up, his legs were shaking. A good strong cup of tea ought to help.

Dragging himself to his kitchenette, George put the kettle on; but, as he took the last of his milk out of the fridge, his trembling fingers misjudged the cup and the remaining dregs of milk went all over the draining board. It wasn’t his day.

Chapter Eighteen

The walk into town helped settle George’s nerves. Especially when he threw his mobile phone in a bin along the way. Damn thing. Now if someone wanted to talk to him, they’d ’ave to damn well knock on his door, wouldn’t they?

It was a beautiful day, the sort that couldn’t help but perk you up. Privately, he thought that some of the changes to Little Spitmarsh were no bad thing, although he wouldn’t share his thoughts with Harry. And it was clear, he thought, his lip curling at the Tapas Night poster in the General Store, that some people, like the old bastard inside who’d been robbing everyone blind for years, were getting a bit above themselves.

There was a neglected upright piano at the back of the shop, presumably for want of a Spanish guitar. George wandered in, ignoring po-faced looks from behind the counter, and gave the sad old instrument a try. Expecting to hit a few bum notes, he was pleasantly surprised that it was just like getting back on a bike; a few wobbles, then you were off and freewheeling. As the last note of ‘A Walk in the Black Forest’ faded, George left his reverie to find all the customers in the shop staring at him with open mouths. Then Matthew, with a box of cereal in his hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm, broke the silence.

‘Terrific, George. That was unbelievable!’

George bowed his head modestly.

‘You couldn’t spare me a moment, could you?’

No reason why not, thought George. He had some time for the younger man, whatever Miss Harriet thought of him. ‘I’m sort of without portfolio at the minute, you could say, Matthew.’

‘Excellent! Come over to the restaurant with me, would you, please? I’d be most grateful if we could have a chat.’

George liked the sound of that. Respectful. There wasn’t enough respect in the world, especially with Miss Harriet yapping away and forgetting he’d been on this earth a damn sight longer than she had.

And it made a change to have some male company, he thought, as they strolled companionably to the converted clubhouse. He was tired of listening to that little nagging
voice. Not the one that belonged to Miss Harriet; the other one, the one that kept telling him he’d been jolly lucky that
Johnny MacManus was such a blundering fool or else he, George, would have felt partly responsible for the place
burning down. If he got a chance to see the true picture, his imagination would stop running riot and his conscience would be eased. If he could do all that without worrying about what
Miss Harriet might say or do, then so much the better.

‘You’ve done a good job on this place, Matthew,’ he said, feeling relieved that, thanks to a lot of hard work, the place was in much better shape than he’d feared. He turned his back on the bar and looked out at the stunning views across Campion’s Creek. ‘When I ’eard about your ideas, I thought you was stark raving bonkers – but you’ve gone and pulled it off.’

‘I think so, George,’ Matthew said, his dimple lighting up his lazy grin. ‘Time will tell, of course. But it will only be sustained if I can introduce a complementary housing development as well. It’s all right, George, don’t look so worried. I haven’t asked you here to talk about twisting Harry’s arm.’

In fact, George’s main worry was that Harry wouldn’t wake up in time to see that she had to change the way she did business. He was about to say as much, when Matthew threw him completely.

‘I’m sorry, George, the kitchen isn’t stocked up yet. I’d love to have found you a nice piece of fish.’

George managed not to grimace. There wasn’t such a thing as a nice piece of fish in his book; they all came out of the sea for a start. ‘Er, never mind, Matthew, I’m going to cook when I get home.’

‘Ah well, a drink then?’

He straightened up. ‘Just a glass of water, thank you.’

Matthew grinned and went away. A few minutes later he came back and placed a glass on the table. A scent so heady and familiar wafted up to George that it almost brought tears to his eyes.

‘I thought you might have worked up a thirst with all that piano playing, so I took the liberty of bringing you a G&T. Is that all right with you?’

George looked at the glass and at the clear spirit so pure and innocent within. Even the smell of it was contentment. Realising that Matthew was talking to him, he thought at first he might have misheard.

‘You got the wrong person,’ he chuckled.

Matthew looked indignant. ‘Why? You’ve proved yourself more than capable.’

‘It’s me – salty old George. Not some sophisticated cabaret artiste! You can’t imagine me dressed in an evening suit sitting at a baby grand piano now, can you?’

Matthew laughed. ‘Perhaps not, but that’s not what I want. If I wanted some camp entertainment, I’d have got Trevor and Frankie to do a Hinge and Bracket act.’ He leaned forward. ‘It’s only three nights, George, just to give a bit of extra flavour to the film festival. Just warm the audiences up with a few old film scores and they’ll love it. Come on, everyone knows you round here, but they associate you with Harry and the boat yard. Let everyone see another side of you.’

George scratched his head. Would be nice to do something different for a change. Nice to take his mind off things for a few hours.

‘Well, why not?’ he said at last.

‘Great,’ said Matthew, slapping him on the back. ‘Let’s drink to it!’

George looked down into the seductive depths of his glass. One drink never harmed anyone.

George meandered towards Watling’s feeling at one with the world. What a damn nice feller that Matthew Corrigan was. What a damn nice change it made to have a man-to-man talk, to be a person in his own right instead of a servant to the Watling family. A bit of piano playing at the film festival would be a contrast to wearing himself out chasing round the boat yard. What a fine evening it was; the light dying away, the first of the stars peeping out across the water and a couple of gins coursing through his veins.