Turning the Tide (22 page)

The cough, just behind him, took him by surprise and George berated himself under his breath for being so dull that he hadn’t noticed he wasn’t alone.

‘Who’s there?’ he spluttered.

‘It’s all right, George. Remember me? Jimi Tan.’

George dearly wished he didn’t. He’d much prefer it if Jimi Tan disappeared and they could all forget they’d ever seen him. The gin made him braver than he felt.

‘Should be ashamed of yerself, sneaking up on an old man, at this time of night.’

Jimi laughed softly. ‘If you weren’t half cut, George, you’d have heard me. I was just keeping an eye on you to make sure you got back all right. You’ve been with Harry a long time now, haven’t you? Must be a bit of a father figure to her, mustn’t you? Being as she was so young when she lost her dad.’

Jimi’s quiet voice insinuated its way into his head, making it spin.

‘Are you threatening me, young feller?’

‘Why would I threaten someone who’s been such a good friend to the Watling family?’

George tried to concentrate on seeing where Jimi was heading, and wished he could have another drink to sort it out.

‘You’re pretty thick with Matthew Corrigan.’

‘Ain’t no ’arm in that. ’E’s a nice feller. Wants me to do a bit of piano playing at the film festival.’

‘Well, of course, it suits him to keep you on his side.’

George wanted to swat him. Just wait until Jimi heard him play – then he’d know why Matthew was keen for him to take part.

‘Just be careful what you say, George. The boat yard could be worth a lot of money when the restaurant takes off. I’ve got a lot of admiration for Matthew, but he’s a property developer, isn’t he? I mean, that’s how the guy makes his money. Now I’m not suggesting for one minute that he would cheat Harry, but, let’s face it, if he can find a way to get hold of the land he wants more cheaply, then he will.’

George didn’t enjoy feeling like a booby. ‘I didn’t even mention the boat yard.’

Jimi’s voice was soothing. ‘No one’s saying you did, but I bet what you don’t know about the boat yard isn’t worth knowing. I bet you’re a mine of information about the past. We must have a little chat sometime, don’t you think?’

George couldn’t think of anything he’d like less. His head was swimming and he just wanted to get away. Then Jimi leaned a little closer and produced a surprise.

‘George, my friend, I hate the thought that we might have got off on the wrong foot. I’d like to offer you this, from me. A gesture of goodwill.’

Well, well, well. It was his lucky night and no mistake. George was pleased to see his hand had stopped shaking. It wouldn’t do to lose a bottle of gin now, would it?

With silence from Frankie and Trevor, Harry had decided to make a quick phone call to Frankie – who’d set her mind at ease even if he hadn’t been able to elaborate.

‘It could have been
awful
!’ he’d confided. ‘I mean it was me who created all the publicity. I gather there was a bit of a scene when Sophie’s mum read the supplement. She couldn’t eat her grapefruit, apparently. Anyway, Sophie fished the magazine out of the recycling to see what all the fuss was about and there we were! It looked a bit dicey at first, but I think everything’s going to be fine.’

Poor old Trevor. Imagine having to keep the two halves of his life apart for so long. It would be nice to think that his daughter’s intrepid journey would mean the end of his torment, but some people refused to accept any change to the status quo.

Harry put down her empty mug and set off to carry out her final inspection, hoping her hands would remember its warmth when they met the hostile night air. After a brilliant spell of hot weather, storm clouds were threatening. Ducking into her oilskins as the wind buffeted the outside stairs, she looked at the uninviting darkness yawning below her and considered the possibility that life didn’t have to be this way. A little extra business, and she could hire someone to share
the load. If she sold out to Matthew she could pay someone to
do the lot, but her dad wouldn’t have gone down that route. On balance, she’d still rather do the rounds night after night,
in all weathers, than surrender a footprint of land to someone
who would change the character of the boat yard forever.

Harry crossed the floodlit yard to the shadowy corners where the last boats were still laid up.
Maid of Mersea
,
standing on props and looking out to the marshes, was unlikely to feel the waves this season and probably not next, whilst her owner waited for a hospital bed.
Evening Star
’s
fate depended on the outcome of a messy divorce, and the unfinished catamaran languishing at the back, purchased by an overeager DIY enthusiast, was now dying from lack of attention. They were a sorry bunch. Turning away, she jumped as the blood-curdling cry of a cat limbering up for a mating session caught her off guard. No matter how many times she heard it, it wasn’t a sound she could get used to. As the cat started yowling again, she listened harder. There was a horrible human edge to the sound and, come to think of it, wasn’t it a tad deep and growly for a cat?

Screwing up her courage, Harry followed the noise, tracking it down to the direction of George’s shed where, she was now convinced, something – or someone – was trapped. Stealing up quietly, although the roar was so loud she probably needn’t have bothered, she pressed her face to the crack between the planks to see an ugly shape silhouetted against the flickering lamplight.

‘Goodnight and adieu to you bold Spanish ladies,

Goodnight and adieu to you ladies of Spain.

For we’ve received orders for to sail to old England

And ’ope very soon we will see you again!’

George rounded off the chorus with another swig from his gin bottle, which he kissed lovingly then raised in a toast. All was well; his suspicions about Jimi Tan were just the wanderings of a foolish old man. He didn’t like the idea that the boy had taken a bit of a shine to Miss Harriet: he was far too flash for George’s taste, not like Matthew Corrigan. Dammit, if that Matthew Corrigan wasn’t a fine, fine fellow.

‘A fine, fine fellow!’ he roared. ‘Bless your ’eart, Matthew Corrigan.’

Dammit if there wasn’t a terrible draught all of a sudden. Had the blasted door blown open? Since it was beginning to feel as if someone was pressing a large weight on it, George lifted his head very carefully, then allowed his eyes a few minutes to decide on a joint approach.

‘Aah!’ he breathed, very slowly, suddenly aware that every signal he was receiving seemed to be on red for danger. ‘Ah, Miss Harriet. Fancy seeing you here.’

Chapter Nineteen

In the boathouse George frowned, utterly perplexed at the bundle of notes stacked on the coffee table in front of him. To his immense bewilderment, he’d woken up in his shed, then stumbled outside to try and get his thinking up to speed. That was when Miss Harriet had found him wandering round the boat yard and had told him to go to the house. But, instead of being given a lecture or compelled to drink gallons of black coffee, it appeared that he was getting paid for his moment of madness.

He turned, blinking, towards the light. ‘What’s this then, Miss Harriet?’

She finally stopped staring at the creek and turned round and looked at him. ‘Payment in lieu of notice and outstanding leave.’

George was struggling; he was hot, his head was throbbing and he still couldn’t make out why Miss Harriet had called him into the house to talk about money. ‘Leave?’

‘Holiday.’

Miss Harriet’s hands didn’t look too steady either and her nose was red, like she’d been having trouble with a spot of hay fever. ‘But I don’t want a holiday. You know I never go away; I like it here.’

She crossed her arms and avoided his gaze. ‘Let me put it another way then, George. You’re sacked.’

This time her words even managed to penetrate the mire of self-pity and regret George was wallowing in. ‘What?’ he asked, in a very quiet voice.

‘What choice do I have, George?’ Meeting his eyes at last, she placed herself on the sofa opposite and looked at him with real desperation. George shivered inside; he couldn’t bear to think how many different people had looked at him that way over the years. It was never a good sign.

‘You promised me, remember? Just like the time before and the time before that. I really thought you’d beaten it, George, but old habits die hard, don’t they?’

What defence could he possibly give?

‘Oh, George, I just don’t understand why you gave in after all this time. You must have known that even one drink, just to be polite, would be catastrophic?’ She buried her face in her hands for a moment, before coming up to wish that Matthew Corrigan had never set foot in Little Spitmarsh.

‘It weren’t Matthew’s fault,’ George started to protest. ‘It were ...’

The explanation died on his tongue. Nothing he could say would make her think any better of him or Matthew; and she certainly wouldn’t believe that the previous night had been a solitary slip-up, once the pressure of his ungrounded fears had been lifted.

‘The last thing I need is a drunk wandering round the yard. It’s not only bad for business, it’s bad for you,’ she explained. ‘I simply haven’t got time to make sure you don’t slip off a pontoon when you’re the worse for wear.’

Funny how he wanted to comfort her; she was finding it harder and harder to control the tears.

‘It’s over, George,’ she said, flopping back on the sofa, looking distraught and drained. ‘No more chances.’

George’s hand was shaking as he picked up the biscuit tin he’d brought up with him as a peace offering; and if she saw it and thought it was the drink – well, he no longer cared. And if she thought it was the drink making his eyes red and watery, he didn’t care about that either. Better that than letting her see what he really felt.

‘Goodbye, Miss Harriet,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s been an honour working for you.’

‘George, wait.’

He turned to her hopefully.

‘The caravan’s yours; you know that, don’t you? Nothing else has changed, it’s just that I can’t take the risk of you coming to harm. And if you’re short of money, for God’s sake come and see me.’

George waited a minute until he could speak. ‘Miss Harriet,’ he said gently, ‘it was never about the money. Take care of yerself now.’

Only weeks ago, the house had felt like a hermitage with him and Trevor going about their business like two monks in a cell. Well, maybe not like two monks, thought Frankie, but it had been rather staid and quiet. Now it felt as if someone had thrown open the doors and let in the light. The weatherman might have promised storms ahead, but for now the room was flooded with sunshine and it promised to be the most fantastic day. So much had happened since Harry Watling had turned up in the shop predicting the downfall of Little Spitmarsh – all because a stranger had had the effrontery to arrive with a new vision of what the town could be. Frankie shook his head; Harry couldn’t have been more wrong about Matthew Corrigan.

The measure of how different life felt was that, instead of wanting to slope off somewhere quiet to top up his tan, he had rediscovered domestic bliss. Here was Sophie in one of Trevor’s tee shirts, eating the sickliest, most sugar-coated and unnatural looking cereal she could find, whilst nodding her head to some bling-bedecked artiste on MTV and feeding selected morsels to Phil. And Trevor, on the floor with a J-cloth, was clearing up puppy poo whilst Kirstie snatched a few minutes away from her brood to give herself a thorough grooming. Remembering the croissants just in time, Frankie grabbed the oven gloves and a serving plate.

‘Plain for me, please,’ said Trevor, from the floor.

‘Has something put you off the chocolate ones, Trev?’ Frankie said, winking at Sophie, who was giggling so much
that she was having trouble containing her mouthful of cereal.

‘Oof!’ said Trevor, cracking his head as he came up underneath the table. ‘Still fancy a puppy, young lady?’ he waved his Marigolds at Sophie, who wrinkled her nose.

‘Yes, I do!’

Trevor smiled. ‘We’ll have to speak to Mummy first to see what she thinks. You can always keep him here, though, if Mummy doesn’t want him to stay with her.’

‘Okay,’ Sophie nodded. ‘But I will have to come and stay with you lots. And I can text you to see how he is in between.’

Frankie, silenced by a mouthful of jam, butter and croissant, could only marvel. It was amazing what kids knew these days. There was a lot of talk about children reclaiming their childhood by skipping or playing marbles, but the fact that Sophie had been able to negotiate her way up to them from North London seemed to be largely due to her impressive computer skills. Sod the marbles!

Trevor put his arm round Sophie and kissed the top of her head. ‘Eat up, then we’ll find you something to wear and you can choose some flowers to take back to Mummy.’

Frankie pressed his lips together before he was tempted to make a suggestion.

Thunder boomed along the creek. After the heat of the day, with pressure building up unbearably, the rain was a relief. Lightning bolted across the black sky and flashed across the room. Matthew switched off the lights to watch the show. His gran would have been ordering him to cover all the mirrors by now, he thought, sitting himself at the bar. Tough old bird she’d been, entrenched in her council flat until the very last, with her budgie and her rogues’ gallery
of orthodontically-challenged grandchildren. The photo of him and his brother, Si, made them look as if they’d just been nominated for an ASBO. His mum still complained about the school not combing their hair first. Matthew ran his fingers over the polished granite surface; he’d come a long way since then.