Little Kiosk By The Sea

by Bohnet, Jennifer

  Always an early riser, he loved the solitude this time of day offered out on the water – no distractions, just time to enjoy the quiet and, today, to think about what he was going to find when he got to France. Neither he nor Sabine had been able to work out what Martha’s problem could possibly be.

  The smell of bacon drifted up from the small galley where Rachel was busy making them breakfast and, no doubt, drinking a large mug of tea. An hour ago, when she’d arrived on the quay carrying a red kitbag she’d barely managed to mutter ‘Good morning’ as she’d stepped on board. ‘Not a morning person, I’m afraid. Be all right when I’ve had some tea.’

  Johnnie, feeling his spirits sag, hoped he’d done the right thing by inviting her to crew for him. The last thing he needed was some moody woman on board. He’d simply told her to put her stuff in the small cabin in the bow and then to come and help him cast off. To his relief she’d been more than competent with the ropes and within minutes they were underway, motoring out towards the mouth of the river.

  ‘There’s breakfast stuff in the galley. Want to go and rustle us up some food?’ he said. ‘I’ll host the sails and we’ll hove to for breakfast.’ He realised he was being a tad chauvinistic, telling Rachel to do the cooking but no way was he prepared to hand the tiller to her until he knew how good a sailor she really was. She’d disappeared down into the cabin without a word.

  Now, as he headed out into Start Bay, she reappeared with a large plate of bacon butties, two mugs of tea and, importantly, a smile on her face Johnnie was pleased to see.

  ‘You awake now?’ he asked.

  Rachel nodded. ‘Always need tea first thing. Didn’t want to make a noise in the kitchen and disturb BB before I left.’

  ‘He’s settled in all right then?’

  ‘Seems very happy. It’s good having someone to keep an eye on the place while I’m away.’ Rachel took a bite of her bacon sandwich. ‘Mmm. Why does food always taste so much better when eaten at sea?’ she said.

  Johnnie didn’t answer. He was too busy enjoying his own breakfast. He glanced at the main sail as it flapped in the wind.

  ‘Think you’ve picked a good day for the trip,’ Rachel said. ‘Good steady wind.’

  Johnnie nodded. ‘We should make good time. Where were you based in the south of France?’

  ‘Antibes.’

  ‘Know it well. I’ve done a few deliveries down that way,’ Johnnie said. ‘So I guess you sailed mainly in the Med?’

  Rachel nodded. ‘France. Spain. Italy. Corsica. Malta. Places like that. The last couple of years we’d started to explore further east, but stopped when things began to get nasty over that way.’

  ‘How big was your boat?’

  ‘Last one was sixty foot. Hugo has it now. He has plans to charter it.’

  ‘You miss your life down there?’

  Rachel hesitated. ‘If I’m truthful, yes. Although I’m really enjoying living in Dartmouth. I miss my husband though. He’d been ill so his death wasn’t unexpected. It was still hard though, accepting it was all over.’

  ‘It’s the finality of it all, isn’t it? Johnnie said.

  ‘This is the first time I’ve been sailing since he died,’ Rachel said. ‘I’m only now realising how big a part it played in my life and how much I’m missing it.’ She finished her sandwich before glancing across at Johnnie and asking. ‘Annie? What happened to her?’

  ‘Big C.’ Johnnie said briefly. ‘Right – want to take the tiller for an hour?’ It was too soon for them to have a conversation about Annie. There was no way he was going to discuss Annie and how much he missed her. Easier to change the subject and give Rachel the tiller.

  ‘I’d love to.’

  Over the following hours they settled into an easy on-board comradeship, both enjoying the sailing. Rachel prepared lunchtime cheese sandwiches which they ate sitting in the cockpit and afterwards they took it in turns at the tiller.

  The wind was with them and they did make good time as Johnnie had predicted, arriving in Roscoff some eighteen hours later. Rachel got the sails down while Johnnie motored them into harbour. Once moored up, he took over culinary duties for their supper, heating up a ready meal and an apple tart.

  Rachel, her offer of help having been declined, sat in the cockpit with a glass of wine looking out at the lights of the ancient town on the other side of the quay.

  ‘Not high cuisine,’ Johnnie said, joining her with plates of steaming risotto. ‘Don’t tell my French relatives how low I’ve sunk! At least the wine is a decent vintage!’

  ‘Tell me about your French family,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Natives of Roscoff from time immemorial. Farming family and from the early twentieth century onion growers and exporters.’

  ‘So how come you ended up on the other side of the channel?’

  ‘Both Grandpapa and Papa were Johnny Onion boys,’ Johnnie said. ‘Travelling over to England every year to sell the onion harvest.’

  ‘Oh I remember those from my childhood,’ Rachel says. ‘Bicycles loaded down with garlands of onions. There was a man who used to come to our small town every September. Always wore a striped shirt and a black beret. You could barely see his bicycle for onions. My mother always bought at least two large bunches. Swore they were the best onions she could buy.’

  ‘That’s them,’ Johnnie said. ‘By the fifties though the trade virtually died out. Which was when Papa met and married my Devonshire mother and settled in Dartmouth.’ He drained his tea. ‘Calling me Johnnie was his idea of reminding me where I came from. My sister got a proper French name though – Sabine Le Roy. Do you know her? She’s Sabine Wills now. Runs the kiosk on the quay for the boat trips.’

  Rachel caught her breath and choked before shaking her head. ‘Sorry, something went down the wrong way.’

  Johnnie looked at her, concerned for a minute, before saying, ‘So where was this small town?’ Johnnie asked.

  ‘Small town? Oh where I grew up? Highbridge, Somerset. You’ve probably never heard of it.’

  Before Johnnie could answer, Rachel finished the last of her wine and stifled a yawn before standing up. ‘I’ll just wash up and then I’ll hit my bunk, if that’s okay? Bit tired. Been a long day.’ She picked up the plates as Johnnie went to help. ‘No, you stay here and finish your wine. I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight, sleep well.’

  ‘Goodnight and thanks for today’s efforts,’ Johnnie said, puzzled as to why she was making such a hasty retreat. What had he said?

  Johnnie was already out on deck the next morning when Rachel surfaced. ‘Kettle’s boiled,’ he called. ‘Help yourself to a mug. Thought we’d have breakfast ashore today. Ready in fifteen?’

  Johnnie led the way to a small cafe down a side street that was busy with fishermen and sailors all enjoying versions of the local speciality, crepes.

  While they were waiting for their crepes to arrive, Johnnie said, ‘Would you like to come with me and meet Cousin Martha?’

  Rachel instantly shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t dream of intruding on a family problem. Besides, I’m really looking forward to having a wander around Roscoff.’

  ‘Okay. You’d better take these then.’ And he pushed the keys to Annie’s cockpit hatch across the table to her. ‘Just so you can at least get inside if you want to. I shouldn’t be too long. I’m hoping we’ll be able to catch the next tide.’

  Rachel picked the keys up and put them in her bag without a word. Johnnie opened his mouth to say something but the waitress arrived with their coffee and crepes and the moment was lost.

  Apart from a muttered ‘delicious’ from Rachel, breakfast was eaten in silence and finished quickly. Johnnie pushed his chair back and stood up. Placing a twenty-euro note on the table, he said, ‘Okay, I’ll see you back at the boat. Shouldn’t be too long.’

  Walking through town to Martha’s, Johnnie thought about the difference twelve hours had made in Rachel. Yesterday he’d thought they were getting along fine, enjoying the sa
iling and each other’s company, but then during supper, the shutters had come down. Today there was a definite chill in the air between them.

  It was almost as if Rachel had decided not to talk to him. Damned if he could figure out why. Get this business at Martha’s sorted and on their return trip he’d try to get her to tell him what had upset her so badly.

  The front door to Martha’s terraced cottage was unlocked and he gave a quick knock before calling out, ‘Martha, J’arrive,’ and walking in.

  ‘Finally you’re here,’ Martha said as they kissed cheeks when he found her in the small conservatory at the back of the house.

  ‘So tell me, what’s the problem? Oh, who’s this?’ Johnnie said, seeing a small girl in a buggy. Martha had numerous grandchildren but he didn’t remember seeing one this young for some time.

  ‘Hello, who are you?’ he said to the child, who simply sucked her thumb and stared at him.

  ‘She’s Carla,’ Martha said before adding quietly, ‘And she’s all yours.’

  ‘Hello, Carla, I’m John …’ He swung round to face Martha. ‘What the hell do you mean, she’s all mine?’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SABINE

  ‘Just a few places left for tomorrow’s river trip, folks,’ Sabine said as a group of holidaymakers walked past the kiosk. ‘Don’t miss out.’ She smiled as they shook their heads and carried on. Couldn’t win them all.

  Inside the kiosk she switched the kettle on. Time for a coffee. While she waited for the kettle to boil, she checked the bookings spreadsheet on her laptop. Bookings were slightly up on last year and there were also a few more private parties booked for Owen’s other boat, Daughter of the River, with its dance floor in the saloon and catering facilities. Tonight there was a twenty-first birthday party on board for fifty people.

  Sipping her coffee, Sabine watched as Daughter, already alongside the pontoon, was loaded with the evening’s supply of champagne and food. Watching Peter as he helped the suppliers carry stuff on board, she wondered how Trevor Bagshawe was getting on with sorting out the legal stuff. Owen had said it would take a few weeks and then he planned to take them both for a slap-up dinner and break the news to Peter.

  ‘What is it you English say? A penny for your thoughts?’ BB asked, appearing at her side and making her jump.

  ‘Oh hi, BB. I was miles away. How are you?’ Sabine said.

  ‘Great. Just great. Thanks to Johnnie I’ve found a room in an old cottage and while the landlady is away for a few days, I’ve got the place to myself.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you. Any news on the relatives?’

  ‘Not yet,’ BB said. ‘It’s frustrating and fascinating at the same time! I’ve kind of got hooked too on researching the history of this place rather than looking for any cousins. I bet you have no idea how many people called Seale or Holdsworth lived in this town back in the day. Sadly, none of the ones I’ve found so far appear to be my ancestors. Right, I’m off to the marina to talk boats. Don’t suppose Johnnie is around?’

  ‘No, he’s in France. Should be back tomorrow or the day after if you want his advice. Before you go, scrawl your signature on the Save the Kiosk petition, will you?’ she said, handing him a pen.

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Watching BB stroll off in the direction of the marina, Sabine’s thoughts turned to Johnnie. Had he sorted out whatever the problem had turned out to be over in Roscoff? He hadn’t phoned, which was unusual when he was visiting Martha. Normally he’d ring to ask was there anything she wanted brought back apart from the inevitable sack of onions. This time, when she’d planned to ask him to pick up a Kouign-amann as a special treat from the award-winning patisserie near the harbour, he hadn’t rung. Probably just as well really, there was no doubt the delicious butter-laden gateau posed a serious threat to her waistline.

  A harassed-looking Owen arrived late afternoon as she was unhooking her pictures from the open door and preparing to close up for the day.

  ‘Any chance you can help out tonight? Caterers have said they’re short staffed.’

  ‘I’ve told Tristan I’d start to get my pictures down to him tonight,’ Sabine said. ‘He wants to start planning where to hang them for next week’s exhibition. It’ll take me a couple of hours.’

  ‘Work tonight and I’ll give you a hand in the morning,’ Owen said. ‘I can carry more than you at a time so be quicker anyway.’

  ‘OK. I’ll take a couple of the smaller ones down to him and tell him we’ll take the rest down tomorrow morning early. What time?’

  ‘Casting off at 7 so about 6.30. Thanks, you’re a life-saver. See you later.’

  Early evening and after taking three of the smaller pictures into Tristan at the gallery and promising the rest for the morning, Sabine walked on towards the quay and Daughter of the River.

  It wasn’t often Owen asked her to help out with on-board functions, but when he did she quite enjoyed it. The party atmosphere of tonight’s do promised a few hours of fun and mind-numbing disco music to help her forget how stupid she still felt over Reid. All those wasted years yearning for someone who proved to be unobtainable in the end.

  Daughter of the River was dressed overall, its coloured lights casting pools of shimmering reflections the length of the boat in the river water. As she walked up the gangplank, Sabine could hear the muted sounds of disco music pulsating down in the saloon as the night’s DJ ran a sound check.

  She was kept busy for the next couple of hours, handing champagne to guests as they arrived, helping keep the buffet tables topped up with food and then, as guests drifted up to the main deck to watch the sun set over Dartmouth, giving a hand with the clearing up. It was ten o’clock before the woman in charge turned to her and said, ‘Thanks, Sabine. Any time you want to leave that old kiosk, let me know. I’ll give you a job any time.’

  Sabine smiled, but before she could say anything, Owen’s voice behind her said, ‘Hands off my staff, missus. Find your own.’

  She turned to face him as he said, ‘I’ve left Peter in charge in the wheelhouse, join me on deck for a drink?’ and he waved a bottle of wine and two glasses at her.

  Sabine took a deep breath of the cool night air as she followed Owen outside, the deck beneath their feet vibrating with the loud music.

  ‘Lively party,’ she said, leaning against the rail. ‘Remember when we were twenty-one? Our whole lives still before us. Everything still possible.’

  Owen poured the wine as he answered her. ‘All those wrong decisions still waiting to be made.’ He handed her a glass. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Sabine echoed as they clinked glasses. ‘Come on, Owen. Your life hasn’t turned out that badly, has it?’ Fleetingly she thought of her own life. Giving up her art college place was top of her ‘mistakes I have made in life’ list, but that was a decision life itself had taken for her. She’d never have forgiven herself if she hadn’t been there for Mum. And then there was Reid. Best not think about that particular mistake.

  ‘No, it’s not bad at all but …’ Owen sighed. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I feel I should have been more assertive over certain things. Rebelled a bit. Stood up to Dad.’ He took a large drink of wine. ‘Had a bit more backbone and fought for my dreams instead of always taking the easy option and drifting into things. I might even have got married and had a family then.’

  ‘Is this what your six months travelling is really all about?’ Sabine asked quietly.

  Owen nodded. ‘Yes. Something just for me. You thought any more about coming?’

  ‘Depends. I’d really like to see places like Mexico, America, China, India, you know places like that as well as just Europe.’

  ‘We can do that,’ Owen said instantly. ‘Go to the far-flung places first and work our way back to Europe. Sorted!’

  Sabine laughed. ‘When exactly did I say yes to coming with you?’

  ‘Oh come on, Sabine, stop teasing,’ Owen said, putting his arm around her shoulders and squeezing her. ‘You kn
ow you want to come. We’ll have a ball. Just say yes.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BB

  Standing in the bow of the Dartmouth Princess passenger ferry as it left the Kingswear pontoon and made its way across the river, BB closed his eyes momentarily, enjoying the feel of the wind against his face and the smell of the tangy salt air. After a day spent in Exeter library researching papers he’d been unable to access on the Internet, it was good to stand out in the fresh air. It was good too, to feel the movement of a boat under his feet. He really must start some serious yacht hunting soon or the summer would disappear and he’d have literally missed the boat. The only boats he’d been offered so far hadn’t been ideal. Next time he saw Johnnie, he’d ask if he’d heard about anything suitable on his travels.

  As the ferry’s warning hooter sounded, BB opened his eyes and, looking up river, he saw a sailing yacht urgently changing tack to get out of the path of the advancing ferry. The Naval College high on the bank, its red bricks illuminated in the evening sunlight, brought Grandpa Randy and Uncle Lance to mind. He knew now they would both have set foot there while it was the wartime HQ for the US Navy.

  He also knew from the several black and white photographs he’d seen in the museum that the river then had been full of various naval vessels and landing-craft, all involved in Operation Overlord; preparing for the D-day assault across the channel. Other photos had shown the town itself had been extra busy too, with every available space taken up. Coronation Park, out of bounds to the locals, had been covered with a multitude of Nissan huts, workshops and tanks – all the paraphernalia of a world war.

  Standing on the ferry watching all the peaceful modern-day activity on the river, it was hard to conjure up a picture of the grimness of the earlier era. It was a sobering thought to think Randy and Lance had travelled three thousand miles to this place when it had been the nerve centre of a war campaign. Strangers in a country who would forever be a part of the history of this place, particularly Lance who’d never made it back home. Killed in the E-boat debacle out at Torcross, April l944.