Treasure-hunting fever had hit Polwenna Bay big time.
Alice sighed. She wasn’t convinced this was a good thing. Issie’s discovery of the Isabella and the widespread press coverage that had followed had caused a surge of visitors to pour into the village, all intent on finding Black Jack Jago’s loot. Forget the National Lottery with its odds higher than the International Space Station; everyone was convinced that riches beyond their wildest dreams were just the bleep of a metal detector away. Added to that, some of the national press had managed to tie in pictures of the latest hunky actor playing Ross Poldark, attracting female fans hopeful of bumping into him. Guesthouses were taking bookings, usually empty holiday cottages were full, and the more enterprising villagers were finding creative ways of cashing in on the hype. Today Alice had noticed Black Jack Burgers as lunch specials in the pub, and she’d discovered that Silver Starr’s shop was now selling crystals to help find the treasure. There was even an advert in the window of the village shop, offering to rent metal detectors at “reasonable rates”. Catching sight of this just as she was about to go in to buy her groceries, Alice tutted to herself.
“If you want to rent one, I’ll give you twenty percent off,” offered Mickey Davey, peering over Alice’s shoulder and almost asphyxiating her in a cloud of Old Spice. “I got a deal on twenty off a geezer I know down Penge Market. They do the job a treat. You’ll find the treasure by teatime. Guaranteed.”
“I won’t, because it doesn’t exist,” Alice said tartly. Honestly, the absolute brass neck of some people. The man had only been here five minutes and already he was using the village to line his own pockets.
Mickey Davey shrugged the burly shoulders beneath his covert coat. “Your granddaughter doesn’t think so, and neither do all those punters on the beach.”
Alice was regretting ever telling Issie the story of Black Jack Jago. Unwittingly she’d created a monster. “The whole thing is just a silly bedtime story. Issie should know better.”
“Ah, but it isn’t just a story, is it?” Mickey’s bright and beady eyes lit up like the neon display on a fruit machine. “’Course, they’re still waiting for the boat to be carbon-dated, but word is they reckon it’s the real deal. Ninety-nine percent confident, one of the boffins who was down here earlier said.”
Alice hoped she didn’t look as horrified as she felt. “So that just means an old ship was wrecked here. It must be one of hundreds.”
“If the boat got here then the treasure did too. I feel it in my water,” Mickey said. Then he winked. “Sure you don’t want to hire a metal detector? It could be your lucky day.”
“I doubt it,” muttered Alice as he sauntered off, whistling We’re in the Money. There was something about that man that set her teeth on edge. It was bad enough that he had her Jimmy delivering crates of pasties to Plymouth, without him encouraging all and sundry to dig up the beach. At this rate the bay would soon resemble the surface of the moon. And when they realised that the loot wasn’t buried on the beach after all, it was only a matter of time before they began to search all over the village…
Looking troubled, Alice pushed open the shop door. She was trying to fight a rising sense of panic. The beauty of Polwenna Bay was its sense of timelessness. Mysterious legends of smugglers and wreckers, saints and sinners, were as much a part of the place as the hard granite cliffs, pounding waves and calling gulls. The thought of several diggers, scores of metal detectors and hordes of visitors greedy for a find made her feel quite ill. This wasn’t what Polwenna was about. Some things should remain buried in the past.
Take her history with Jonny St Milton, for example. No matter what he thought, the daft old fool, that was all long over and done with. Heaven only knew why he was so determined to resurrect it now.
“Must be going senile,” she muttered. Besides, he’d let her down all those years ago, hadn’t he? Just because he was old didn’t mean he’d changed.
As usual the shop was full of villagers who’d popped in as much for their daily gossip as for their groceries. Breathing deeply to calm herself, Alice filled her basket with milk, bread and sausages for Morgan’s supper later, then hunted for a copy of the local paper.
“None left,” Betty Jago told Alice smugly when she enquired where the Western Morning News was. “There’s a pull-out section on the Isabella and the treasure, see, and they’ve flown off the shelves.”
“Everyone’s looking for the treasure,” piped up Betty’s granddaughter Saffron, from the far end of the shop where she was stacking shelves. “The village is full.”
“So I see,” said Alice. “You’d think people here would have more sense than to encourage such nonsense.”
“Issie says it’s true,” said Saffron. She was a sweet girl but her IQ was on a par with the tins of beans she was lining up; she’d probably have believed Issie if she’d said the moon was made of cream cheese. Not for the first time, Alice found herself wishing that her granddaughter wasn’t such a big influence in the village.
“Issie gets carried away.”
“It’s good for the village, though.” Betty crossed her arms over her ample bosom and fixed Alice with a determined look. “My takings have been double what they usually are in January. Lots of the cottages are rented out too. Even old Edmund Courtly’s place by the cave has been taken. It’s got a hellava damp problem too – always did, even before the storm.”
Alice couldn’t argue with that. Beach Cottage had belonged to an old fisherman who’d barely changed it since Noah was in nappies. That even this tired cottage was rented out in the middle of winter was proof of the current obsession with Black Jack Jago and his hoard.
“I agree. It is good news for the village, especially after the flooding,” Sheila Keverne chipped in, poking her head around the vegetable display. “Businesses here need all the help they can get.”
“Like Pollard and Son Building?” Alice suggested mildly as she handed Betty a ten-pound note. “They seem very busy all of a sudden. Have they fixed the vicarage roof yet, Sheila? Or are they still busy giving quotes for all the storm damage?”
Big and Little Rog Pollard were both claiming that the flooding wasn’t anything to do with them; no, according to them it was the fault of the local council for not paying them to clear the drains and gullies last year. It seemed that a sense of civic duty alone had not been payment enough for them to do the job regardless. Big Rog was quite indignant about it all, and Little Rog had almost come to blows with Joe Penhalligan over the flood in Cobble Cottage. In the meantime, they’d picked up lots of extra work caused by the storm; rumour had it that they’d ordered a brand new van. None of this would help the vicar much. Yesterday, when Alice had popped up to the vicarage to see Jules, her poor friend had needed her wellies just to venture into the kitchen to make them both a cup of tea.
“I’ve asked Mr Pollard to have look,” Sheila said huffily. She took her duties as verger and member of the PCC very seriously. “I’ll ask him again when I see him.”
“Good luck with that,” said Alice.
“You’re in a very bad mood this morning, Alice,” remarked Betty, as she counted out the change.
“It’s about to get a whole lot worse,” Alice muttered, catching sight of Jonny St Milton entering the shop. This was all she needed. He’d been pestering her every day since New Year’s Eve by walking up to Seaspray and asking her out to dinner. The silly old fool had a dicky heart and Alice had told him over and over again her answer was “no” and that the climb up was going to kill him. Jonny’s only answer had been to shrug and say that he’d rather die in the attempt than take no for an answer.
“Alice!” beamed Jonny, waving at her delightedly. “What a lovely surprise to find you here!”
“It’s not a surprise at all. I shop here every morning,” Alice said sharply. “Whereas you, Jonny St Milton, have never shopped in the village in the past sixty years.”
He laid a hand over his tweed-covered chest. “That’s harsh. I
often come down to The Ship for a pint.”
“Going drinking in the pub doesn’t count as shopping,” said Alice.
“Technically it does,” Jonny disagreed, affably. “I’m buying something, aren’t I? Isn’t that shopping?”
She snorted. “Beer isn’t shopping!”
“Not even in an off-licence?” he asked. “Or in a supermarket?”
Alice thought hard for a moment and was annoyed to find that she was lost for a retort.
“You always did have an answer for everything,” she sighed, taking her shopping bag and marching out of the shop.
“Not everything,” Jonny admitted, following her. “I got some things really wrong, Ally, and the only answer I have for that is that I was young and stupid.”
“And now you’re old and stupid!” She spun around, the carrier bag bashing painfully against her calves. “Just go home, Jonny. It’s too late and we’re too old for this nonsense. You said it before – we missed our time.”
To Alice’s distress her voice caught as she spoke. Was it possible that even after a lifetime the old hurt was still there? Who was the silly old fool now?
Jonny shook his white head. “It’s never too late. I know we don’t have much time left but at least we still have some, so let’s not waste it. Give me another chance and I promise I won’t let you down again.”
Alice took a breath and was about to give him her usual sharp reply, but was surprised to discover that her heart wasn’t in it. Maybe it was because he’d used the long-forgotten pet name or perhaps it was because of the hopeful expression on his lined face. She wasn’t sure, but either way the stinging retort she’d been about to volley back had withered on her lips.
Jonny reached forward and took the shopping bag for her, albeit with some difficulty given that he was leaning heavily on his ornate walking stick. None of the standard NHS issue for a St Milton, Alice thought wryly as she watched him trying to balance the weight of the bag without looking too wobbly. Jonny’s family never had favoured the ordinary things in life. No wonder he’d married the doctor’s daughter. Millicent Jago, with her blonde pin curls and private-school background, had been far more suitable than the daughter of the housekeeper. And as for carrying things – hadn’t that been Alice’s job? From coal to laundry to saucepans, it was she rather than the son and heir of the house who’d been the one to carry heavy objects.
“Give that back. You’ll fall over,” she warned as he swayed dangerously.
“Never! I wouldn’t dream of letting a lady carry her own shopping.”
Alice laughed. “Since when was I a lady? For heaven’s sake! Give that bag to me before you fall over and break your hip.”
“Only if you’ll come and have a spot of lunch with me,” Jonny said, sensing her weakening and pressing home his advantage. Besides, he was clearly struggling to hold the bag, and Alice was shocked to see just how frail he’d become. A sudden image of arms holding her close and merry grey eyes twinkling down into hers darted through her memory, so vivid and fresh that it was a shock to see a stooped old man there now – even if the twinkle in those eyes was exactly the same as it had been all those years ago.
She raised her own heavenwards. “If it means we don’t have to call the ambulance, then I suppose I don’t have any choice.”
He passed the shopping bag over. “You may need to take my arm too, just in case I stumble. Or put yours around my waist, if you like?”
“Good try, but I think you’ll probably make it,” Alice told him. She was laughing as she said this, though, and together they made the short journey through the village to the pub.
It was only noon and The Ship was quiet. A merry fire was blazing in the hearth and for once the chairs next to it were empty. It was the perfect place to sit and look out at the seascape. Or it would have been, if the window hadn’t been filled with flowers.
“Have a seat,” Jonny said to Alice. “I’ll grab us a couple of menus.”
He was breathless from the short climb up the steps to the pub, and Alice frowned. She was just about to argue and fetch the menus herself, when Adam Harper pre-empted them by producing two laminated sheets with a flourish.
“We’ve got the daily specials too,” Adam added, gesturing at the blackboard behind him. “May I recommend the soup? It’s cauliflower cheese. Rose made it fresh this morning and it comes with a big slab of crusty bread. Or catch of the day is monkfish, if you’d rather.”
Jonny smiled. “Crusty bread, eh? Lucky I don’t have dentures. That sounds good.”
“Certainly does,” Alice agreed. “Same for me.”
“Two soups,” Adam said. “Coming right up.”
They settled into their seats and ordered wine too, which seemed rather decadent in the middle of the day. Still, as Jonny said, they were unlikely to develop an alcohol habit at their stage in life, and if they did then so what? As they sipped their drinks and chatted, Alice felt the warmth of the fire spread over her and the tensions of earlier slip away. The whole ridiculous treasure-hunting fad would be over in a week or so and life in Polwenna Bay would go back to normal – and now that she’d agreed to have a meal with Jonny St Milton, he’d leave her in peace too. She was surprised to find that this thought didn’t make her as happy as she’d thought it would.
They were each working their way through a huge bowl of Rose’s delicious soup when the pub door flew open and something that looked like a triffid bowled in.
“Delivery for Issie Tremaine, again,” announced the triffid. “Where shall I leave them? Window, same as last time? Or is here on the bar OK, since you’re running out of room over there?”
Before Adam could answer, a huge bouquet of fat pink roses and waxy white lilies was deposited in front of the beer pumps, revealing a young lad dusting pollen from his jacket and grinning.
“See you the same time tomorrow, I guess?” he said.
“I hope not,” answered Adam, regarding the blooms despondently. “This is playing havoc with my hay fever.” He rubbed his eyes, then sniffed. “Hay fever in January is just taking the mickey.”
The delivery boy, halfway out the door now, winked over his shoulder. “Somebody loves Issie Tremaine, that’s for sure.”
“Well, I bloody don’t,” grumbled the unhappy landlord. “Aitchoo! Aitchoo! If this carries on, I’m going to have to sack your granddaughter, Mrs T. She’s costing me a fortune in antihistamines.”
Alice frowned as she glanced around the pub. Goodness, it could double for a florist’s. “Are all these flowers really for Issie?”
Adam nodded. “She’s been sent a bouquet every day since New Year’s Eve.” To Jonny he added, “Your grandson’s certainly persistent, I’ll give him that.”
“These are from Teddy?” Jonny asked.
“Certainly are, Mr SM. He’s smitten.” Adam blew his nose loudly. “I wish he wasn’t. Aitchoo! Aitchoo! Issie won’t take them home because she says she’s not interested in him. She told Rose to bin them.”
“Rather harsh of her,” remarked Jonny, fixing Alice with a knowing look. “I can’t imagine who she takes after.”
“Oh dear,” said Alice. This was just typical of her granddaughter. Issie’s thoughtless behaviour, from talking to the press to kissing Teddy St Milton, was causing havoc. Alice shivered. She had a very bad feeling about all of this.
“It’s like Kew bloody Gardens in here, since Rose won’t chuck them out. Maybe you could tell him to stop?” Adam asked, looking hopeful.
Jonny swirled his wine thoughtfully. “There’s no point doing that, I’m afraid. No point at all.”
“Why not?” asked Alice. It seemed a reasonable enough request.
In answer, Jonny reached forward and took her hand. The unexpected sensation of his fingers weaving with hers took Alice’s breath away. And she looked up in shock. Surely her stomach wasn’t fluttering with butterflies? Not at her age and after all these years? No, it must be indigestion from that rich soup.
“Becau
se,” he replied, his eyes holding her gaze just as firmly as his hand held her fingers, “if my grandson takes after me, when he finds the woman he wants above all others, nothing will persuade him to give her up.”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Suddenly Alice Tremaine was a teenage girl again, with her world spinning out of control.
“Nothing,” Jonny repeated, so softly that only Alice could hear. “Absolutely nothing.”
Chapter 10
“And if you look to your left, ladies and gents, you might just be able to make out the Eddystone Lighthouse. ’Course, that weren’t there back in the eighteenth century, and any ships had to take their chance.”
Luke huddled into his coat and squinted at the murky smudge that was what passed for the horizon in this strange and small country. He thought he could just about make out a grey blob in the distance, but it was hard to tell because just about everything else was grey too. From the sky to the sea to the faces of the tea-drinking Brits, everything in England was just so relentlessly grey. He had profound sympathy for the Spanish sailors who’d left the hot sun and lemon groves of their own land, only to perish in the icy English Channel. He supposed the one thing worse than feeling as cold and as lost as he did was to be lured into a watery grave by the natives. It was a thought almost too horrible to contemplate.
“We’re going to steam a few miles westerly now to where the ship went down,” the skipper of the small tripping boat was saying to his passengers. “It’s a bit lumpy out here, mind, so best you hold on.”
Lumpy was an understatement. The sea was rough and several passengers were already turning green. Taking advantage of those who weren’t from local parts wasn’t an activity confined to the eighteenth century, Luke thought wryly. Even though the conditions were far from ideal for boat rides, fishermen from this insane village (and it was insane, because who the hell had ever heard of a place with roads you couldn’t even fit a car through?) were taking groups of tourists out to sea on wreck-hunting trips. Small fishing boats crammed with plastic garden chairs and decorated with handmade signs were vying for trade down in the harbour. They were charging the handsome sum of ten English pounds to take visitors out to sea on what was, Luke was sure, a wild goose chase. So what if the ship had gone down several miles off the coast? The wreck was on the beach. Besides, the treasure had been spirited inland; he was convinced of this. Only curiosity and the desire to see the wild rugged coastline from the water had made him part with a crisp brown note.
Treasure of the Heart Page 9