“Sure.”
The two writhing figures were brought out and stripped of their blankets so that Trudie and her squire could behold them in all their glory.
“Ooooh!” she half cooed, half giggled. “What do you suppose they’re doing?”
“I dunno, love, but they seem to be enjoying it.”
Amy looked abashed as Trudie MacDermott continued her eulogy. “Ooh! ‘E’s big, inne? Looks a bit like, you know, wassisname…That one we saw in Florence, Michelangelo’s David.”
“Well, sweetheart, if that’s David, I’d like to see Goliath.” Jerry guffawed at his own joke. “What do you think, then?”
“I think they’re lovely,” responded the blonde.
“Can we have them?”
“Course we can,” replied her spouse, patting her bottom. And then, to Amy, “Can we take them with us?”
“Yes. Of course. If you’re sure you can manage.”
“Yes. We can, can’t we, love?”
“Let me help.” Will came forward and took the sack barrow towards the first of the sculptures. He put the blanket over it, not just for protection, eased it on to the wheeled trolley, and pushed it towards the door.
“Now then,” said Jerry. “Five ‘undred apiece, wasn’t it?”
“Well…” She wondered whether she should offer a discount for bulk-buying but Jerry took a large wad of notes from his back pocket and peeled off twenty fifty-pound notes. He pressed them into her hand with rather more pressure than was necessary.
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Amy did her best to sound polite but not too grateful.
Will bumped down the steps of the studio with the trolley, one hand on the first sculpture to prevent it taking a nose-dive down the steps. He repeated the exercise with the second, and the two were loaded on to the back seat of the MacDermott Mercedes then driven off up the lane in the direction of Benbecula.
Amy and Will stood on the steps watching the car climb the hill.
“I really didn’t expect that,” said Amy.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I’d just given up hope of ever getting them out of my life.”
“Well, you have. They’ve gone.”
As the Mercedes purred around the corner and out of sight, she looked up at him, tired and pale against the blue sky. “Time to start again.”
He smiled at her and nodded. “Yes.” He sighed, gazing out over the calm blue-green water.
Amy only wished that she had not received Oliver’s letter.
Twenty
Skerries
Mrs Sparrow had done her best to be pleasant about Mr Elliott’s departure. As she explained to Primrose Hankey, he had not been home the night before the storm and she had sat up for a while, wondering if something had happened. The following day she would have dropped into the conversation a few pointed remarks about his absence, had it not been for the tragic events that put matters into perspective. She related these facts to Primrose when making her call for groceries, the bits and bobs she had run out of before her monthly shop at Tesco’s in Penzance.
Primrose’s pique at Mrs Sparrow’s shopping habits was put to one side as she listened attentively. Even though Will Elliott had stayed with Mrs Sparrow for two weeks, the information Primrose had gleaned had been minimal. Now, with the death of Ernie Hallybone casting a pall over the entire village, it was a relief to have something more spicy.
But Mrs Sparrow had few details – either that or she was keeping them strictly to herself – and the conversation turned, inevitably, to Ernie’s funeral the previous day.
“A good way to go,” Mrs Sparrow opined.
“What – drowning?” asked Primrose.
“No. With that sort of funeral. Uniforms and whatnot. Very smart. Gave it a sense of occasion.” Mrs Sparrow added a packet of Bourbon biscuits to her pile.
“Mrs Hallybone looked tired,” said Primrose.
“Worried, I suppose. What with the body being washed up three days later it must have taken it out of her. All that not knowing for certain. She’ll have to find somewhere to live now.” Mrs Sparrow sorted through the pickle jars and plumped for a bottle of Mrs Pengelly’s lurid brew.
Primrose tried another gambit. “Miss Finn looked nice. She didn’t sit with Mr Elliott, though.”
“Why should she?”
Primrose decided that she was evidently in possession of more information than Mrs Sparrow. But, then, Mrs Sparrow was not the sort to trade in gossip; she merely handed out opinions. “Nice hymns. ‘Eternal Father Strong to Save’. Even if it was a bit late. And ‘I Vow to Thee My Country’. Good choice. Important, like.”
Primrose put aside her newsmongering and recalled her feelings at the funeral. “I was all right,” she said, “until they carried him out – Mr Elliott and the other keepers. That’s when it was all too much for me. Seeing their faces. Their caps under their arms. Mr Hallybone’s cap on top of his coffin.” She put her hand into her tracksuit pocket, pulled out a man’s handkerchief and blew hard.
“The lad’s funeral was in Penzance, apparently. Family affair. Quiet.”
“Well, at least Mr Hallybone had a good turn-out.”
“Majestic,” said Mrs Sparrow, reflectively. “My Arthur would’ve liked that, instead of just a service at the crematorium. It’s not the same. I think a burial’s preferable.”
“Yes. Nicer, really. And they’ve put him in St Petroc churchyard where he can see the sea.” She realized what she had said, and blew her nose again.
Mrs Sparrow asked for her goods to be totalled up. Primrose patted each item, her lips moving in time with her mental arithmetic. “Seven pounds seventy-five, please. So Mr Elliott’s back living on his boat now, is he?” She delved in the till for change to Mrs Sparrow’s ten-pound note.
“There or somewhere else. He left the day after the accident. Didn’t say much. Just thank you. A bit quiet. Understandable, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“Still, he was no bother. Apart from the one night. And it’ll soon be the start of the season. Only a few weeks to the May bank holiday.”
“Yes.” Primrose was lost in thought as Mrs Sparrow left, the bell on the door pinging behind her.
♦
Will watched as Boy Jack swung out over the water. He was pleased with his brushwork; the newly painted white hull reflected the ripples below, although it was a dull day.
“All clear?” Gryler’s voice asked, from the seat of the boat lift.
“I think so. Go ahead slowly.” Will watched as the boat descended, the keel touched the water and the propellers disappeared from view.
Amy and Hovis observed from the safety of the jetty as the Dunkirk veteran took to the water once more, settling evenly as the massive straps of webbing slackened and she found her own equilibrium.
Gryler jumped down, extracted the straps, then drove the lift back along the concrete hard to its usual parking place.
Will watched him go, trying hard to control his feelings. He had no proof that Gryler had had anything to do with Ernie’s death, or even Christopher Applebee’s. Nobody had. It was all speculation. He tied off the boat alongside the jetty as Hovis and Amy approached.
“Round of applause and a bottle of champagne, I should think,” suggested Hovis.
“Thought we’d celebrate on board tonight,” said Will. “Time I repaid the compliment. Dinner at eight?”
“Sure?” asked Hovis, sensitive to his neighbour’s feelings.
“Sure.” Will winked at Amy. “Can you come round at about seven?”
“Love to.”
“What about getting this old girl back to the pontoon?” asked Hovis.
“Gryler’s going to tow me over with his dinghy. I’ve a few checks to make on the engines yet, but with any luck we should be able to try her out in a day or two. See how she runs.”
“All very exciting,” said Amy. “Anyway, it’s all right for you two, but I’ve a studio to open. See you bot
h later.” She blew Will a kiss. He watched her walk along the jetty, and found it difficult to turn away.
♦
They had not slept together since Ernie’s death. Will had expected her to be hurt, but instead had been heartened by her understanding. Amy, determined to do the right thing, had given him space. They saw one another every day at some point – either Will would call in at the studio for coffee or a meal, or Amy would nip down to the boat.
She surprised herself with her own willingness to wait. Normally she would have given up by now, grown tired of being messed about. But she knew he was not oblivious to her feelings, that he was trying hard to rebuild his life. Letting him down was not an option. She had never felt this way about anyone. Yes, she had been in love before. And she was in love with Will – she could admit this to herself now, if not to him. But it ran deeper than that. She cared about him too. It was unnerving yet comforting. In his company she felt complete. Without him she felt more alone than she could ever remember feeling before. She would wait. And hope.
She had watched him at the funeral. He had looked so desperate. She could not take her eyes off him as he helped carry Ernie’s body from the church. At the graveside he had stood beside her and slipped his arm through hers. She looked up at him. He had seemed taller somehow in his uniform, his eyes that piercing pale blue, the muscles in his jaw expanding and contracting as he fought to control himself. His hair had been cut. He looked older, weary.
That night he came back to the studio for supper and told her about the interviews at the police station. He thought it better that she knew, even though she might worry. She felt elated at his willingness to share it with her, but made no fuss, just sat calmly and listened as he told her about the police suspicions of illicit alcohol and Gryler’s possible involvement.
They had parted after midnight. He had kissed her lips and held her for a long while, his cap under his arm like a polite serviceman going off to war.
So much had been spoken, but so much remained unsaid. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter. She knew that he was mending, that she had to be patient.
♦
At seven o’clock on the dot she left the studio, a cool-bag clutched in her arms.
He heard her approaching footsteps on the pontoon and jumped down from the deck of Boy Jack to greet her. “Just a minute. Don’t come any further.” He held up his hand like a traffic policeman. “It’s here somewhere.” He located an old wooden beer crate on the foredeck and picked it up. It was heavier than he had expected. Then Spike hopped out of it and stalked off across the deck without a backward glance. Will placed the crate in front of the gangway.
Amy’s eyes followed the cat. “I don’t think he likes me.”
“Jealous, that’s all. Never been keen on company.” He checked that the crate was stable. “There we are, madam. Ready to be piped aboard!” He took the cool-bag from her and helped her climb on to the deck. She wore white jeans, deck shoes and a T-shirt that almost matched her hair. “You look stunning,” he said softly.
“Don’t drop that! There’s something in it to christen your boat.”
He came back to earth. “Sorry! It’s just that you’re so beautiful.”
She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “I’m glad! Do I get to see round this vessel, then?”
“Lucky timing. The evening tour is about to commence.” He held out his arm, directing her into the wheelhouse, and she walked down the two newly varnished steps.
“Wow! I had no idea! So this is what you’ve been doing!” Amy gazed at the immaculate woodwork. “But you’ve had less than a month. How did you get it like this?”
“I didn’t sleep much.”
“I can believe that.” She was amazed at the transformation. She’d only seen the outside of the boat before, but the condition of the interior had been obvious from the state of the carpets and curtains she had seen hauled away and dumped. She had feared it would never be fit for human habitation. Now the varnish on the deep mahogany timber gleamed, a new brass bell engraved ‘Boy Jack’ shone, and the wheelhouse smelt of polish and paint. There were no curtains as yet, but the wooden floor sported an Indian rug and the table-top shone like a mirror.
The propane cylinder and burner had been replaced with a small stove fitted among wooden worktops to one side of the wheelhouse; from the oven came an appetising aroma. A brass oil lamp dangled from the wood-panelled ceiling and another stood on the table. Every catch and knob, every hinge and bracket had been buffed to within an inch of its life.
She turned to look forward and saw the mahogany wheel with its brass cap, and the glittering instruments surrounding it. Positioned centrally among them was fixed a brass plate bearing the legend ‘Dunkirk 1940’. She turned towards him, her eyes glistening. “You’ve worked so hard. Walter Etchingham would be proud of you.”
“Oh, there’s a lot to do yet, but at least now you can see that it’ll look good when it’s finished. Old Mr Etchingham looked after her well. She’s as sound as a bell, really. She must just have been neglected after he died. Most of the work we’ve done has been cosmetic.”
“What’s left to do?”
“Oh, there’s still a bit of rigging to sort out, the masts to varnish, anchor winch to repair, curtains to find, navigation equipment to put in. I’d like a fixed GPS but I’ll have to settle for a cheaper hand-held one. Still, I think I can run to an autopilot.”
“I thought it would be you doing the steering.”
“Not all the time.”
“You mean it can steer itself?”
“On a straight course, yes. And if it’s a long passage I won’t want to be stuck to the wheel the whole time.”
“But if you’re not looking where you’re going you could hit something.”
“Oh, I won’t just go to my cabin and forget it. Not unless I decide to cross the Atlantic.”
“No.” Suddenly she remembered what the boat was for. It was the means by which he would leave her. She felt chilled.
He noticed her change of mood. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just looking at the front bit.”
He put a hand on her arm. “What’s the matter?”
“I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About you going away.”
He said nothing at first; just turned her round to face him. She avoided his gaze.
“Look at me.”
She stared at the floor, then at the wooden panelling to one side.
“Look at me.” He said the words softly but insistently. She raised her eyes to meet his. “I’m here now. Don’t think too far ahead. Please.”
“I can’t help it.”
“I know. But try not to.” He paused and stroked her cheek. “I’m trying not to.”
“Are you?” She looked at him questioningly.
“I’ve got something else to show you.” He took her hand and pulled her towards the hatch that led to the aft cabin. He bent down and flicked a switch. Two small brass lanterns, one to port the other to starboard, illuminated the previously dim interior.
“Oh!” She caught her breath.
The cabin, like the wheelhouse, was lined with mahogany, and most of the space was taken up with a large double bed, covered in a deep red quilt with fat pillows propped up against the bulkhead at the aftermost end. In one corner the door of the bathroom stood open, revealing the marble basin and the now pristine hip bath. The old Blake’s head had been restored, and while the effect was not quite up to Dorchester standards it had, on a miniature scale, undeniable charm.
He bent down and kissed her, wrapped his arms around her, then let one hand slide down to stroke her bottom. Then he pushed a stray wisp of hair from her cheek. “Shall we cook? We’ve company coming.”
She nodded and he looked at her intently, then grinned and pushed her up the steps into the wheelhouse, trying hard to reconcile within himself the conflicting feelings of love and the anticipation of his impending exp
edition. What had Hovis said? “Some things in life you have no control over. Other things are yours to decide.” He remembered the words that had followed. “And one of the strangest and saddest things in life is that some people cannot differentiate between the two.”
♦
They worked together, she topping and tailing beans and scrubbing Jersey Royals, he dressing a crab for starters. His hands worked deftly at the claws and she saw the muscles in his forearms flexing. Feeling her eyes on him, Will looked up. “Glass of wine?”
“Yes, please.”
He ran his hands under the tap and dried them on a towel before heading to the aft cabin.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“For the wine. I keep it in a locker below the water-line. It stays cool that way.”
“No need. Have you forgotten?” She gestured towards the cool-bag sitting at one end of the worktop. He came back up, unzipped the top flap, plunged his hand in and withdrew the first of three bottles.
“Oh! What have you done?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She began to scrub again at the potatoes.
“Bollinger!”
“I should hope so. This is a class boat – or so you tell me.”
He kissed the back of her neck, and pulled three glasses out of a cupboard at one end of the galley.
“Shouldn’t we break it over the bows or something? That’s what the Queen does.”
“Not on my boat she doesn’t.”
“Spoilsport.”
“For a start it would ruin my paintwork, and as it’s Bollinger it would be a criminal waste of champagne.”
“Well, you’ll have to give her a glassful, then.” The voice came from outside. It was eight o’clock and Hovis had arrived punctually, which Will lost no time in pointing out to him.
“Not much traffic on the pontoon tonight. No hold ups at all. Normally get stuck among all those commuters on pontoon number two at bank holidays but those delights are a few weeks away yet.”
“Don’t remind me. How busy does it get here on bank holidays?”
“Oh, not terribly. Bit more bustle on the jetty, and the day-boaters turn up to dust off the cobwebs and hose off the gull-shit – oh, sorry, muck.” He grinned apologetically at Amy, who laughed.
The Last Lighthouse Keeper Page 15