He hopped off the bike and pushed it through the bracken towards a lump of granite that offered a good view of the cove. He perched there, looking out to sea through the swaying madder-pink spires of foxgloves and inhaling the fresh, crisp air. Shafts of sunlight beamed down between the clouds, highlighting patches of sea with gleaming silver. The glittering water contrasted sharply with the blue-grey clouds, which threatened at any moment to shed their watery load. Perhaps the clouds would blow by today. Certainly, brighter sky seemed to be in the offing.
He looked at the patterns of light on the water, and again the crystal clear image of Ernie disappearing beneath the waves came into his mind. He rubbed his eyes as if to wipe it away, and turned his thoughts to his impending trip. For weeks now it had loomed ever larger in his mind. But so, too, had Amy. She had not brought up the subject since the day she first visited Boy Jack, and neither had he. Amy hoped it would go away, and Will wasn’t quite sure what he hoped.
How long would it be before he was ready? Two weeks? Three? He could not put off his decision much longer. But was there a decision to make? He was about to sail around the coast of Britain. This is what he had planned all these years. It was why he had bought the boat, spent most of his savings doing it up and equipped himself technically, physically and emotionally for the journey of a lifetime, leaving behind the past and its tragedies – the loss of Ellie then Ernie – and making a new start.
But he had not accounted for Amy, or falling in love. He stared at the sea, hoping that it might yield up some sort of solution but, as ever, it was intent on its own business. It had its own agenda; if he wanted to be a part of it, all he had to do was put out in his boat. If he did not, he must remain as a spectator, watching from a distance, and wondering what it would be like to be involved. He sighed heavily. What had once seemed simple was now fraught with complications.
Below him a boat cut through the waves. A large white boat. A fast white boat, slapping against the crests and roaring on past Bill’s Island. He recognized it. It was the MacDermotts’. Having said goodbye to their guests they had clearly decided to go out for a spin. He waited for the boat to come into view again at the other side of the island, but it did not. He looked at his watch. Half past two. It was five to three before the boat reappeared, travelling back in the direction whence it had come. It was returning to Pencurnow, as fast as it had left some twenty-five minutes ago.
Thoughtfully Will picked up the bike and cycled on towards St Petroc.
♦
“Could just have stopped to admire the view.” Hovis was sitting in the corner of the bench seat on Boy Jack.
“Did you see them go out?” asked Will.
“Yes. Usual fuss and bother with ropes, even though they had old Scalder with them. Mind you, he’d probably had too much gin to be of any help. But he looked the part, standing on the bridge in his blazer and peaked cap.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“You’ve two choices, haven’t you? Go to the police to report something you think is suspicious, or keep it to yourself.”
“Mmm.” Will looked thoughtful. “It’s not much to go on, is it?”
Hovis shook his head. “Not really. Odd, though, all the same. Especially as they were out of sight for less than half an hour. Not really long enough to drop the hook, put the kettle on and put your feet up, and too long to be simply turning round.”
“Did you see them come back?”
“Yes. By then I think old Scalder was persona non grata. Probably tried to touch up MacDermott’s missus.” He winked.
“Did they have anything with them?”
“What sort of thing?”
“I don’t know. Polythene bags or plastic boxes or something.”
“Well, they had a couple of holdalls – you know, those things they use to keep bottles of wine chilled, cool-bags. But I expect that was just their picnic.”
“Do you fancy a trip out there?”
“Where?”
“Bill’s Island.”
Hovis looked uneasy. “Oh, I don’t think you should go there. Keep out of the way. Best thing.”
“But if we go out there now and find that the lobster pots aren’t empty any more then the chances are that the MacDermotts put the stuff in them.”
“Don’t you think the police will have thought of that? They’ll be keeping an eye. Bound to be. Don’t get involved. And, anyway, the MacDermotts are presumably taking stuff out of the lobster pots rather than putting it in.”
“Well, let’s just go for a sail and see if anything’s going on.”
Hovis grew more agitated and made to leave.
“Just a quick trip. That’s all. I’ll show you how my new GPS works.” Will felt driven to push the issue, even though to his own ears he sounded childish. Something inside him was goading him on.
“No. I’d rather not.” Hovis walked towards the hatchway, intent on leaving.
Will blocked his way. “Why not? What have we got to lose? We might even see something that will help clear this lot up.”
“I can’t.”
Hovis was panicking. He tried to push past Will. Will wondered what was the cause of this sudden fear. Surely Hovis couldn’t be involved. His mind raced as he stood in front of the bearded figure.
“What is it you know that I don’t?” asked Will, looking his friend straight in the eye.
Hovis avoided his gaze. “It’s nothing.”
“If it’s nothing, why won’t you come?”
“Because…”
“What?” Will snapped impatiently. “Because what?”
Hovis rubbed at his beard, then wiped his hand over his forehead where beads of sweat were already forming.
“Because I get seasick.” He slumped down on the bench seat, took a red and white spotted handkerchief from the pocket of his grubby corduroys and mopped his brow. He sat limply, the picture of despair. “Nobody knows. Not a soul. Truth is, I even get queasy in the boatyard when the wind blows up. I’ve tried to get over it, like Nelson. Thought it might subside with age, but it seems to have got worse.”
“Dartmouth and Salcombe,” Will whispered, half to himself.
“A dream, I’m afraid. I only ever go there by train. Old Florence Nightingale’s destined to end her days here. Like me.”
“But have you tried – ”
“Everything. All the cures. Pills. Potions. Those little armbands with buttons on them. Nothing helps. Ten minutes on the flattest sea and I’m heaving over the side. Went to the doctor. He said it was something to do with my inner ear. Balance, that sort of thing.” He looked up at Will with a feeble smile. “It’s a bit of a bugger, isn’t it? Always loved the sea, and all I can do is look at it.”
“I won’t tell anybody. Don’t imagine that.”
“Thanks.”
“Just for a minute there I thought…”
“I know. I saw it in your eyes.”
“Sorry.”
“You weren’t to know.” Hovis exhaled loudly. “Would you mind not saying anything to Amy?”
“Of course not.”
“Only I don’t want…”
“I won’t breathe a word.”
♦
Amy listened avidly to his story of the MacDermotts’ boat and found herself agreeing with Hovis that this was something for the police, not Will.
“Should I tell them?”
“Supposing the MacDermotts had just broken down?”
“In a new boat?”
“It happens, doesn’t it? New cars break down.”
“Well, yes, but…”
“Just keep it to yourself for a while. You can always mention it later if you have to.”
She was sitting on the sofa at the studio, her feet tucked beneath her blue and white striped cotton dress. She sipped at a glass of Chardonnay. In spite of the wide-brimmed hat the sun had caught her cheeks, and she seemed to glow. A shaft of sunlight darted in through the skylight, its beam turning the scrub
bed wooden floor the colour of honey. The heavy clouds were all but gone and the evening was still. Will sat cross-legged on the floor, looking up at her.
“How was May?” she asked.
“I almost forgot.” He took a gulp of the clear amber wine. “She was a bit tearful. But pleased.”
“Pleased?”
“They’ve awarded Ernie the George Medal.” He felt his throat constrict.
Amy’s face creased up with delight. “Oh! How lovely. I mean…”
“I know.” He came and sat beside her, putting his arm around her and his head against hers. “At least his life hasn’t gone unrecognized.”
“She must be very proud.”
“She showed me the letter. Somehow it seemed such a final thing.” He put down his glass. “I went to his grave. Put some flowers on it. You know, buttercups and foxgloves. He preferred those to garden flowers. It’s a lovely spot. Looks right out over the sea.”
They sat quietly for what seemed like an age, and then he said, “About my trip.”
She sat perfectly still, her eyes fixed on the floor. She had put it all to the back of her mind; had tried hard not to think about it, imagining that if she were to distance herself from it sufficiently it would disappear. His words surprised her.
“I want you to come with me.”
She swung round to look at him.
“I don’t want to do it on my own. I want to do it with you.” He watched her. Waiting for an answer. When, eventually, it came, he felt the pit of his stomach sink.
“I can’t.” She spoke gently and looked away.
He had half expected this, but still it came as a shock. “Why not?”
“Because.” She found herself unable to meet his eye. “Because of all this. I’ve just got myself started up. I can’t just leave it all.”
He thought he must have heard wrongly. Perhaps that was not what she meant.
“But I thought…I thought you…”
“Wanted to come?”
“Yes.”
She turned to face him. “Oh, I do. I really do. But I can’t just throw it all in. Just like that.”
He stared at her, shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t understand. I mean, do you want to be with me or not?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Well, then, come with me.” A note of exasperation crept into his voice.
“It’s not as easy as that.”
“It is. It’s perfectly straightforward. I don’t want to go without you. I don’t want to be on my own any more; I want to be with you. You seemed to want to be with me so I thought you felt the same.”
“I do feel the same, but I can’t just up and come. I can’t.”
“But how can you say that?” He almost shouted the words. He was angry now. Angry at letting himself be lulled into what was clearly a false sense of security.
She had led him on. Made him think that he was important to her, got him to lower his guard to the point where he had offered her his life to share and she had rejected him. They had talked as he had not talked in a long time; shared their feelings so completely, made love in a way that he had never made love before; become soulmates, and here she was, turning him down simply because his voyage – which she knew about and had always known about – got in the way of her gallery, studio, shop or whatever she wanted to call it.
She interrupted his thundering confusion of thoughts.
“I thought you might have changed your mind about going.”
He looked at her with real pain etched on his face. “But I’ve been planning it for so long. You know that. I’ve never made a secret of it. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”
“Until I got in the way?”
“Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true isn’t it? You had your life mapped out and then you bumped into me and I messed it all up.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Oh I think it is.” She tried to keep her voice steady and level. “You need this trip to clear your mind. Start you off on a new life. Leave the past behind. I know that. You’ve longed for it. Why should I imagine that you’d give it up?”
“Because I love you.”
Amy looked at him hard, biting her lip to rein in her emotions. “But not quite enough.” She looked away.
“Please. Don’t say that. Don’t think that I don’t love you enough. I couldn’t love you more.”
“No. Well; there we are then.”
He felt empty. Cold. Why had it all suddenly gone wrong? He wanted her to go with him, to make the trip of a lifetime and she had turned him down. They sat slightly apart on the sofa now, neither of them capable of taking the conversation any further.
Will got up. “I’d better go.”
Amy said nothing.
He looked down at her, his feelings numbed. “I’m sorry.”
She did not answer. Just carried on looking at the pictures on the wall. The pictures of white beaches and blue sea and clear skies.
The last thing she heard was the gentle closing of the door and the tapping of the ‘Closed’ sign against the glass.
Twenty-Five
Nab
His jaw ached. For two weeks now he had been clenching his teeth, telling himself he was right to press on with his plans. He had offered to take her with him and she had declined. She knew it was his intention to go, always had been. He felt annoyed with himself for having given so much of himself away, betrayed, too, because she wouldn’t go with him. How could she say that he didn’t love her enough when he had offered to share his life and his dreams with her?
She continued to occupy his every waking hour. As he studied the charts he would need for his voyage her face kept smiling at him from harbours and creeks, compass roses and tide tables.
There were days when he felt low enough to call it all off, and others when his bloody-mindedness saw him ploughing ahead doggedly with his preparations.
From time to time he caught Spike looking at him questioningly with his head on one side. And Hovis had been quiet of late, allowing him to get on unhindered. He had told him of Amy’s refusal to go with him, and been surprised at his reaction. Hovis had absorbed the information quietly, averting his eyes, as though the subject had nothing to do with him. Which, of course, reflected Will, it had not.
The late May bank holiday came and went. June had arrived and at weekends now the place would be alive with tourists. He would have liked to have been away by now, but there were still engine refinements to make, the anchor winch to be repaired, windscreen wipers to fix – fiddly jobs that seemed to take up large chunks of his day. Two of the port-holes leaked during heavy rain and needed sealing; a small area of deck planking had sprung and needed recaulking, and a cleat had come away from its mounting. Old boats, like old houses, seemed forever in need of attention.
Half of him wanted to cast off, leave and sort out such problems along the way. What did it matter where he was berthed? He could make running repairs in any port. Yet the perfectionist in him wouldn’t let him set off until everything was shipshape. Only then would he have the satisfaction of knowing that his voyage was underway and the past left behind.
But where did the past end and the present begin?
He sat on the edge of the bed, weary of thinking. The brass clock on the bulkhead showed a quarter to eleven. He looked out of the port-hole and saw the moon glinting on the rippling water, heard the gentle slapping of the tide against the hull. It was a sound he loved: comforting, promising, exciting. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end at the prospect of adventure, but a black cloud surrounded him as he slid under the quilt and waited for the soothing motion of the sea to rock him to sleep.
♦
The tapping sound woke him slowly. At first he thought it was something in the water, knocking against the hull – a bottle or a can. He sat up. The tapping had stopped, but he could not settle. He heaved his weary body from the bed and walked up the cabin steps towards the door o
f the saloon. He pulled back the curtain and looked out. Nothing. Just a silent boatyard with vessels straining at their mooring warps. He turned to go back to bed, but a flash of white caught his eye. He looked down. A piece of paper lay on the cabin floor. He opened it and strained to read the words that were printed in capitals in handwriting he knew. The words were few but the message was clear: 0300 HOURS, OUTSIDE THE SALUTATION. TED.
He looked at the clock. It was half past two. He sat on the bench seat, rubbed his eyes and reread the note. It was like something out of a spy thriller, yet Ted Whistler was not given to flights of fancy. He pulled on his clothes in the dark, slipped on a pair of deck-shoes, slid open the door and padded down the pontoon towards the jetty, his heart thumping in his chest. He must be mad. Ted must be mad. What was going on?
He eased open the hefty gate of the boatyard as silently as he could and squeezed through, closing it behind him before walking along the lane that led to the Salutation. The pub was dark now, its clientele having long departed to their beds. Alf Penrose had never been prosecuted for serving after hours – he was too partial to a good night’s sleep.
Will looked around. Nothing. No one. Perhaps it was a joke. Perhaps he’d dreamt it. A hand touched his shoulder and he almost cleared the iron railings in one leap.
“What the –!”
“Ssh.” The voice was familiar.
“Bloody hell! What’s going on?”
“Sorry,” Ted whispered. “Come over here.” He led Will to a stretch of railings overshadowed by buildings, where the moonlight failed to provide illumination.
“What’s wrong?”
Ted pointed out to sea in the direction of Bill’s Island. “Just wait.”
The two men had little in common other than a shared background of lighthouse-keeping, but each knew from experience that once the eyes were fully accustomed to the dark they could see almost as well as in daylight – especially on a moonlit night when the shadows were as contrasting as any provided by the sun.
The Last Lighthouse Keeper Page 19