“I hear congratulations are in order, Stephen,” Emma said as she wrapped his purchases.
“Yup, thanks Emma, now I’ve got the level 3 diploma in carpentry and joinery under my belt I can concentrate on my English finals.”
“There’ll be no stopping him now, Emma,” chuckled Nathan. “You know, have drill will hammer.”
She looked at them both and smiled. “I may well need your services soon, Stephen.”
“Oh?”
“Hey, Steve, is it true about your sister?” a voice yelled out across the crowd. Stephen turned and quietly replied, “I’m afraid it is.”
Their day had begun!
Throughout the day gossip was rife in the village. In fact, many customers came into the Village Stores chiefly to speculate on the break-up of Dave and Jansy.
“Can’t believe it,” said Mrs Saunders.
“Do you think he’s found someone else?” asked Annelie Durrant who’d popped into the shop to buy milk for the office morning tea.
“’Course not,” was the emphatic reply.
“Then why’s he gone so far away?” Annelie persisted.
“For work, o’ course, good fishin’ in the southwest, so Oi’ve ’eard.”
“Well, they were very close Easter Sunday morning. Something drastic must have happened since then,” Annelie commented.
“Oi ’eard they couldn’t agree where to live,” put in Mrs Peek, the verger’s wife.
“That’s a trivial reason to split up,” said Annelie contemptuously.
“Speaken’ o’ Easter Sunday, that wretched motorbike chap still be abaht. Roaren’ down the lane half-past six this mornen’, ’e be. Shouldn’t be allowed. Tom Catchpole ought t’dew somethen’ abaht that noise,” grumbled Mr Bracewell.
Some of the customers nearest to him murmured in agreement, but Annelie remarked, “Oh I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“How dew yew know? Yew live the other side o’ the village,” he retorted angrily.
“Now, now…” Rosalie soothed before tempers became too frayed.
“He’s not a chap, RK’s a girl…” called out Rachel Durrant as she pushed Rhoda’s buggy down the aisle towards the chatting shoppers having just taken Mark into school.
“No!” the group around her gasped in surprise, “…and is looking after the Catton children,” she concluded.
“Surely not!” This news left them speechless. Once the import of what Rachel had said penetrated they all spoke at once.
“But the bike…”
“Those leathers…”
“Too tall for a girl…”
“…and what about the deep husky voice.”
“I just don’t believe it!”
“You must be joking, Rachel,” Annelie said as she approached her sister-in-law.
Rachel shook her head. “I assure you it’s perfectly true.”
Clustered as they were at the bottom of the aisle the customers failed to see Jennifer Pedwardine slip into the shop hoping to discreetly catch Rosalie’s attention.
It was Monday morning and Emma was busy in the office. It was the time she allocated to contacting suppliers, placing weekly orders and preparing invoices and bills. She was anxious to have them ready for Alex so that she could attend to the monthly accounts when she closed the Post Office at lunch time. Rosalie was standing by the till having just served Mrs Jenner.
Miss Pedwardine moved towards the counter.
“Good morning, Rosalie. Is Alex in today?”
“Yes, she’s serving behind the Post Office counter.”
Miss Pedwardine marched down the aisle passed the cluster of gossipers to go through the arch that led into the Post Office.
At that moment Michelle Cook took opportunity to sidle up to Rachel and quietly ask, “Any news about Laura?”
“Not much change, I understand.”
“Thass a tragedy, poor Adam.”
“It certainly is. How are you managing?” Rachel asked kindly, well aware that Michelle’s husband, Joe, had recently been sentenced to another term in prison for a number of offences including the attack on Rev Hugh’s wife on Christmas Eve. Her eldest son, Josh, was also in a Young Offender’s Institute for his part in the same burglaries and attacks on a number of persons in the village, so life was not very easy for Michelle at the moment. The pending trial of possible perpetrators of the crash which had taken the lives of Val and Mick Kemp at Christmas was also hanging over her head as most villagers had already accused, tried and convicted her husband and son for the accident.
“O’roite,” Michelle replied in a whisper.
“Seen the poster about the treasure hunt?” inquired Rachel, changing the topic.
“Goen’ ahead, then?” asked Michelle.
“Seems so.”
“Well, Adam and Laura won’t be doen’ it, will they?”
“Hardly.”
“I say, have you heard, Jenny Ped’s doing the treasure hunt?” called out Annelie mischievously as that lady passed by them.
“Really?”
“That’s different.”
“I’ll say!”
“Not at work, today, Annelie?” Miss Pedwardine asked, choosing to ignore the young woman’s facetious remark, knowing full well that Annelie had no real notion of her possible involvement in the arrangements for the treasure hunt.
“Of course, Miss Pedwardine,” replied Annelie sheepishly, “I’m just collecting milk for the coffee break.”
“Don’t waste time, then, time means money.”
“Yes, Miss. Have a nice day,” she replied cheerily as she made her way to the till. Miss Pedwardine winced at the Americanism.
Michelle turned back to Rachel, “Are yew a-goen’?”
“I expect so, usually good fun, especially for the kids, what about you?” Rachel asked.
Michelle slowly shook her head and said ruefully, “no car.”
Rachel could have kicked herself for her thoughtlessness. “Oh, Michelle, I’m so sorry.”
But Jennifer smiled to herself convinced her proposals would more than meet the criteria.
CHAPTER TEN
Unaware of much of the activity taking place in Newton Westerby, Dave continued to stay down in Brixham, sailing in the fishing grounds of the southwest. Spells at sea gave him ample opportunity for reflection and at times his mood was tempered by the inner anguish of his heart. He missed home and felt out on a limb in the unfamiliar place so busied himself with work.
He heard not a word from Jansy. The texts, notes and phone calls he sent to her remained unacknowledged. His heart was heavy when he remembered the unresolved issues between them. How had the question of where to live escalated into such a big problem? I would willingly live in a tent or caravan just to be with her. I miss her, her smile, her warmth, her friendship, her cheerful spirit, her very presence.
Nevertheless, Dave retained contact with home through his brother-in-law, Ben. “I’m not much of a letter writer but I will text you,” he promised, and they spoke at length when Ben phoned him every Friday evening when he was on shore.
“Have you been able to visit a Church fellowship in Brixham?” Ben enquired after Dave had been working there for a few weeks.
“Well, shortly after arriving here I linked up with The Fishermen’s Mission.”
“Oh, that’s good. How do they treat you?”
“Quite well, actually. I go to their canteen for most of my meals when I’m ashore, as well as, for company,” Dave explained. “They seem friendly enough although I think the girls find me sulky because I’m quieter than the other chaps.”
“I shouldn’t let that worry you,” said Ben.
“No, I don’t,” replied Dave thoughtfully. “One morning when I went up to the Mission’s canteen for breakfast Heather and Kelly invited me to the Sunday evening cafe Church, which I understand is held in the upstairs meeting room.”
“Will you go?”
“I just might.”
“How ar
e you getting on with the resident fishermen?”
“Not great, because they can’t understand my accent so look on me as an interloper and as such resent my presence in the harbour. Consequently, I keep to myself which causes the locals to consider me sullen and moody so they in turn keep their distance. The other fishermen are jovial, friendly though somewhat raucous, and accept me as I am. Ironically, some of them have more pronounced accents than mine.”
“Perhaps when they get to know you they’ll realise it’s your nature to be quiet and reserved.”
“Maybe, but I’m happy with the way things are at present, they don’t question my mood or background and it’s a relief not to be pestered for any explanations.”
In fact, if the truth were known, most of his fellow fishermen had discovered that Dave was good at his job even though he went about it in a silent manner, and weren’t too bothered about his personal history, accent or disposition.
At the outset, Dave had looked in Newton Westerby for a deckhand to accompany him to the southwest. Young Brett Saunders had said he would ‘give it a go’ but after the trip down and a couple of spells fishing out at sea he was so homesick that he elected to return to the east coast. Thus, Dave was forced to rely upon the availability of casual deckhands from the local workforce which, on the whole, worked reasonably well. Dave was a good skipper; fastidious but fair.
In his free time ashore Dave tended to stroll on his own around the intriguing Brixham harbour, with its red rocky outcrops, so vastly different to the sandy shore of Newton Westerby. He deliberately ignored the steep flights of steps built into the cliff face, such a contrast to the sloping scores back home, but he enjoyed casting a practised eye over the pristine yachts in the marina quite distinct from the leisure craft that frequented the river that flowed through the Newton villages. Walking along the breakwater, looking beyond the lighthouse towards Torquay, the wide sweep of Torbay also fascinated him.
On one such occasion he had the distinct feeling that as he left his boat he was being followed. Dave didn’t pay much attention at first because he was quite absorbed by the scene and activity around the harbour but after a while it became apparent that when he stopped to look at the yachts or watch the cormorants spanning their wings on the jetty the shadowing footsteps also stopped. When he recommenced his walk so too did the footsteps behind him.
By the time he reached the breakwater Dave found the tail a little unnerving so he deliberately came to an abrupt standstill, crouched down on the pretext of adjusting his boot lace turning as he did so to confront his followers. His movement caught them unawares and they almost fell over him. He noticed there were three of them. Their attire placed them as fishermen, two were unfamiliar but the third he recognised as the deckhand from ‘Seagull,’ Mark Bemment’s boat, which normally sailed out of Newton Westerby.
“Why, hello Billy, I didn’t expect to see you down here.”
“Hi, Dave,” Billy Knights responded dourly.
“Is the ‘Seagull’ fishing off the southwest as well?”
“Nah, Mark’s still in the North Sea. Oi juss fancied a change.”
“I see, well have a good trip.” Dave nodded to Billy’s silent companions then continued on his walk, thinking he must have been mistaken in believing he was being followed.
Another time while stretching his legs along the waterfront Dave met the superintendant from the Mission who extended his hand with a warm invitation to attend a service. “Hi, I’m Jack Pridmore. We’d be pleased to see you any time you’re on shore.”
Dave accepted the firm grasp and introduced himself, “David Ransome.”
However, some weeks passed before he was able to respond to the invitation. After a number of trips out at sea Dave was eventually in harbour on a Sunday and decided to attend the cafe Church at the Mission. It was low tide but the stone steps leading from his mooring onto the quayside were still wet and slippery. He negotiated them with care holding onto a rope thread between rusted rings attached to the harbour wall with his free hand. He had just reached the top of the landing stage when his arms were seized and yanked behind his back sending the Bible he was carrying into the air, landing with a thud on the concrete pier. His two assailants dragged Dave along the unforgiving surface, through a door they kicked open, into the deserted fish market.
Before his eyes had chance to adjust to the gloom of the empty fish warehouse Dave felt sharp blows on his face and chest, as well as, repeated kicks in his stomach. “Ouch!” he cried out but sticky tape of some sort was inexpertly fastened across his mouth to keep him quiet as the brutal assault continued. His knees buckled but he was grasped roughly by the throat to keep him upright, a face thrust into his and a voice hissed menacingly, “Shut yourn face, if yew know what be good fer yew. If yourn arsked, yew niver saw me.”
A siren sounded in the distance, his attackers dropped him abruptly, kicked him aside and without a word left the desolate wharf.
Dave, breathing heavily to cope with the painful aftermath of his attack, waited a few moments till the footfalls died away, then gingerly peeled the tape from his mouth and slowly raised his hurting body from the ground. Movement was tentative. He cautiously stroked his aching jaw and held his throbbing head. What on earth was that all about? He was completely bewildered by the actions of Billy Knights and his companions. Dave had never really had any dealings with Billy but simply knew him as a lad from Newton Common who worked as a deckhand on various boats out of Newton Westerby. His actions tonight suggest his presence in Brixham is not entirely above board and he’s obviously very anxious that I don’t tell anyone I’ve seen him here.
Dave slowly brushed himself down, smoothed his hair as best he could and walked painfully out of the warehouse. With great care he bent down to gather up his torn and battered Bible which the thugs had deliberately trampled on. It took him a considerable while to get upright again, a stabbing pain across his chest slowing his actions. Sweating profusely he stood for a moment to catch his breath cogitating what to do. Should he return to the boat or carry on up to the Mission? He felt uncharacteristically vulnerable and longed for the safety of home. I think company will be preferable to being on my own in the boat at the moment. The deckhands he employed lived ashore in between fishing trips which generally suited Dave but following the attack he would have welcomed the presence of someone on board. So, having made his decision, Dave limped slowly in the direction of the Mission building.
When Jack greeted him, as Dave hobbled uncertainly through the Mission meeting room door, the Superintendant was surprised to see Dave sporting a bruised, swollen face and a tattered Bible under his arm but wisely refrained from commenting on it. You’re going to need attention, son.
“It’s good to see you, David, welcome.” Gingerly Dave returned his handshake but winced as his hand was grasped. Dave glanced about him. Thankfully there were quite a few faces that he recognised from the Mission canteen, some waved in acknowledgement while others smiled, so he didn’t feel as intimidated as he had anticipated. He moved awkwardly towards the nearest chair and grimaced as he tried to sit down. Realising it was an action he was finding difficult to perform Dave stood for a moment pondering his next move. Prompted by Jack, Heather approached Dave quietly with a glass of water and a couple of paracetamol. “You might find these helpful,” she whispered. Dave gratefully accepted her offering as well as assistance to sit down on an adjacent vacant chair that sported arm rests.
When the service commenced Dave was glad that the hymns, too, were ones that were familiar to him. By the time the Missioner came to open the Word, Dave felt more at home in the unfamiliar surroundings though sitting was getting increasingly more and more uncomfortable. He shuffled to relieve the pressure on his emerging bruises.
“We’ve reached verse 24 in our study of Jude, ‘To Him who is able.’ ” Jack Pridmore opened his Bible and carefully read through the whole chapter again to refresh the memory of his listeners. Dave tried to follow the words
closely in his own Bible but the swelling around his eyes was getting bigger and made focussing on the print difficult. Instead, he adjusted his position on the chair, cautiously leaned back, closed his eyes and concentrated on the words spoken by the Mission Superintendant.
“We’ve learned that Jude’s letter challenges us to grow in faith, pray in the spirit and remain surrounded by God’s love….” Dave’s thoughts began to wander. His faith had certainly been challenged during the past few weeks and he doubted that it had been growing. He acknowledged that he had allowed the rift with Jansy to affect his prayer time and relationship with the Lord and just lately he hadn’t always been aware of the all-encompassing love of God. Please forgive me, Father God.
“…let doubts and uncertainties cause confusion but, and this is the crux of the matter, to Him who is able there is trust, confidence and certainty.” The voice of the missioner brought him back to the present.
Dave forced open his swollen eyes and carefully sat more upright in his seat. A wonderful sense of peace washed over him. I don’t have to worry! I don’t need to worry about Jansy, about the future, about fishing or about where to live. I’m not expected to solve my problems alone. Thankyou, Heavenly Father, for the assurance that I can have confidence in you for the future. Where I cannot see, I’ll trust that you are able to. ‘To Him who is able.’ Dave nudged the chap next to him and indicated that he would like him to underscore the verse in his Bible.
Frequently, over the next few days as his vision improved Dave referred back to it. ‘To Him who is able.’
His injuries made fishing impossible so he had plenty of time for thinking and reading and praying. His body ached and was very stiff from the battering it had taken which meant he couldn’t venture very far from his boat. Jack Pridmore called in daily to check up on him and on his first visit was accompanied by a local GP who gave Dave a thorough examination to assess there were no internal injuries, other than a couple of broken ribs, and gave him a prescription for medication to cope with the pain and external abrasions as Dave declined a trip to the A&E department of Torbay hospital.
Out of My Depth Page 10