Turning the Tide

by Christine Stovell

  Giving him time to digest her words, she rubbed a bruise she could feel appearing on her shin, most likely picked up during the regatta.

  ‘And this parcel of land you want to buy from me, it wouldn’t stop there, would it? The boat yard’s way beyond your potential customers’ idea of shabby chic. They won’t be happy until the peeling hulls, piles of scrap and the rest of the detritus that comes with a working boat-repair operation are replaced with a waterside shopping development and piazza. In the unlikely event of your scheme taking off, the town will be tidied up and smoothed over beyond recognition. So, no, I’m not sure your idea of respect for the place is the same as mine.’

  Matthew slammed down his glass and looked at her impatiently. ‘D’you know what, Harry? Your image of Little Spitmarsh is beginning to resemble a holiday postcard that’s been in the sun too long. The place is crying out for a touch of local colour and, like most of the paintwork and a few other things around here, a lot of gloss.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ If he was trying to make her feel uncomfortable he could save his breath. As for the dreary downbeat pubs, the half-hearted takeaways and the sad shops full of other people’s clothes and furniture, they, like the muddy brown North Sea gnawing at the land, were what made up the weary heart of the place she loved. ‘So you want to turn it into a marine metropolis where your urban escapees can carry on shopping just like they do at home. Well, good luck! Whilst you’re busily polishing up the town, mind you don’t polish it off, won’t you?’

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘But there’s no danger of that, I can assure you. I’m beginning to realise that there are some things you can’t bring a sparkle to, no matter how hard you try.’

  Lola wasn’t one of them, thought Harry, noticing the other girl’s expression as Matthew returned his empty glass to the bar. Ignoring all her other customers, Lola turned to Matthew to give him her undivided attention. Another of her rare smiles softened her strong features, making her look very beautiful and very young and making Harry feel like part of the furniture. As soon as Matthew sat down opposite Lola, she leaned across the bar to catch what he was saying – with a purposeful thrust of her breasts that momentarily stopped the disgruntled clamour of all the thirsty punters demanding to be served. Sheesh! Why should Matthew be any different from any other man in the bar? What made her suppose that he might have a bit more depth or might, perhaps, be capable of looking beyond the entirely superficial?

  Lola blushed and nodded and wrote something down on a beer mat and handed it to Matthew. Harry strained her bitter through teeth gritted in disgust that Lola, who spurned men as a hobby, hadn’t even put up a token show of resistance. But she took comfort from the thought that, judging by the faces round the bar, Matthew had just lost the battle to win the hearts and minds of over half the local population. And anything that made Matthew Corrigan’s world domination of Little Spitmarsh seem less urgent had to be good. With some breathing space, she could look at her costs and maybe come up with some offers which might entice penurious sailors back to the yard. There she’d encourage them to sand, grind, turn over engines and generally make all manner of noises and smells guaranteed to make the place deeply unattractive to anyone looking for a peaceful site for second homes.

  So if Matthew wanted to chat up the barmaid it was fine by her. She would even prove how fine it was by being completely nonchalant as she passed him.

  Harry drained her beer and stood up to leave. But, to her annoyance, Matthew had already left.

  Chapter Four

  Mindlessly pushing stems into an oasis, Frankie was beginning to wonder how much more he could stand. He was bored with the pedestrian nature of his life, bored with the sheer predictability of his day and confident that he was capable of much greater achievements. The trouble was, Trevor was far too scared that taking a bold new approach to life might cost him the little he had of his past.

  At the jangle of the shop bell, Phil shot up and launched into an unnecessarily full-throated bark. God, even the dogs were trying to find ways to break the monotony. Frankie looked up wearily. Or maybe they were just showing off? Perking up at the very welcome sight of Matthew Corrigan, he debated whether all that lean and rapacious virility might be what was really making Harry’s dungarees flutter.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Your Satanic Majesty, he added silently.

  ‘The flowers I ordered from you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I just dropped by to say thanks.’

  ‘You thought it was going to be all “Our Nan” funeral wreaths and wedding bouquets for small-town brides, didn’t you?’ Frankie guessed that Matthew had been guilty of casting a jaundiced eye over the business and forming his own conclusions about what standard to expect. ‘The flowers hit the spot, then?’

  Matthew scrolled through his phone. ‘She says, “2L8”.’

  ‘Ah.’ Well, that had blown it.

  ‘Give me a good reason why you and your partner should deal with the flowers for the restaurant?’

  ‘How about long-term experience in corporate floristry?’

  Frankie watched Matthew’s gaze drop to the violent salmon-pink and acid-yellow concoction of carnations he was working on. It was possibly not the best advert for his work. ‘Ghastly, isn’t it?’ Frankie grinned. ‘The proud grandparents ordered it and were most specific about the colours.’

  He took down a large album from the shelf behind him and handed it over. Matthew started to flick through quickly, his pace slowing as he studied it with more care.

  ‘Trevor was already running a successful business when I met him. He’d done it the hard way, all on his own, taught himself the skills and knew the trade inside out.’ He paused and watched Matthew’s face. ‘So far so good. But there was a bit of a problem. All that work made Trev a dull boy, you see, or at least someone who hadn’t had very much play time. So when his friends started to settle down Trevor thought it was about time he did too; he acquired a wife and then a daughter and if his marriage wasn’t exactly setting the world alight … well, Trevor just assumed that was how it was meant to be.’

  Reaching for some fern fronds to fill up the arrangement, he carried on with his story. ‘It was only when his business was up and running that Trevor had time to face something about himself which refused to go away. The CV in his head, the one which read “Successful businessman, homeowner, husband, father”, didn’t quite match what he knew in his heart. Trevor was not only married to the wrong woman – he shouldn’t have been married at all. Then we met, and that’s when life really became tough.’

  He paused to see if Matthew would react and, when he didn’t, carried on.

  ‘My aunt left this place to me, and it’s been the perfect bolt-hole for us. Somewhere Trevor’s been able to recover. Where people have left us alone and no one cares about the past. But if I thought that five or ten years down the line I’d still be trying to stretch the cheapest possible combination of flowers into something that represents a lifetime of love for yet another penniless widow to place on her husband’s coffin, I’d pack my bags. Except that would be a hell of a way to repay Trevor after everything he’s done for me. So good luck to you and your restaurant. If it changes the face of Little Spitmarsh, I won’t be shedding any tears.’

  Matthew was distracted from wondering just what he’d signed up for when he noticed George, tucked in a doorway along from The Flowerpot Men. Harry’s right-hand man was trying to keep a struggling Jack Russell, apparently desperate to get away, under his arm. Neither of them looked happy with the arrangement. George was typical of a certain breed: men who’d served their country, becoming displaced back in civilian life and rattling around until they’d found a refuge of sorts. They were the shadowy figures moving unnoticed around the perimeters of society, collecting glasses in pubs, washing up in small town B & Bs or, as in George’s case, clearing up after other people; and all the time invisibly watching the happenings around them.

>   Matthew decided it was worth his while to see what George was up to. George was someone who knew an awful lot about Harry Watling; he’d be a useful person to cultivate on that basis alone. But, he wondered, how much did Harry know about George? If George was engaged in some clandestine activity, a spot of dog-napping for example, how far would he go to prevent Harry from getting to hear about it? The older man clamped a horny hand gently but firmly round the little dog’s muzzle as she let out a series of excited little yelps, and Matthew waited to see what would happen next.

  For a dog-napper George didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get away, but stood rooted to the spot staring at the desultory bouquets in front of the shop. At last Frankie appeared in the doorway and took a swift, moody glance up and down the street before bending to pick up a bucket. Another bout of wriggling from the Jack Russell seemed to remind George of her presence. As Frankie righted himself and went back inside, George, to Matthew’s surprise, practically threw the dog in after him. Cue an outburst from Frankie that the next time she tripped him up like that he’d have her fucking guts for garters.

  George nodded to himself. And Matthew decided to find out what was going on.

  ‘’Afternoon, George. Didn’t you want that dog any more?’

  George’s lip curled. ‘Wassit got to do with you?’

  Matthew took a bet that, like a tired old bulldog, George’s bark was worse than his bite. ‘Nothing whatsoever. My apologies. You carry on throwing little dogs around whenever you want to.’

  George growled. ‘Good at poking yer nose in other folks’ business, ain’t yer?’

  ‘I’m good at scenting trouble,’ Matthew agreed, ignoring the black look George shot at him. ‘It’s a useful tool in my trade. Do those boys know what you’ve been doing with their dog?’

  ‘Ain’t me they’ve got to worry about,’ George said, with a hint of a smile. ‘But they might not be too chuffed with that little madam when they find out that the local mongrel’s been courting her. Found her sleeping it off in my old chair, I did. Still, I gave her a biscuit to keep her strength up before I brought her home.’

  Matthew nodded his approval, sensing in George a craving for some comradely male company. ‘Very considerate. But then I expect you’ve done a bit of courting in your time.’

  ‘I’ve had the pleasure of meeting a few ladies,’ George allowed. ‘Tell you a few stories to make your hair curl, an’ all.’

  ‘Really?’ Matthew looked at his watch. ‘It’s about that time. Care to join me for a drink?’

  George shifted uneasily. ‘Ah well, I don’t know about that. Miss Harriet, you see, she don’t really like me drinking.’

  Matthew’s eyebrows rose steeply. ‘Surely you’re not worried about what Harry Watling does or doesn’t like, are you?’

  ‘Now let’s get one thing straight, young fellow,’ George said, waving a hefty mitt at the boat yard. ‘There’s been one person, rain or shine, night or day, keeping that place going and it ain’t been me, that’s for sure, no sir.’

  Matthew quickly revised his tactics. ‘Okay, so she’s a hard worker. It doesn’t mean to say that you don’t have the right to take a break,’ he shrugged.

  George glared at him. ‘That’s all you city types worry about, ain’t it? Yer so-called rights. Rights is all very fine if someone else up the ladder is paying for them. Never mind rights, it’s responsibilities what counts round ’ere. When old Harry passed away it damned near broke that girl’s heart. Miss Harriet’s mother took it bad, too. Couldn’t stay there without him. So it was Miss Harriet who took on the responsibility of running the boat yard. Put all her waking moments, and some sleeping ones too, into turning the place round.’

  ‘Sounds as if Harry’s had a tough time.’ Matthew decided to probe a bit deeper. ‘It can’t have been easy for her to get this far. Family businesses can get into considerable difficulties if they lose their driving force. The big personality, say, who keeps the place together, gives it a foundation. Once that’s gone customers start to get uneasy, they feel insecure and drift away. Small debts accrue and turn into large ones, and before you know it you’ve got creditors coming at you from all directions.’

  George looked pensive. ‘I did what I could, of course,’ he went on. ‘But only one person had the heart to make Watling’s what it is today and that’s Miss Harriet.’ He stepped closer. ‘So if you’re asking me if I worry about what Miss Harriet does or doesn’t like then, yes sir, it’s my great honour to do just that. And if you and me, young fellow, are going to rub along then you better remember that or else don’t show your face round here no more. Right?’

  ‘Right.’ If Harry had a weak spot it wasn’t George; he would clearly defend her to the hilt. And yet the old man’s gaze was troubled as it travelled towards the boat yard. George was a man with too many burdens. Sooner or later, Matthew would lighten them.

  Sometimes, thought Frankie, angrily pushing the Hoover round the spare room after a long, tense afternoon, it was hard to read Trevor. Anyone else would have been marking the biggest opportunity to come their way for years. They’d always closed early on Wednesday, supposedly to make up for being rushed off their feet on Saturday – although in truth they could stay closed half the bloody week for all the difference it made – and they ought to have been celebrating. Instead of the frivolous afternoon he’d been anticipating, it was business as usual with Trevor downstairs moodily starting the dinner – leaving him to do what? More housework?

  What the bloody hell was Trevor doing anyway?

  ‘When’s dinner?’ he bellowed. ‘I’m starving to death up here.’

  No reply. Maybe the silly fool had got the wrong end of the stick and forgotten he was the one who was supposed to be cooking? Frankie unplugged the Hoover and huffed downstairs, ready to give Trevor a piece of his mind.

  Trevor was flopped out on the sofa, distractedly tickling Kirstie’s ears whilst Phil surveyed them jealously from the floor. One spoilt bitch had been quite enough, but since he’d had the chop Phil had taken to sulking nearly as much as Kirstie.

  The sitting room had been designed with muted earthy colours and plain natural materials to create a tranquil space with a sense of inner calm; but the only face Frankie could see that wore anything like a beatific expression was Kirstie’s. Even that was ruined by the smug sideways glances she kept shooting at Phil.

  ‘Trevor?’

  Trevor ran his large hand over the little dog’s back. ‘I just keep wondering what Sophie would think of me?’

  ‘You what?’

  Kirstie went pop-eyed as Trevor’s hand applied extra pressure to the downward stroke of her coat. ‘Frankie, what happens if this restaurant takes off? What happens if the press cover it? Have you thought about that? What are we going to do once there are photographers swarming all over the place or some bloody commissioning editor from Channel 4 wants to do a piece about it?’

  Frankie flopped down next to Trevor and picked up the glass of wine he’d poured himself as an incentive to get through the chores. ‘Come on, Trevor. I mean – as if?’

  ‘You know what it means though, don’t you? That’ll be it, won’t it? She’d never let me see Sophie again.’

  Kirstie slid off Trevor’s lap before her head was crushed, while Frankie tried to curb his resentment. The prospect of fun had turned into the one topic that would send them spinning in endless circles.

  ‘Then seize the bloody initiative, Trev! Get Jane out of the driving seat. Sophie’s not a kid any more – she’s eleven now. It’s about bloody time you told her the full story and stopped conveniently pretending I don’t exist.’ For a moment Frankie was carried away by the thought of how it could be: arranging Sophie’s favourite flowers in the spare room for her when she came to stay; counting out all the spare change he threw in a drawer, so they could feed the slot machines in the arcade; buying bacon and eggs made of seaside rock for them to put on Trevor’s plate at breakfast time. Yeah, it could be good. Imagine bein
g a family man! He looked at Trevor, waiting to see if any of the excitement he was feeling was reflected back at him. As he met Trevor’s eyes, the small tide of happiness surfing up his sunny beach was sucked back and surged forth in a bitter flood of resentment and disappointment.

  ‘You do it your way then, Trev, and when you decide the time’s right you’d just better hope that I’m still around.’

  Back at his rented cottage, a lot later than planned, Matthew began to wonder what had happened to his business sense. Commissioning a couple of florists whose word was the only testimony to their skill, and hiring a lovely, sullen, big-bottomed girl who appeared to have an NVQ in rudeness was not where most managers would start. Although he had to admit that the contempt with which Lola treated her customers seemed to create a fair amount of erotic charge; which was more than could be said for Harry Watling, who was a pain in the arse whichever way you looked at it. She didn’t want money, she despised flattery and she all but refused to give him the time of day. Oh, Ms Watling certainly thought she’d got the upper hand all right.

  The girl in the estate agent’s hadn’t done badly out of him either, although she’d been so taken aback that he could afford the rent on Sea Shanty that she’d left out some essential information. Such as – only people who didn’t have to live there all the time were daft enough to put up with the tiny bedrooms; and the dining room was so small that, once you’d taken your place at the table, you thought twice about getting up to go to the loo.

  Ducking to avoid hitting his head on the low doorway, Matthew wandered from the adjoining bathroom into the so-called master bedroom. From here, he’d discovered, he could see out across the long grass of the meadow behind the cottage to a strip of stone-grey water where the boat masts speared the dove band of sky. Float with the tide back towards the land and you’d come to the old yacht club and, beyond that, the boat yard. Matthew thought about the dark waves licking the slipway at the foot of the converted boathouse where, he now knew, Harry lived. George, he’d discovered, liked to talk, especially once Matthew had adapted his approach to suggest that his interest in Harry was purely altruistic. Like a proud parent, the old boy had been unable to resist boasting about Harry’s achievements, her renovation skills being amongst them. ‘Right shipshape it is an’ all!’ was his judgement of the boathouse.