Turning the Tide

by Christine Stovell

  Matthew considered it further. Enviable location, double front doors, sliding glass panels leading to a sun deck off the first floor, probably the main bedroom, with unparalleled views across the water. Nice house. Although George had remained guarded about the exact state of the yard, there’d been plenty of nautical metaphors and hints about bad weather. It all suggested that if Harry didn’t look around to see what was happening she was certainly going to catch a storm. Matthew didn’t think it would be very long before he wandered over to the boat yard to have another concerned chat with George. Very nice house, he thought, feeling more cheerful. He might even buy it himself when, inevitably, Harry was forced to sell.

  It would have been good to ring Gina to tell her that the development was working out, despite her predictions. She was a hard habit to break; the relationship had reached a stage where it wasn’t doing either of them any favours. There had been rows, silences, infidelities and intense, claustrophobic reunions – all of which only seemed to fuel their mutual addiction.

  In the fading light he felt for his phone again and scrolled through until he came to the photo Gina had sent him; there she was at another nightclub, dark eyes smouldering directly at the camera, dark hair swinging against her cheeks. In one hand was a bottle of Bud; the other rested possessively on the shoulder of the DJ who, even on a screen this size, had a style and presence that shone out through the pixels.

  Wdnt u like 2 no who this is?

  No, thought Matthew, pressing delete. Not really, Gina.

  Chapter Five

  Harry rubbed her eyes. The figures on her screen didn’t look good, but they’d be a lot better if she could only get her clients to pay their bills on time. Was this the shape of her future? Forever hunched over a spreadsheet trying to make the sums add up? Closing the program down, she squashed the faint stirrings of fear uncoiling inside her. What if she couldn’t stop the steady trickle of cash leaking out of the system? What if people got to know about her financial problems? What if they started to whisper that maybe Harry Watling didn’t have what it took to take over from her father? What if she had no choice but to sell off land to pay her debts?

  Leaning back to stretch her stiff neck, Harry stared at the ceiling; but her mind stayed as blank as the smooth white surface. Everyone had cash flow problems from time to time; her dad had certainly had his fair share. Getting up, she walked across the room to slide back the glass doors, stepped out onto her terrace and breathed in the fresh night air, seeking reassurance from her realm. Yet across the water, silhouetted against a clear, deep-blue sky, the old clubhouse was changing daily; from its worn, sloughed-off skin, the glistening carapace of something beautiful and sinister was emerging.

  And now something with an equally tough shell – but a lot less beautiful – had also crept out from his shed, where he’d been sulking, to poke about in the last of the light. Harry watched George beetling along the pontoons, tugging on mooring lines, which she would undoubtedly have to double-check later, and realigning perfectly well-placed fenders. He walked away from one boat and Harry counted up to six before a rope mysteriously untied itself and a fender plopped into the water. Sometimes she thought she only kept him on because it was what her father would have wanted. Harry sighed and got up to find a jacket. Flaming June it certainly wasn’t, especially at this time of the evening.

  George found her fishing in the water with a boat hook. ‘Blow me. That was safe as houses just now – had it tidied up proper.’ He stepped back as a wet fender landed at his feet. ‘Still, at least you found it. Wouldn’t do to have to replace it.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there,’ said Harry, drying her hands on the legs of her dungarees as she stood up. ‘Mind you, if a few people don’t start settling up soon I might have to put some of their kit in safe keeping until they do.’

  George cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Trouble?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘You know what it’s like sometimes.’ She didn’t even sound convincing to herself, let alone George. ‘Gets a bit tight when none of them can find their wallets.’

  George shuffled on the pontoon, which let out a groan. Harry bent down and let out a curse. ‘Someone saw me coming when I bought that last batch of timber. Look at this,’ she said, pointing to a split in the wood. ‘If I fix this tomorrow, will you have a look around and see if any of the other planks have gone? The last thing we need now is someone breaking their ankle and suing me.’

  ‘Pah!’ said George, frightening a few roosting birds. ‘No one round here would do that. They can’t afford the solicitor’s fees in the first place.’

  Harry frowned up at him. ‘They can’t, George, but if Matthew Corrigan gets his way there’ll be a few up here who can. All it will take is for some spoilt wife to trip up and break a fingernail whilst getting her five-minute fix of the real Little Spitmarsh, and we’ll be out of business.’

  George hurrumphed to himself. ‘You’re not getting this out of proportion are you, Miss Harriet? Anyone would think the Prince of Darkness ’ad fetched up at yer doorstep. Matthew Corrigan’s only flesh and blood, you know.’

  Harry tried not to let herself get distracted by the thought of Matthew’s flesh. She turned to the old man who had been part of her life for so long, and smiled. ‘You’re probably right, George. I guess I’m just feeling the strain. It’s one thing to hear there’s going to be a trendy eating place on your doorstep and another to watch it happen.’

  ‘Ain’t there yet, Miss Harriet,’ said George kindly. ‘We can all dream big. Doesn’t mean to say that it’s going to come true. There’s a lot of money being spent tarting that old place up, but they’ve still got to fill it when it’s done, eh?’

  Harry nodded and remembered all the times when George had been there for her, handling all problems with equanimity; from scraped knees when she was a little girl, to letting her sob unashamedly when she missed her dad. Except for the odd awkward pat on the back, there was nothing demonstrative about their relationship; no hugs or kisses, no sense in any way that George had ever tried to fill her father’s shoes. Just his simple constant presence, the one continuous thread in her life.

  ‘George,’ she said, clearing her throat, ‘when you’re checking the pontoons tomorrow, if you come across any of the owners will you have a quiet word and see if you can get some of them to pay up?’

  She heard him sigh. ‘Can do, Miss Harriet. Can do. But we’ve got to start thinking about the future. A few bob here and there isn’t going to make all that much difference, is it? We need to get in owners who can pay. And we need to put the prices up too; they’ve been dirt cheap for too long. The thing is,’ he continued, ‘if you carry on like this, you won’t need to worry about someone else putting you out of business. At this rate you’ll do it for yourself.’

  Hmm, thought Harry. That was the other thing she remembered about George; years of him always thinking he knew best. Most of the time it took the form of one of his own peculiar pearls of wisdom: ‘Any fool can walk into trouble, Miss Harriet. Takes a wise man to know when to steer clear’; or ‘Better a sea cow you know than one you don’t’ – whatever that meant. Occasionally it took the form of a short sharp dressing-down – like the time he’d caught wind of a brief fling she’d had with one of the few eligible yachtsmen to fetch up at Watling’s: ‘Ain’t proper, Miss Harriet. That’s all I’m saying.’ This, delivered with a face like thunder, had certainly made her toes curl. But once in a blue moon, and especially in the old days when he used to drink, George could really get up on his hind legs and feel he had the right to lecture her.

  ‘It’s just a temporary problem, George,’ she told him, hoping that the exasperation in her voice would shut him up.

  ‘So why ’ave you got me crawling round perfectly good pontoons in case someone sues?’ he retorted, coming back for more.

  ‘Health and safety, apart from anything else.’ She folded her arms, although he probably couldn’t see in the dark. ‘And, as I said, I think that last
batch of timber may have been faulty.’

  ‘Nature is responsible for lengthwise cracks and Man is to blame for transverse and like much of Man’s mistakes they’ll be harmful in the end. Them cracks is lengthwise, Miss Harriet, so nothing to fret about.’

  That was another thing about George; he could be very smug. ‘Remind me of that, George, when you fall through one. In the meantime I’d be very grateful if you could just do what I ask.’

  ‘What I’m told, you mean,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s all right, Miss Harriet, I know my place. Well, I best get some kip. Looks as if I’ll be crawling around on my hands and knees tomorrow. Ain’t easy at my age, but if those are my orders I know better than to question them.’

  ‘Yes, and if you squeeze any money out of anyone I’ll even be able to pay you!’

  George pulled up the collar of his ancient woollen coat, the one that was so redolent with the smell of him that Harry felt he was still in the room on the rare occasions he took it off. ‘Pay as well, Miss Harriet?’ he sniffed. ‘There was me thinking that I was working my fingers to the bone for the honour of serving the Watling family.’

  Harry watched him wander off and suddenly felt very lonely. Perhaps she did expect too much of him? Despite his occasional grumbles, George was in extraordinarily good health for someone who’d been torpedoed in the war, had drunk like a fish for many years afterwards and still believed that smoking cleared his lungs. Perhaps it was time he had an easier life?

  She felt really guilty about him by the time she returned to her boathouse. Her bedroom was usually a safe haven where she didn’t have to keep up the tough, capable face she wore at work. The cream-painted wrought-iron Victorian bedstead had refused to be ignored when she’d spotted it in one of Little Spitmarsh’s junk shops; she’d sneaked it home before anyone could laugh and wonder what Harry Watling was doing with something so unashamedly romantic and feminine. Now, with its goose-down quilt and the best bed linen she could afford, it was the place where she could dream or cry and not have to pretend to be the toughest girl in the class.

  The trouble was that her safe haven didn’t feel quite as secure as it used to. Plenty of hard physical work and an unwavering confidence in her own abilities had once meant that nothing woke her up, except her own sixth sense tuning into a change for the worse in the weather or a potential problem in the yard. But, increasingly, doubts and anxieties were crowding in on her. Tonight she was worried that George’s years of self-destruction would suddenly catch up with him. He was all she had and, if anything happened to him, it would be her fault for not making enough money for him to retire in comfort. Not that his caravan was her idea of comfort; but God knows how many times she’d offered him better accommodation and he’d turned it down with a protest of ‘All I need is a dry bed and a tight deckhead, Miss Harriet.’ Stubborn old bugger.

  Eventually Harry gave up trying to sleep and reached for the photo she kept on the pale-blue painted cabinet beside her. With his shaggy, sun-bleached surfer hair, blue eyes crinkling in the light, her dad seemed forever young. A big man, there were many ways in which Harry Watling senior had acted up to his larger-than-life image. Yet there was a quieter side to his personality. He read widely, and especially loved travel stories and poetry; and he was fascinated by Far Eastern culture, from his days skippering charter trips in the Indian Ocean. It would have surprised anyone only familiar with the man who, perhaps with precognition, lived each day as if it were his last.

  A fleeting sensation came to her mind, of being swept off her feet and onto her father’s shoulders. The giddy excitement of being held high, the sound of her mother’s protests fading away, wind in her face and fear making her breathless as her father picked up speed. That reckless enthusiasm for life might have clouded his judgement about priorities at times; and certainly the size of his debts had been unexpected and worrying. But Harry was quite sure that everything would have been repaid if only he hadn’t died so tragically young. Leaving his wife and child with such a financial burden had surely been unintentional. In her memory her father had never worried much about tomorrow. Harry hadn’t inherited his confidence, but she had inherited his boat yard and, unless she found new customers to keep it afloat, she would lose the little she had left of him.

  Unlike his shed, which was his daytime retreat and filled with the detritus of his everyday life, George’s caravan huddled by the waterside and was shipshape to the point of austerity. He’d had plenty of time to discover what was really important and it wasn’t possessions. Leaving his coat and boots by the door, George poured himself a glass of water and crossed the dimly lit room to prepare for bed. His body ached, but his head was full of the past.

  George rubbed his hand across his face as if to wipe away the memories. He buttoned his pyjama jacket and tried to concentrate on what mattered. He loved Miss Harriet, just as he’d loved the man who’d brought her into the world, however flawed he’d been. He’d already done more than she would ever know to protect the girl, but these days he was beginning to feel his age. He couldn’t just stand there and watch her let everything she had worked so hard for slide away from her; but he was too worn out to take her on. If only she could see that Matthew Corrigan might – and even George felt it was a long shot – just provide the lifeblood that would reinvigorate the boat yard again.

  George turned out his light and rested his head. Tomorrow he’d check the pontoons and maybe he’d have a word if he saw any of the owners. Although in his opinion the ones who were left, the ones who hadn’t buggered off to the marina, were not worth having anyway. His last thought, before he nodded off, was that in some ways it wouldn’t do any harm if they all slung their hooks; then Miss Harriet would have no option but to cast her net wider, would she?

  For someone who still behaved like an adolescent boy, thought Trevor, staring up at the ceiling of their bedroom, Frankie wasn’t completely selfish; he seemed to have been persuaded that they were better off out of the limelight, whatever happened at the restaurant.

  Frankie was naïve to expect that Trevor’s relationship with his daughter would continue if Sophie was allowed to know the truth about them. His ex-wife might have remarried, but she was as poisonous now as the day she had evicted him from the marital home, jealously guarding Sophie, malignant as a virus, always threatening to infect his fragile relationship with his daughter. If Frankie thought a contact order could protect them, he’d underestimated Jane’s ability to thwart the law. Trevor had regularly turned up at her house to find that Sophie was mysteriously ill or had a pressing appointment within the hour. The only answer, as far as preserving his relationship with his daughter was concerned, was to keep apart the two people he loved most, however much it disappointed Frankie.

  Sensing a gap in the door just wide enough for her to work on, Kirstie came bustling in, sniffing the air suspiciously. Miffed that she had been excluded from the fun, she jumped up on the bed and curled into Trevor. She knew he was a softer touch than Frankie who, for once, seemed disinclined to shout at her. Trevor ran an idle hand over her, setting her quivering as he tickled her tummy. Suddenly his fingers encountered a swelling and he sat up to inspect his discovery.

  ‘Oh look, Frankie, what’s that?’

  Frankie took a quick squint. ‘It’s a nipple, you fool.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he said, pinning a protesting Kirstie down. ‘But why does it look like that?’

  Frankie dumped the towel he was bearing on the floor. ‘Like what?’

  Trevor pointed. ‘Isn’t it a bit, you know, pinker than usual?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ Frankie scowled and threw himself down beside Trevor.

  ‘Well, perhaps you should find out.’ Trevor dropped Kirstie on Frankie’s lap. ‘Perhaps you should take her to the vet’s.’

  ‘Absolutely not, Trevor,’ said Frankie, handing her back. ‘You’re the one who wants to know.’

  Since the frolics were clearly over, Kirstie dropped to the floor and start
ed worrying Trevor’s pants.

  ‘All I can say is, thank goodness we haven’t got kids,’ said Trevor, shooing her off. ‘I can see who’d always be the one getting up in the night.’ As he headed for the shower he caught sight of Frankie’s stricken face in the mirror. A bit of him wondered if Frankie just made noises about being a surrogate stepdad to Sophie because he knew it would never happen; but perhaps even Frankie yearned for someone else to take care of? Trevor groaned. After Frankie had respected his need to be discreet about the restaurant, he’d rubbed him up the wrong way over a dog.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, returning to the bed and putting his arm round Frankie’s shoulder. ‘That was unfair of me. Tell you what, I’ll ring the vet’s to make amends.’

  Frankie smiled. ‘Well, that would be a start.’

  Kirstie glanced up but couldn’t raise the energy to make a further nuisance of herself. Perhaps a Doggy Choc had disagreed with her, because she really was beginning to feel quite unwell.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Harr-ee!’

  Seeing Trevor waving frantically from the other side of the road, Harry resisted her first impulse, which was to pretend she hadn’t seen him. Since he was wearing a pink floral shirt opened halfway down his hairy chest, she had to admit that this would be a difficult claim to pull off. Reluctantly, she waited whilst he crossed over, wondering if she would be able to hide her disappointment from him. She hadn’t quite forgiven Frankie for making a business proposition to Matthew right under her nose – and straight after she’d expressed her own disapproval of the man.