Turning the Tide

by Christine Stovell

  ‘Aah!’ he breathed, very slowly, suddenly aware that every signal he was receiving seemed to be on red for danger. ‘Ah, Miss Harriet. Fancy seeing you here.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  In the boathouse George frowned, utterly perplexed at the bundle of notes stacked on the coffee table in front of him. To his immense bewilderment, he’d woken up in his shed, then stumbled outside to try and get his thinking up to speed. That was when Miss Harriet had found him wandering round the boat yard and had told him to go to the house. But, instead of being given a lecture or compelled to drink gallons of black coffee, it appeared that he was getting paid for his moment of madness.

  He turned, blinking, towards the light. ‘What’s this then, Miss Harriet?’

  She finally stopped staring at the creek and turned round and looked at him. ‘Payment in lieu of notice and outstanding leave.’

  George was struggling; he was hot, his head was throbbing and he still couldn’t make out why Miss Harriet had called him into the house to talk about money. ‘Leave?’

  ‘Holiday.’

  Miss Harriet’s hands didn’t look too steady either and her nose was red, like she’d been having trouble with a spot of hay fever. ‘But I don’t want a holiday. You know I never go away; I like it here.’

  She crossed her arms and avoided his gaze. ‘Let me put it another way then, George. You’re sacked.’

  This time her words even managed to penetrate the mire of self-pity and regret George was wallowing in. ‘What?’ he asked, in a very quiet voice.

  ‘What choice do I have, George?’ Meeting his eyes at last, she placed herself on the sofa opposite and looked at him with real desperation. George shivered inside; he couldn’t bear to think how many different people had looked at him that way over the years. It was never a good sign.

  ‘You promised me, remember? Just like the time before and the time before that. I really thought you’d beaten it, George, but old habits die hard, don’t they?’

  What defence could he possibly give?

  ‘Oh, George, I just don’t understand why you gave in after all this time. You must have known that even one drink, just to be polite, would be catastrophic?’ She buried her face in her hands for a moment, before coming up to wish that Matthew Corrigan had never set foot in Little Spitmarsh.

  ‘It weren’t Matthew’s fault,’ George started to protest. ‘It were ...’

  The explanation died on his tongue. Nothing he could say would make her think any better of him or Matthew; and she certainly wouldn’t believe that the previous night had been a solitary slip-up, once the pressure of his ungrounded fears had been lifted.

  ‘The last thing I need is a drunk wandering round the yard. It’s not only bad for business, it’s bad for you,’ she explained. ‘I simply haven’t got time to make sure you don’t slip off a pontoon when you’re the worse for wear.’

  Funny how he wanted to comfort her; she was finding it harder and harder to control the tears.

  ‘It’s over, George,’ she said, flopping back on the sofa, looking distraught and drained. ‘No more chances.’

  George’s hand was shaking as he picked up the biscuit tin he’d brought up with him as a peace offering; and if she saw it and thought it was the drink – well, he no longer cared. And if she thought it was the drink making his eyes red and watery, he didn’t care about that either. Better that than letting her see what he really felt.

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Harriet,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s been an honour working for you.’

  ‘George, wait.’

  He turned to her hopefully.

  ‘The caravan’s yours; you know that, don’t you? Nothing else has changed, it’s just that I can’t take the risk of you coming to harm. And if you’re short of money, for God’s sake come and see me.’

  George waited a minute until he could speak. ‘Miss Harriet,’ he said gently, ‘it was never about the money. Take care of yerself now.’

  Only weeks ago, the house had felt like a hermitage with him and Trevor going about their business like two monks in a cell. Well, maybe not like two monks, thought Frankie, but it had been rather staid and quiet. Now it felt as if someone had thrown open the doors and let in the light. The weatherman might have promised storms ahead, but for now the room was flooded with sunshine and it promised to be the most fantastic day. So much had happened since Harry Watling had turned up in the shop predicting the downfall of Little Spitmarsh – all because a stranger had had the effrontery to arrive with a new vision of what the town could be. Frankie shook his head; Harry couldn’t have been more wrong about Matthew Corrigan.

  The measure of how different life felt was that, instead of wanting to slope off somewhere quiet to top up his tan, he had rediscovered domestic bliss. Here was Sophie in one of Trevor’s tee shirts, eating the sickliest, most sugar-coated and unnatural looking cereal she could find, whilst nodding her head to some bling-bedecked artiste on MTV and feeding selected morsels to Phil. And Trevor, on the floor with a J-cloth, was clearing up puppy poo whilst Kirstie snatched a few minutes away from her brood to give herself a thorough grooming. Remembering the croissants just in time, Frankie grabbed the oven gloves and a serving plate.

  ‘Plain for me, please,’ said Trevor, from the floor.

  ‘Has something put you off the chocolate ones, Trev?’ Frankie said, winking at Sophie, who was giggling so much that she was having trouble containing her mouthful of cereal.

  ‘Oof!’ said Trevor, cracking his head as he came up underneath the table. ‘Still fancy a puppy, young lady?’ he waved his Marigolds at Sophie, who wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Yes, I do!’

  Trevor smiled. ‘We’ll have to speak to Mummy first to see what she thinks. You can always keep him here, though, if Mummy doesn’t want him to stay with her.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sophie nodded. ‘But I will have to come and stay with you lots. And I can text you to see how he is in between.’

  Frankie, silenced by a mouthful of jam, butter and croissant, could only marvel. It was amazing what kids knew these days. There was a lot of talk about children reclaiming their childhood by skipping or playing marbles, but the fact that Sophie had been able to negotiate her way up to them from North London seemed to be largely due to her impressive computer skills. Sod the marbles!

  Trevor put his arm round Sophie and kissed the top of her head. ‘Eat up, then we’ll find you something to wear and you can choose some flowers to take back to Mummy.’

  Frankie pressed his lips together before he was tempted to make a suggestion.

  Thunder boomed along the creek. After the heat of the day, with pressure building up unbearably, the rain was a relief. Lightning bolted across the black sky and flashed across the room. Matthew switched off the lights to watch the show. His gran would have been ordering him to cover all the mirrors by now, he thought, sitting himself at the bar. Tough old bird she’d been, entrenched in her council flat until the very last, with her budgie and her rogues’ gallery of orthodontically-challenged grandchildren. The photo of him and his brother, Si, made them look as if they’d just been nominated for an ASBO. His mum still complained about the school not combing their hair first. Matthew ran his fingers over the polished granite surface; he’d come a long way since then.

  The thunder sounded again, practically overhead. Behind him the door opened and someone walked in. Matthew looked into the mirrored wall lining the back of the bar as the figure dropped the hood of the yellow oilskin. It wasn’t the sexiest sight he’d ever seen, yet he felt a warm frisson of pleasure at seeing her.

  ‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.’

  Harry, her small face splashed with raindrops and her fringe plastered to her forehead, did not return his smile. Wintry-grey eyes accused him beneath the wet black lashes. Matthew turned round to face her.

  ‘I hope you’re proud of yourself,’ she spat, looking at him balefully.

  Must have been
a shiver of dread rather than delight. Just as well, there had been a nasty moment that day over coffee in her house, when he had looked into her unguarded face turned up at him and thought the unthinkable. He guessed why she had come, but was far too weary to deal with a Harry Watling tantrum now. ‘What’s the big deal, Harry? Surely you’re not getting your knickers in a twist about George playing the piano, are you? Poor old boy deserves some time out with all the running around he does for you, doesn’t he?’

  Harry shook her head. ‘You don’t have the slightest idea of what you’ve done, do you? George is an alcoholic. Hasn’t touched a drop for three years but, thanks to you, he’s not only fallen off the wagon, he’s set fire to it and is doing a war dance round it too.’

  Matthew looked up at the ceiling and blew out slowly. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I see.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that very much,’ said Harry, sourly. ‘What on earth did I do to you that you had to interfere with every aspect of my life? You took over the old clubhouse, you’re turning the town into a place I don’t recognise, and now you’re just counting down the days until you can stop me trading.’

  He kept silent.

  ‘But even that’s not enough for you, is it? You couldn’t bear to think that I had one loyal member of staff, someone who’s chosen to be there for me. Oh no, you thought he was under my thumb and to prove it you took him out and did the worst thing you could possibly do – you bought him a drink.’

  It was more than a Harry tantrum and it was beginning to hurt, because he had gloated slightly at the thought that he and the old boy were getting one over on her. Why hadn’t he put two and two together? Why had he never seen George touch alcohol?

  But Harry hadn’t finished. ‘Well, I hope you’re proud because here’s what you’ve done; you see, I can’t have an alcoholic wandering round the place. It’s not safe for him, it’s not safe for anyone else, and, hey, although you’ve probably worked this out for yourself, it’s not all that great for business. So, well done, Matthew. Thanks to you, I’ve had to let George go.’

  ‘What?’ Matthew fought to control the anger that coursed through his body.

  ‘You heard,’ she said, with contempt. ‘I can’t let George work for me any more – unless, of course, you’d rather I fished his dead body out from under a pontoon one day?’

  She was right, of course, but that didn’t mean he liked her very much for spelling the danger out to him. But if he didn’t feel much warmth towards Harry, he positively loathed himself. George hadn’t even wanted a drink; he, good old Matthew, had forced one on him. That must have been the start of some bender; once he’d got a taste of gin, the old boy clearly hadn’t been able to stop.

  The doors closed behind Harry, and there was only a puddle of rainwater on the polished floor and his own deep sense of shame and self-recrimination to show she’d even been there. Matthew groaned. He’d promised to attend some awards ceremony with Gina in London the next day and wouldn’t even be able to catch up with the old boy. Poor old sod must be feeling pretty low. But he was a tough old bird. Yep, thought Matthew, crossing the empty room. Torpedoed twice by Jerry and blown up countless times by Harry, George would come through this crisis, too.

  As the last of the lightning flickered across the creek, Harry sat in the dark and turned the glass slowly in her hand, hoping that, by placing her fingers where her father had once touched the cut patterns of its surface, she could bring him back to her in some small way. Within the glass a hefty measure of malt whisky revolved and gleamed in the fading light. But not even the familiar notes of sea spray, peat smoke and tar that rose into the air brought back anything but memories of the man who had once savoured them.

  Closing her eyes, Harry took a sip and drew some comfort from the fire which burned her throat and warmed her body. She ached with loss. If she had acted harshly, it was for George’s own good. Her father, even though he and George went back such a long way, would have done the same. She was almost sure of it. This time she really thought George had beaten the bottle; she really had believed him when he promised he wouldn’t touch a drop ever again. It was easy to blame Matthew, but maybe a relapse was inevitable? And George had been acting pretty strangely, with minor accidents and careless incidents seeming to follow him all round the yard.

  She was desperately sorry she’d had to sack him, but he was a danger to himself and everyone else. And then there was the business. You had to stop the rot, she knew that for certain. She hadn’t been able to save her father, but she would do everything in her power, whatever it took, to make sure he lived on in the business he had founded. Even if that meant not having George at her side.

  Chapter Twenty

  Matthew walked up to the caravan and immediately felt a little less ashamed of himself and a lot more critical of Harry. He’d assumed, when George waved airily in the direction of his house, that he’d meant a modern mobile home. Screened as it was by trees and shrubs, with only a glimpse of the cream roof to show it was there, Matthew was rather shocked to discover that the place was little more than a tin shack squatting beside the creek. If Harry cared that much about the old man, what on earth was he doing living here? The poor old sod wasn’t getting any younger; you’d have thought the very least he deserved was a comfortable home.

  There was no response to his knock, and Matthew was about to walk away when a weak voice called, ‘Just let yerself in, dammit. It’s open.’

  His disappointment in Harry increased as he stepped inside. The place was immaculate − especially the galley, with its yellow Formica cupboards scrubbed and original sink gleaming − but, Christ, it was bleak and bare. A sliding plastic door separated the galley from a second meagre living area. Here George was stretched out on a narrow berth, which to Matthew’s eyes afforded little space even to turn over comfortably.

  ‘Ah, it’s you, Matthew,’ George said, struggling to push back a heavy grey wool blanket and very white, but darned, cotton sheets. ‘I thought it might be Miss Harriet.’ The strain of sitting up provoked a spasm of coughing in the old man. Matthew looked around for a glass for water, but George waved for him not to bother.

  ‘Sit down,’ he wheezed, pointing to a wooden-framed armchair, the only comfortable place that Matthew had seen so far. ‘It’ll clear when I’ve had a roll-up. Thing is,’ he said, pushing back fine, yellow-tinged hair which waved like a faded seed head, ‘I don’t much feel like a smoke at the moment. Mind you, I don’t much feel like a drink either.’ He gave Matthew a rueful smile. ‘That’s not why I’m still lying here though. I just don’t seem to have had the energy to rouse meself. Tell you what. A good strong cup of coffee might do the trick. Would you mind?’

  Matthew got to his feet, feeling so churned up that he was unable to speak. How could Harry just turn her back on George?

  ‘There is a spare cup,’ George said proudly, ‘though if you want milk you’ll ’ave to ’ave it powdered. Oh, and help yerself to biscuits.’

  Poor old bugger, he really had struggled to get that last sentence out. Matthew made coffee and, since George was still looking peaky, helped him to sit up. Through his striped pyjamas the old man’s shoulders were still strong and muscular, but his hand shook as he tried to drink his coffee and there were twin spots of vivid colour on his cheeks. Another fit of coughing made him wince.

  ‘How long have you been lying here, George?’

  ‘Couple of days mebbe, since … since you know when. Oh, I’ve got up to do the necessary, you know, clean meself, take a leak.’

  Matthew felt wretched. If only he hadn’t been so keen to win the old man over with a couple of drinks, this would never have happened.

  ‘I’m sorry, George. This is all my fault.’

  George lifted his hand in a feeble protest. ‘No, Matthew,’ he gasped, fighting for breath. ‘It were −’

  Matthew took the old man’s hand, with its translucent, papery skin and icy purple veins, and gently laid it down.

  ‘Don’t blame yourself
, George. We’re going to sort this out. Once I’ve had a talk to Ms Watling, you’ll soon be back at the yard.’

  A look of despair crossed George’s tired face. ‘No, Matthew, Miss Harriet did the right thing.’

  ‘Come on. Anyone can make a mistake.’

  ‘True, but I’ve caused Miss Harriet real harm.’

  The colour in George’s cheeks seem to grow more florid, in contrast to the rest of his face which was grey. To Matthew’s distress, there were tears in the old man’s eyes as he turned to him. ‘I was only trying to help, Matthew, I really was. What with trying to make her see that she needed new customers and ’elping some of the old ones on their way … I never thought old Johnny would react like that. What with that and all the worries with that boy sniffin’ round.’

  Matthew frowned. ‘What boy, George?’

  ‘That chef feller. The one I’ve been trying to tell you about.’ Another fit of coughing racked the old man’s body, causing him obvious pain.

  Matthew touched his arm. ‘Don’t worry about it now, George. I’m sure you haven’t done anything wrong, so stop tormenting yourself. There are more important things to concentrate on right now, like getting yourself better. Now I’m going to make you as comfortable as I can and then I’m going to fetch a doctor. Right?’

  George nodded feebly. ‘Right, Matthew.’

  Harry’s back was killing her. Her shoulders were a Gordian knot of tension and her hands, which were burning with all the extra pulling on ropes she’d been doing, were shaking as she poured petrol into the outboard. She’d give George a couple of days to think about what he’d done, then she’d go over to the caravan and see if he felt like giving her a hand. There was an engine that needed to be dumped in oil quickly, before the salt water that had got to it caused any more damage. Hang on − Harry rubbed greasy hands through her hair − that wasn’t possible, was it? George had been given many chances over the years and blown every one. This time, he’d reached the point of no return.