No one was being made a monkey of today; but a surprising number of decidedly sixties hairdos were being welded into place, in honour of the film festival’s next screening. Looking round the salon now, it seemed that everyone was getting in the mood for a lot of audience participation at the Palace on the Pier tonight. What a sentimental bunch they were, Lola thought, shaking her head. Dirty Dancing indeed; she only hoped that both the pier and Roy’s back were prepared for the moment when Carmen started shaking her booty.
Suddenly a blast of cold air was blown down her neck.
‘Hey, slacker!’ said Carmen, brandishing a hairdryer. ‘Get back to work or I give you a poodle perm!’
Lola looked at her mother and smiled. Yes, she was certainly pleased that Matthew had come along. The outcome wasn’t exactly what she’d anticipated − it was better. First Crimps, then college, then a second salon and then even a chain. With the Moult family using their knowledge and experience as a team, who knew what lay ahead for them?
‘Ooh, we’re well out of it tonight, Trev,’ said Frankie, adding some lime-green foliage as a last-minute touch to the huge arrangements of blood-red roses and orange Asiatic lilies that stood either side of the stage. ‘I don’t feel safe with some of those women out there.’
‘Oh, I think they’ll leave us alone,’ Trevor replied confidently, stepping back to run a critical eye over the flowers.
‘Look! A stripper!’ came the cry from one of the over-excited audience. ‘Get your kit off!’
Scuttling back into the wings to yells of ‘Off! Off! Off!’, Frankie and Trevor ran into a nervous-looking George.
‘What did you do to them?’ Frankie asked, casting an eye over his shoulder to make sure everyone was still seated.
‘I was s’posed to get everyone in the mood with a few songs,’ George explained, mopping his brow with a hankerchief. ‘But halfway through “She’s Like the Wind” these ’it me in the face.’ He pulled a pink thong complete with tiny diamanté heart out of his top pocket. ‘An’ I decided to cut me set short.’
‘Very wise,’ Frankie agreed. ‘Matthew will be lucky to escape. They’ll want to eat him alive. And you can take that look off your face right now, Trevor.’
‘’Ark at that lot!’ George said, nodding towards the auditorium.
Frankie decided to risk another peep. The Palace on the Pier was proving to be wildly successful as a venue for Dirty Dancing, though it had to be said that guys were thin on the ground. Roy Moult could probably look after himself, but Carmen would frighten off anyone who might, God forbid, be tempted to take liberties with him.
‘It’s the ultimate chick flick, isn’t it?’ said Trevor.
‘Or hen porn,’ Frankie observed, ducking back behind cover. ‘There aren’t too many spring chickens out there. Oh God, here comes Matthew. Get ready to wade in if they decide to pounce.’
A great roar went up as Matthew, pressed into the role of compère whilst Jimi was on food duties, introduced the film accompanied by wolf whistles and foot stomping.
‘I suppose when you think about it, it is the perfect film,’ Frankie whispered. ‘I mean it’s about being young and waiting for romance to happen, being on holiday, when you might fall for someone you’d never normally meet; the kind of situation everyone can reminisce about and identify with.’
Just under two hours later there was pandemonium. Tables were pushed back and the women of Little Spitmarsh and beyond rushed to the floor to relive the youth they wished they’d had.
‘I ’ad a girl in every port when I was at sea,’ George confided. ‘Best place for ’em, on the other side of the ocean. This lot are a bit too close for comfort.’
As George retreated to the piano, Trevor was torn from Frankie’s side by Sandra from Rose & Son.
‘I do love a man with a hairy chest!’ Frankie heard her exclaim, whilst Trevor hastily buttoned up his shirt. But the laughter died in Frankie’s throat at the sight of the boot-faced waitress from the Paradise Café bearing down on him. Finding Lola Moult on his other side, Frankie grabbed her hand and rushed towards the nearest space, but not before he caught sight of Matthew’s raised eyebrows and amused glance.
‘I’m sorry, I can only dance the man’s steps,’ said Lola, as they launched into a jive. ‘We didn’t have enough boys in my class.’
‘That’s all right,’ Frankie assured her, ‘I’m quite happy being a girl.’
As beehives collapsed in the heat and false eyelashes rained to the floor like dead earwigs, Matthew sidled out of a fire exit to cool off. The film festival had been even more successful than he’d hoped. They would have to pull out all the stops for the finale at Samphire if it wasn’t to prove an anticlimax after the fun everyone had had tonight. Matthew looked around with satisfaction; there was a lot of charm about the little town and, with the neon lights blazing behind him, it was even possible to pretend the sea slapping up against the pier wasn’t dirty grey. No wonder Harry had been so protective of the place.
A hint of breeze lifted his curls as Matthew leaned against the rails and tried to see the stars. Harry, it seemed, would do anything to prevent change, but wouldn’t lift a finger to help George. Somewhere along the line she’d got her wires very crossed. If only she’d unbent a little, what would she have made of this evening, all the laughter, the fun, people enjoying themselves, George dashing through his set for fear of being lynched? What would he have done if she’d made up with George and turned up tonight? For a second, Matthew contemplated a parallel universe where he’d walk across the dance floor, pull Harry to her feet and make her smile.
He shook his head; he still couldn’t see the stars, there was too much light pollution where he was standing. As for seeing Harry smile? That was never going to happen; she was about to get what she deserved, so why did it make him feel so bad?
Matthew shuffled further along the rail. It was hard to believe there were so many people close by. The noise from the Palace was muted and lost in the sound of the sea and, through the gaps between the wooden boards, he could see the black water sucking eerily at the pier.
‘Are you lonesome tonight?’
The lyric sounded faintly from the shadows, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He’d heard the rumours, but couldn’t think why the ghost of Elvis would want to visit Little Spitmarsh. Unless, like all the best ghosts, it had come to rebuke him for the harm he was about to cause Harry. Surely there were more pressing cases for Elvis to deal with?
A headlight lit the gloomy walls of the Palace and Matthew jumped as a familiar silhouette detached itself from the building, black hair swept up into a quiff, white shirt glowing in the artificial light and a medallion gleaming on his silvery skin.
‘Aw right, mate?’
‘Roy!’ Matthew gibbered.
‘Just come out for a smoke, mate,’ said Roy, swivelling his hips. ‘I think the missus has done me back in.’
Declining Roy’s offer of a cigarette, as he always did, Matthew decided that the long hours had got to him. It occurred to him that, whilst he’d been worrying about Harry Watling, he hadn’t given Gina a second thought. ‘Houston,’ he muttered guiltily under his breath, ‘we have a problem.’
‘I’ve had the time of my life,’ said Frankie, turning up his collar and twirling on his toes, as he passed Trevor throwing Sandra from Rose & Son through his legs.
‘What a great evening!’ said Trevor, who looked thrilled to show off his dancing skills. ‘You wouldn’t think Little Spitmarsh could rise to the occasion.’
Sandra came up for air and Trevor spun her across the room. Frankie, having coped magnificently with Lola Moult, was finding Carmen more of a challenge. ‘When’s Sophie coming up next? Have you managed to sort anything out with Jane?’ he yelled, grasping Carmen firmly by the waist so he could keep the twins firmly at bay.
‘The week before she’s due back to school,’ said Trevor, preparing himself to throw Sandra in the air. ‘I’m glad she likes the revampe
d website.’
Frankie noted Roy Moult returning to the fray. ‘It looks fab, doesn’t it? Blacknarcissusscent.com: beautiful, sophisticated and extortionately expensive designs.’
‘Frankie! You didn’t say that, did you?’ said a shocked Trevor, reaching out only just in time to catch Sandra.
‘Don’t be a fool, Trev. Besides, anyone who can afford to order these won’t think about the money. We’re not an online supermarket, Trev, we’re offering exclusivity. All yours,’ he said, spinning Carmen back to Roy. ‘Hey, Trev. I am having the time of my life! It’s been a great summer, hasn’t it?’
He almost added that it was shame Harry wasn’t there to enjoy the evening, but didn’t want to spoil Trevor’s mood. Sacking George had felt like a step too far – but who was brave enough to tell Harry? No, she’d have to work it out for herself.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Matthew had been looking right troubled. Fish and guests, they both stank after three days so there had to be quite a pong after his prolonged stay. George had made up his mind to address both issues. Despite the heatwave he had rustled up some nice lamb chops, which he served with mashed potatoes and some slightly overcooked cabbage liberally doused in rich gravy. That would make up for all that there salad and seafood nonsense Matthew was so fond of.
‘There we are, Matthew, get that down you.’ He opened the bottle of good red wine he’d bought in the off-licence and poured a glass for Matthew and some water for himself.
Matthew frowned at the label. ‘Some kind of occasion, George?’
George shook his head. ‘Bit of a thank you. For putting me up. Couple more over there,’ he said, waving his knife. He cleared his throat. ‘The fact is, Matthew, it’s time I moved back. I’m getting a bit soft here; I’m not used to all this luxury and modern whatnots.’ He was a nice feller, Matthew, thought George – polite enough to look quite shocked as he absorbed what he’d been told.
‘George, you’re not going back to that place, surely? You’ve only just recovered from a really nasty infection. No, George, you stay here as long as you like.’ Matthew raised his glass.
George looked him in the eye. ‘I know you don’t reckon the caravan’s much, Matthew, but it’s home to me.’
Matthew’s frown deepened and George winced as a hefty measure of good red disappeared. ‘It’s a total disgrace,’ Matthew snapped. ‘It’s bare, it’s cold and I don’t know how Harry Watling had the nerve to let you live there.’
George tutted; that wasn’t the way to treat a decent wine, he thought, piously. ‘Don’t go blaming Miss Harriet, now. I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s offered me an alternative.’
Matthew deflated visibly. ‘She has?’
There was a little flicker of hope in his eyes that George noted with satisfaction. Thinking the worst of Miss Harriet hadn’t done Matthew much good either; maybe it would all turn out for the best in the end. In the meantime, it was George’s duty to make a clean breast of it.
‘Definitely. She don’t ’ave a lot of cash, Miss Harriet, but she’s full of ideas. She’s offered to convert one of the workshops for me, asked if I’d like one of the ’ouseboats if one came up.’ He chuckled softly. ‘She’s all bark, Miss Harriet, you should know that by now. Yes, I could live somewhere you would call comfortable, and I’ve even got a bit of money put by, and when the time comes I’ll find meself a little bedsit somewhere, mebbe.’ He leaned back to make sure he was getting his point across. ‘But the thing is, Matthew, I’ve chosen to live there because I like it. There’s no palace that’s in a better spot than that caravan: I can watch the water and the sky, I can lie in bed and listen to the rain on the roof, or hear it creaking in the sun. Now how bad is that?’ He paused to let it sink in, then added, ‘And I likes to keep an eye on Miss Harriet.’
Matthew snorted. ‘How can you say that after the way she’s treated you?’
George took a deep breath. The first step, that was the hardest. He’d tell Matthew what he’d done and take the consequences after. ‘It’s more how I’ve treated her …’ he began.
Matthew waited whilst George found the keys to the caravan. An oystercatcher rebuked them with a sharp ‘kip, kip’ for disturbing the peace of the evening. A bit like Harry, he thought wistfully, always warning everyone off. Although George had done his best to do that, too. No wonder Harry had struggled. In a misguided attempt to bring the boat yard to a state where Harry would have to turn to Matthew for help, George had seen off just about everybody.
‘Miss Harriet was working ’erself to the bone,’ he’d said sadly. ‘The boat yard was already in trouble when you turned up, with so many part-time sailors preferring the easy life of the marina. Oh, the order book is full all right, but there’s always plenty of nothing jobs.’
‘Nothing jobs?’
‘Meaning Miss Harriet gets paid bugger all for taking on jobs that most people would be too scared of. No wonder there’s nothing of her. Thing is, Matthew, that boat yard is the last link to the man she idolised. She wasn’t going to give any of it away willingly; it would be like giving up on him. So I thought a bit of pressure would make her see that a tidy sum from the sale of a parcel of land would at least give her the option to share the load. Besides,’ George added furtively, ‘it’s better that Miss Harriet gets what she can for that land now, before anyone else gets their hands on it.’ He shook his head. ‘And that’s all I’m saying.’
To that end, George had set about driving away anything that might drip some lifeblood into the business. He’d hinted to any of Samphire’s customers who made enquiries about keeping their yachts there that Harry was about to give the land to eco-villagers who would shun modern conveniences for eco-friendly loos. ‘Told ’em it would be like a sewage farm!’ George recounted, shaking his head. ‘With a wind farm spreading the fumes about.’ The motorboat owners had been redirected to Great Spitmarsh marina. ‘Do a nice steak and chips at the bar there! None of yer fancy muck.’ And Harry’s regulars were all warned of an impending price hike.
George had certainly screwed things up for Harry, but he’d nearly paid very dearly for his well-intended meddling. Matthew sighed and followed him inside. However hard George protested that he wanted to be in the caravan, Matthew still felt Harry could have made more effort to make the place more comfortable.
But, to his surprise, the caravan – warmed by long hours of sunshine, with views of a barely rippling creek and a sky like amethyst shot through with pewter greys and liquid amber – didn’t seem as stark and uninviting as he’d remembered. He could suddenly see why George was happy with the minimum of fuss and clutter. Anything more elaborate would look horribly contrived against a backdrop of water and sky. So who cared if the interior wasn’t tastefully decorated in Farrow and Ball colours? It was simple, clean and, Matthew realised as he looked around more closely, had everything George needed close to hand.
‘Might be a bit old-fashioned to your eyes, Matthew,’ George said, reading his mind. ‘But this place suits me fine. I know I can’t stay here forever. One day I’m going to have to forgo waking to the sound of the waves whipping up or taking me tea outside and watching the birds of an evening, but I’m not there yet. Nearly was right enough, but there’s life in this old dog yet.’
‘Plenty, I hope,’ said Matthew, setting George’s holdall down.
The pleasure on George’s face at being home abruptly disappeared behind a cloud. ‘I’ve got to put things right with Miss Harriet first,’ he said, sadly.
Matthew patted him lightly on the back, feeling shabby that George had been the only one to make a clean breast of things. Somehow he hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell George about the charter. He justified the omission by telling himself it was because he didn’t want to jeopardise George’s full recovery; but the truth was he’d just got too fond of the old boy and didn’t want to lose his good opinion.
‘She’s hurting, that girl,’ George nodded.
Loyal to the
last, thought Matthew, reluctantly leaving him to it. He couldn’t say he was sorry to get his rented house to himself; living in such a cosy space, he was now more familiar with George’s personal habits than he would have liked. The early morning coughing fits had been particularly alarming. Hearing one for the first time, Matthew had raced into the spare room clad only in his boxers, ready to call an ambulance – only to find a surprised-looking George happily sitting up in bed and, very much against doctor’s orders, smoking a roll-up.
George’s cooking was equally memorable. Unforgettable, you might say. Matthew doubted if he would ever get rid of the smell of cabbage that now pervaded every nook and cranny. Even so, part of him would miss George. Needing to be convinced that the old boy was settled and comfortable before he left, he looked back over his shoulder at the yellow lights of the windows twinkling against the black of the silhouetted caravan and the Byzantine blue of the sky. George’s patch of paradise. Who was he to disagree?
And Harry? Sometimes he had the feeling that George wasn’t quite telling him the full story, as if he alone knew what lay behind the face she presented to the world. Given the way George had been sabotaging operations at Watling’s, it was a miracle she was still in business at all. She had guts, certainly, guts to hang on when the tide was turning against her and, although he’d been mad at her at the time for doing it, guts to fire George, the most enduring presence in her life.
Poor Harry, she’d really had a rough time when he thought about it; no father, an absent mother and George! Hadn’t he been a bit quick to judge her? It hurt him to think of her battling away against hopeless odds, not one person by her side; she must have loved her father very deeply to find the inner strength to keep going. He was also feeling pretty bad about all the times he’d scoffed at the way she dressed – those dreaded dungarees! Jesus, she wasn’t a footballer’s wife, was she? What chance did Harry Watling have to pamper and preen – she was always too busy doing her job. Given those beautiful eyes and that wide sensual mouth, he was willing to bet that she’d knock spots off the competition if she relaxed just enough to smile. What a pity he wasn’t the one who could make that happen.
Turning the Tide Page 20