Walking back across the yard, Matthew thought he saw a flicker of light at the periphery of his vision. He hesitated, and the light flashed again in a brief sweeping movement. Harry didn’t need to go around with a torch on her own property, so who was sneaking around in George’s shed?
Why hadn’t the security light gone on? Harry backed away from the glass door and huddled on the stairs in the dark, cursing the instinct that kicked in whenever there was a problem in the yard. Why couldn’t she have just carried on sleeping, oblivious to whatever disasters were waiting to happen? It was, she supposed, some kind of primitive maternal response. Only in her case, her vulnerable infant was the boat yard. But, whereas other women saw their children grow up and leave, she would always be responsible for her charge. And there were times, like now, with a possible prowler just feet away from her, when she was beginning to think what a relief it would be to hand the responsibility to someone else.
Right now, if this was a creepy film, thought Harry, slowly reaching for the substantial hand torch she kept by the door, everyone would be screaming for her not to do it. Or at least to put some proper clothes on first.
Despite her best efforts to move as quietly as possible, there was a sharp click as the door opened. She paused, straining her ears for the slightest sound or movement and trying not to think about someone in the shadows doing the same. When she was as certain as she could be that no one was lying in wait, she inched one bare foot across the threshold and, with her back to the building and her eyes peeled, edged bit by bit along the perimeter of the yard and into a warm and solid wall.
A hand went round her mouth to gag her at the same time as the other snaked round her waist, pinning her so close that Harry really wished there was more than an oversized tee shirt between her backside and someone’s crotch. More angry at herself for walking into such an obvious trap than afraid, Harry eyes darted round the yard, looking for the best escape route whilst she gathered her strength to fight back.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Matthew hissed. ‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’
Harry longed to tell him that she was doing just fine until he started playing fright night with her, but his hand was still clamped around her face.
‘Harry, shut up,’ he said in a low voice. ‘There’s someone in George’s shed. And no, it’s not George, because I’ve just taken him back to the caravan.’
Harry would have slumped against him with relief had it not been for the sound of a door banging open and Matthew pushing her aside to go racing towards the noise. She shrugged and ran after him. It was too cold to be standing around.
The door to George’s shed creaked on its hinges, but there was no sign of anyone inside.
‘Nice try, Matthew,’ said Harry. ‘What are you really doing here?’
‘Just put the light on, will you?’
Harry groped for the light switch and wished she hadn’t nagged George about using low-energy bulbs, remembering that he’d fitted something a lot of small children demanded in their bedrooms to keep the bogey man away. She found the switch and flicked it. Either way, George must have bought a dud; the shed was still almost dark and Matthew was still there.
‘Jesus!’ Matthew said, peering through the gloom. ‘Is it always like this?’
‘George always seems to know where everything is.’
He shook his head. ‘Well, unless anyone’s looking for old brushes, bits of rope or dead tubes of filler, there isn’t much of value here, is there?’
‘Quite. No one’s been in here. It must have been the wind.’
Matthew opened his mouth, then closed it again and shook his head. ‘For fuck’s sake, Harry, look at you!’
Harry looked – at her bare feet, her bare legs and a tee shirt that barely covered her modesty.
‘How the bloody hell did you think you were going to take anyone on dressed like that?’
‘Element of surprise, maybe? Flash them and then hit them over the head with my torch.’
‘You’re telling me that’s all you’re wearing?’
Harry laughed weakly. ‘Don’t make me prove it.’
Matthew leaned closer. The low light glanced off the sharp planes of his face. A wayward dark curl beckoned to be stroked back into place. Suddenly, sharing a couple of feet of space with him with practically no clothes on seemed more dangerous than tackling an army of intruders. He lifted his head to stare into her eyes and Harry felt her legs go weak with anticipation. Do something! a voice in her head was begging. Her mouth was dry, her heart was racing. She moved forwards, holding his gaze, open, willing, waiting.
‘Harry,’ Matthew ordered. ‘Go home – now.’
There was nothing like your own bed, thought George, happy to be back in the familiar comfort of his soft old sheets and blankets. None of your cabbage roses plastered all over the walls neither. And as for them duvets? They were the devil’s own work, for sure. ’Alf the time you was cooked to death with the bleedin’ contraption wrapped round your neck like someone was trying to suffocate you. Or you tried to cool down and woke up like a block of ice where it had somehow worked its way onto the floor.
Still, he mustn’t moan. Matthew had been right good to him. He’d be back home now, but on the way he would have had time to think about everything George had told him about Miss Harriet. Well, everything he needed to know anyway.
George lay in the welcoming darkness and felt sleep embrace him. He could hear only the faint lapping of the water, punctuated by the odd creak as the caravan cooled after the heat of the day. Come to think of it, that was a very odd creak indeed. George sat up and felt for the switch above his head. Before he could get to it, he was blinded by a torch shining into his face.
‘George,’ said an amused voice. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘What the fuck?’ Matthew flicked on the nearest light and was mystified by what he saw. The night was descending into madness. Doubling back past the caravan, to cool his head and walk off some very disturbing feelings about Harry, he noticed that, whereas the narrow windows should have been in darkness, a single light was bobbing wildly from within. Bursting in, he’d found a pyjama-clad George twisting Jimi’s arm halfway up his back.
‘Caught this blighter tryin’ to rob me!’ George announced.
‘I didn’t know you were here,’ Jimi whimpered.
‘Oh, I suppose that makes it better, does it?’ George said, giving his arm another tug and causing beads of sweat to appear on the younger man’s brow. Another minute, thought Matthew, and he’d be a chef down as well as a waitress.
‘It’s all right, George. You can let go now. No one’s leaving yet.’
He waited until George had reluctantly released Jimi before speaking.
‘Okay, now would someone tell me what’s going on?’ Both men turned to him and started talking at once. ‘One at time. George?’
‘This thieving so-and-so just crept into my house when ’e thought I was asleep!’
‘I didn’t know you were here!’ Jimi protested.
‘So that makes it all right then, does it?’ snarled George. ‘I knew you was trouble the first time you showed up at the yard, I knew you was after somethin’. That’s why you wanted a little chat, wasn’t it? An’ that’s why you showed up with a bottle of gin at just the right time?’
‘You?’ Matthew looked at him in amazement. ‘How come I’m the one who’s been getting all the blame?’
‘Ain’t nobody’s fault but mine,’ George told him, irritably. ‘It were me who drank it. Thing is, I’d like to know what this fellow-me-lad ’ere thinks ’e was going to get out of it?’
Freed from George’s grasp, Jimi seemed to rally. ‘It’s not me you should be cross-examining. I’m only trying to help. It’s Matthew you should talk to – he’s the one who’s going to cheat Harry out of her land. I bet you haven’t told George about that, have you?’
‘Told me what?’ All the bravado abruptly left George’s d
emeanour and Matthew was face to face with a frail, puzzled old man.
‘Nothing to say? Looks like I’ll have to tell George for you.’
Did Jimi have to sound so elated?
‘When Matthew bought the clubhouse, he also acquired some ancient rights that went with the ownership. The rights mean that Matthew owns the strip of land, and the seabed, between the boat yard and the clubhouse. Unless Harry can come up with some evidence to prove that the rights were relinquished by a subsequent owner, she has no right of access across Matthew’s land. That’s what I’ve been trying to find, only I haven’t been able to ask because …’
Matthew winced.
‘He’s made sure that no one else has been able to get near you. Unless anyone can produce that evidence soon, you see, it’s all over for Harry. Matthew can put her out of business, just like that.’
Matthew felt sick as George’s face creased with anguish. The old man didn’t need any more shocks; God knows what this would do to him. He hovered, uncertain of what to do, whilst George struggled for breath and at last found his voice.
‘You bastard!’
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Stupid, stupid, stupid!’ Harry could feel her face flaming, even though no one was in the room to witness her embarrassment. Sheesh! That Matthew was a bastard and no mistake; it wasn’t enough that he’d been mentally building all over her boat yard ever since he’d set eyes on it, nor that he’d successfully driven a wedge between her and George. Oh no, he hadn’t been able to rest until he’d finally brought about her complete and utter humiliation! He’d actually believed that she’d been ready and willing to make a total idiot of herself and had calmly rejected her. How bowel-curdlingly shaming was that?
Okay, she might have been panting just a bit, but only because she’d had to run to keep up with him; it was preferable to being alone in the dark with a prowler on the loose. And maybe she had gazed up at him with big eyes, but it was so dark in George’s shed she’d barely been able to see her own hand. He’d got it all wrong! Just because he was standing there looking mean and moody – as if the only thing on his mind was sweeping the table clear of ashtrays, old newspapers and clogged paint brushes soaking in pots of white spirit, and taking her on it there and then – didn’t mean she was fooled. Absolutely not! How dare he order her to run along as if she was some love-struck teenager in the throes of her first crush! Huh! He really thought he was something, didn’t he?
She felt like simply throwing herself on her bed and crying for the rest of eternity. Only the thought that, if she stayed at home, she was vulnerable to all kinds of attack prompted her to do something more constructive. With her luck, the entire pent-up demand of would-be sailors would arrive on her doorstep any minute now. All waving credit cards and begging for moorings, only for her to have to turn them all away – because what use was a mooring if you couldn’t actually sail your boat across Matthew Bloody Corrigan’s seabed?
Harry stopped and took a deep breath. According to the charter, Matthew owned the beach and the seabed. Until he made a claim for the sea as well, she was bloody well going to use it − she looked at her watch − starting now. The best place for her to be was on the boat, where no one could find her until she was feeling more like her old self and had decided what to do next. She gave a hollow laugh. The way she was feeling she could be gone some time.
With no time to waste if she was going to catch the tide, Harry hastily showered and changed. Gathering her bags together, she took a last look round the house to make sure everything that needed to be switched off was. Andrew Lawrence, her solicitor, had sent her another billet-doux the day before which, at a quick scan, was another ‘nothing doing’ letter. Her attention was more focused on the invoice that accompanied it; she was paying a huge amount for nothing.
‘Yeah, thanks for that!’ she muttered, tossing both the letter and the bill in the bin. What was the point? She couldn’t save the boat yard and she didn’t have any money. Maybe she’d declare herself bankrupt as well? For a moment she looked at her phone and wondered if she should call anyone; but, then again, who was there to call? Usually she’d tell George she was going, but he had Matthew to take care of him now. No, she thought, shoving her phone in her bag, the explanations could wait – but the tide couldn’t.
An early-morning mist was still rolling across the water as Harry slipped Calypso’s moorings and motored through the tide gate and into the channel, keeping the engine revs down as low as she dared. Samphire rose out of the mist above her, its great glass panels blank and sightless in the pale dawn. She waited until she was safely past, before raising the sails and killing the engine; the last thing she wanted was to be caught fiddling around with the boat where someone could see her.
At last she was on her way, gliding with the currents through the marshes and inlets, and sending small groups of indignant seabirds flocking and scolding into the air. Although there was a fresh breeze, the sun was slowly gathering strength. By mid-morning it would be pleasantly warm and she would be far away from Watling’s, from Little Spitmarsh and from Matthew. Perching on the little wooden seat beside the tiller to take a long last look at the town before it disappeared from sight, Harry gazed at the lonely, lovely sky and the secretive water and watched as Samphire and her realm, surrounded by its imperfect guard of thinning masts, slowly slipped away from her.
All the late nights, the long hours of pushing herself to the limit every day, hadn’t been enough to stop the boat yard’s decline. Bigger operations could carry out the maintenance work and the refits more cheaply and quickly than she could. Harry reluctantly accepted that. She’d known it all the time, really, but had battled on, wanting to be a success for the sake of the father who had meant everything to her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I tried so hard, but I just wasn’t strong enough for you.’ A half-sob caught in her throat, but Harry was determined not to waste any more tears; it was all behind her now.
Except for the bit in front of her. As she was thrown off her perch she knew there was a problem. By the time she lay winded in the cockpit, she had worked out that Calypso had run aground. The temptation to just lie there, wondering what exactly she had done in a previous life to deserve quite such a bad day, was strong; but with every passing second escape became more difficult. And the sails, filling merrily with another gust of wind, were all set to drive her further into the mud.
Screaming expletives, Harry dragged herself to her feet and dashed round trying to persuade the top half of the boat to stop sailing and the bottom half to start. The only deep water she was sure of was behind her, the way she’d come. Starting the engine, she put it into reverse gear, gave it some serious throttle and tried to back off. Nothing. No point in going on unless she wanted to ruin the rudder too. Well done, Harry, she congratulated herself; she hadn’t just run aground – she’d made a really good job of embedding in it. Calypso wasn’t budging.
Grabbing a can of Coke from the galley, Harry made herself sit down and plan her next move. Looking at the state of the tide, she would have to be quick; the water was already beginning to drop. And then a deeply unwelcome thought occurred to her: she had run aground at the top of one of the highest tides of the year. Calypso was firmly wedged on a mudbank which usually only saw a few inches of water. From now on, the chances of refloating were about to get slimmer with every tide. Bloody great, thought Harry. Talk about being careful what you wished for. She’d wanted to get away all right, but a tide this high wasn’t due again for, oh, months. Harry sighed. At least she had something to take her mind off Matthew Corrigan.
That Matthew, George thought murderously, now he was a right so-and-so. Why, he’d never have allowed himself to stay under the same roof as him if he’d known how he’d duped them all. All except Miss Harriet − she’d been right all along. What a pity that it was Johnny MacManus who’d tried to burn the restaurant down, he thought, feeling even more miffed. Couldn’t trust that drunken fool
to get anything right. If he hadn’t made such a piss-poor job of it and done it properly, it would have served Matthew Corrigan right.
Nevertheless, it was a beautiful morning: the sun dancing on the blue-green waves, the seagulls calling and a fresh breeze whipping the water into foam-flecked peaks and tugging at George’s hair. Any other day, he thought, walking into the yard with a lump in his throat, he would have been happy to be home; but first he needed to talk to Miss Harriet. Assuming he could find her. Having stood outside her door for five minutes, he tentatively tried the handle and found it locked. Unusual. But after the events of the previous night he couldn’t blame her. Where else had Jimi Tan’s search for evidence to protect the yard taken him?
George’s eyes narrowed as he reached in his pocket for his tobacco tin and made a roll-up. ‘Don’t think you’ve fooled me, neither, Mr Jimi Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt-In-Yer-Mouth Tan!’ After a therapeutic drag on his cigarette, he became aware of the silence all around him. Normally he could locate Harry by the sawing, hammering or swearing which signified her whereabouts in the yard, but today the stillness was watchful and heavy. What hadn’t he noticed?
Jettisoning the last of his roll-up, he hurried to the boatsheds, tormented by visions of Harry overcome by paint fumes or her broken body at the foot of a ladder. When she wasn’t there, he went across to the boats that were laid up in the yard, calling her name at each one. She hadn’t gone out to the moorings because the large inflatable she used for inspections, with its powerful outboard motor, was firmly secured to the pontoon. And then he realised what was missing and a ghastly vision of the past rose up to haunt him.
Turning the Tide Page 21