Turning the Tide

by Christine Stovell

Jimi wasn’t his ideal first mate, but he would have to do. There was no way he was going to take that other rascal, Corrigan, out with him. Beneath the nancy-boy outfit of tight black jeans, baggy white tee shirt and girlie scarf, George could see that the younger man had some useful muscles. George recalled a school dinner lady he’d courted once; she’d had fine strong arms from carrying all the heavy pots around too. Anyway, hopefully there wouldn’t be any need for anyone with brute strength. Hopefully Harry would be safe and well, but he wouldn’t rest until he made sure.

  Catching Jimi unloading a box from the back of his flashy black sports car meant that he could avoid Matthew. There was a conversation to be had, but it could wait. Unlike Harry.

  ‘George! How are you, mate? Everything all right after last night? Come over here and get a whiff of this awesome cheese.’

  ‘No, thank you. Something stinks, all right, but I’d say it was something fishy.’

  Jimi frowned. ‘Really? But I didn’t buy any fish.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ George said, pointedly. ‘Right, young feller, I need you to help me. Miss Harriet’s missing. I think she’s taken the boat out.’

  ‘George, I’m busy,’ Jimi said, nodding at the box in his arms. ‘Besides, what’s the drama – that’s what Harry does, isn’t it? Mess around in boats?’

  George pushed his face close to Jimi’s. ‘I’m telling you. Not asking you.’

  Rebalancing the box, Jimi shrugged and started to walk away.

  It was only because he needed Jimi in one piece that George refrained from twisting his arm up behind his back again; but it was just as well that Jimi appeared to have second thoughts about the wisdom of waltzing off when he was in midflow.

  ‘Okay,’ Jimi sighed. ‘Where’s the fire?’

  ‘Miss Harriet’s father took Calypso out once when he was under a lot of pressure too; money worries, family … Oh, and he’d just heard bad news. Someone he’d been very close to had died.’

  Jimi nodded. ‘That’s a shame, but what’s it to do with me?’

  ‘The final blow was finding out he had a son. A son he would never get to see because the boy had been raised by another man who thought he was his father. He was devastated by the news.’

  Jimi had gone pale.

  ‘When folks is under pressure,’ George said, with feeling, ‘they don’t always think straight. There was a terrible tragedy that day … I ’ope it’s not too late to prevent another.’

  Matthew reached for the bottle and poured himself a whisky. If George had broken Jimi’s arm, it would have made the decision for him; but could he afford to fire his chef with the finale of the film festival at Samphire approaching? After all, Jimi had only been trying to prove that he was on Harry’s side. Yet something about Jimi’s whole attitude wasn’t ringing true. Matthew picked up the glass and then thought better of it. Maybe it was simply Jimi’s attitude to Harry he didn’t like. Maybe he just didn’t like the thought of what was going on between them? And getting drunk wasn’t going to help him feel any better about that.

  Reminding himself to duck as he went through the doorway – although possibly a blow to the head might be what was required – he went to the kitchen. If ever he needed a sign that it was time to move on, then that close encounter with Harry Watling ought to have done it. Something about seeing her standing there in the half-light, nipples visible through her thin tee shirt as her chest rose and fell, had been disturbingly erotic – and Matthew was shocked at how much he’d wanted to do something about it.

  After a steadying slug of cold water, he reasoned with himself. Hey, he made his living finding beauty in unexpected places, after all. He was a long way from home, from Gina. Hardly surprising, then, that he was beginning to find Harry strangely attractive. Yep, that would do it.

  And yet it didn’t explain why she kept coming into his thoughts. Sometimes he’d imagine her standing on her terrace at night, proud and mysterious with the starlight above her. Or he might think about her sitting opposite him on her sofa, looking so small and fragile, her grey eyes so distrustful that he’d almost felt compelled to reach out to her and take her endearingly childlike hand in his. Matthew wiped his mouth and stared blindly out of the window. There had to be a logical reason for why he kept thinking about Harry, because the alternative was just too bizarre to contemplate. Another unwelcome wave of guilt hit him as he thought about the charter. And now he had George on his conscience, too. The point was – what was he going to do about it? Was it too late to put things right?

  Setting off to Watling’s to catch George, he was surprised to see him handing Jimi a life jacket at the end of the pontoon. Since it wasn’t easy for either of them to get past him on the precarious floating platform, taking to the water was their only escape; if he was quick he’d kill two birds with one stone.

  ‘What do you want, yer bastard?’ George snarled.

  It wasn’t an encouraging start.

  ‘I need to speak to you, George. Jimi was right about the charter – but I promise I’m not going to take the boat yard away from Harry.’

  ‘Well, she needs to hear it from you – if it’s not too late.’

  Jimi’s hands were shaking as he tried to adjust his life jacket. Matthew’s stomach lurched as he realised what George was saying; then he turned to Jimi, looked at his distraught face and realised with a jolt that he wasn’t the only one who cared for her.

  ‘Give me the jacket, Jimi. This is too difficult for you.’

  Jimi’s reply caught in his throat. George placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Matthew’s right. You’ve had enough of a shock already. Go up to the caravan and make yourself a hot drink. Biscuits in the tin.’

  Matthew goggled.

  ‘Go on, son,’ George said gently. ‘Do as you’re told. We’ll take care of Miss Harriet.’

  A day of being marooned on the mudflat was fine. Harry had thoroughly lost her temper, had a damn good howl and felt peculiarly cheered up by a tin of vegetable soup eaten in the sun whilst watching the birds. She’d even managed a short nap on deck, which was fine until she woke up and thought about Matthew and made herself cry again. She was also beginning to feel very silly. Running away to sea was a great idea in the heat of the moment, but sooner or later she would have to return to sort out her problems.

  Having poked around the sides of the boat with a long boat hook, Harry had established that there was scarily little water in front of the boat. The port side was high up on the bank too; but there was plenty behind, and enough to starboard, for her to be encouraged about the chances of levering the boat off at high water. Aware of how fiercely the tide sluiced through the channels, Harry put on a life jacket and clipped herself on with a lifeline before putting her plan into action. Furious as she was with Matthew, she didn’t actually want to give the impression that she’d thrown herself overboard because of him.

  Stepping over the guardrails, she hung on to the thick wire rigging which held the mast in place and leaned back as far as she dared, trying to persuade Calypso in the direction of the deep water. By the time her arms were ready to leave their sockets and her hands were red raw from the wire, Harry realised she was making as much impression as a fly on an elephant. If only she’d had the foresight to take the All Blacks for a sail before she’d run out of water.

  Tired and aching, Harry went down to the cabin to check the tide tables. It wasn’t good news; she was never going to refloat Calypso by herself. Biting her lip, Harry looked at the radio and, with heavy heart, prepared to call up for help.

  And then she heard the sound of an engine. Asking one person for assistance was better than airing her weakness to the public at large. Jubilant, Harry bounded up the companionway and was delighted to see George coming towards her in the boat-yard skiff with its powerful engine. The fact that Matthew was with him took the edge off her relief a little and made her legs shake. She didn’t feel any better when Matthew boarded her boat, but, hey ho! It was probably
sensible as far as negotiating a rescue went. Most importantly, she and Calypso would soon be free.

  ‘All right, George,’ Harry began, ‘This is the plan −’

  George revved the engine and started moving away − probably trying to assess the best approach. Then he picked up speed and roared off.

  ‘George! Come back!’ Harry bellowed, only to be ignored.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Matthew muttered. ‘Crafty old bugger.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  That was that then, thought George. It was high time those two sorted out their differences. If there was any explaining to be done, Miss Harriet might as well hear it straight from Matthew. He’d never really believed there was anything devious about Matthew’s nature; some of his strokes hadn’t been too clever, but George couldn’t criticise him for that. This way the pair of them would have to listen to each other; and, if he’d been a betting man, he’d have put money on his feeling that they’d do more than that. No, best not get into that; one vice was enough for any man. George shut the door of the caravan behind him and quickly got into bed. All this fretting had worn him out and, now that he knew everything was going to work out, he was damn well going to catch up on some sleep.

  ‘Lovely spot this, isn’t it?’ said Matthew, looking surprisingly cheerful. ‘Great conditions for fossil hunting in this exposed mud. Did you know you can find sharks’ teeth on the foreshore?’

  Yes, he would know that, wouldn’t he? Being ideally placed to gobble her and the boat yard up. ‘Why? Have you lost any?’ Harry snarled. Matthew grinned and headed down the companionway. Seconds later, he was halfway back up and waving the dirty saucepan from Harry’s lunchtime soup at her.

  ‘Did you actually eat this stuff?’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Everything,’ said Matthew, tossing the whole lot over the side.

  Great. Trapped on the boat with a madman.

  ‘That’s very irresponsible!’ Harry told him.

  ‘Not quite as irresponsible as running away to sea without telling anyone where you’re going and worrying everyone sick. Oh, and you’re trespassing.’

  ‘Like hell I am,’ said Harry, glaring at him. ‘Sorry, King Canute, but you’ve no rights whatsoever over the sea.’

  Matthew looked smug. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re not on the sea and that’s my sandbank you’re sitting on.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks for reminding me,’ she grumbled. ‘You needn’t have come out all this way to tell me. Anyway, how do you know I’m not just waiting for the tide?’

  Matthew grinned and his dimple danced merrily. ‘You’ve got a very long wait if that’s what you’re doing. I used to dinghy sail, remember, so I’m well aware of tidal ranges. George panicked when he saw your boat had gone − but, when a solitary mast appeared halfway down the channel, it wasn’t difficult to work out what had happened.’ Matthew laughed. ‘I would’ve loved to have seen your face when you realised what you’d done; I bet it was a picture.’

  Harry scowled in his direction, but he had already disappeared back down the companionway. After a few minutes of wondering whether she could sit it out on deck, she was forced to join him. The long summer nights were giving way to a hint of autumn; she was cold, and the cooking smells drifting up to her from below were making her stomach rumble.

  Harry had always thought of Calypso’s saloon as cosy. Gimballed lamps reflected off the gleaming varnished wood, creating a soft, subdued lighting. She’d run up curtains from cheerful Indian cotton and covered cushions with a faded red velvet remnant. The space had been a bolt-hole, a little home from home where she could escape from the world; but now the world had come to join her and her cosy saloon was feeling positively snug.

  ‘Good,’ said Matthew, beaming at her. ‘Do you have any glasses? I’ve found everything else.’

  He certainly had. Something imaginative which had started life as tinned beef was simmering on one ring of her two-burner cooker, whilst some fragrant rice bubbled gently on the other. Calypso didn’t run to an oven, so he’d done a good job of improvising, and he’d even got to grips with a temperamental foldaway table just big enough for two. Harry passed him the glasses and he nodded approvingly. ‘Can’t stand drinking out of plastic,’ he told her, as he opened a bottle of her Special Occasion Shiraz.

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t need a small saucepan, seeing as you’ve thrown mine overboard,’ Harry said, tartly.

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ he said, draining the rice. ‘I’d have made you retrieve it for me if I’d needed it. Here,’ he quickly passed her a glass of wine. ‘Have a sip of this before you say anything.’

  Throwing him a last look of extreme displeasure just to show he wasn’t getting away with anything, Harry decided she might as well enjoy her meal. The logistics of the cabin meant that, if two of you were seated at the foldaway table, it was very difficult − without the co-operation of the other person − to become unseated. Flouncing off was not an option; besides, there wasn’t anywhere to flounce off to, even if you did succeed in getting up. And she certainly wasn’t going to sit outside whilst Matthew Corrigan enjoyed her nice warm cabin.

  ‘Now, I’ll hold the table whilst you get up. Then you’re to sit down out of the way and drink your wine, whilst I clear this up and make some space.’

  What the heck, thought Harry, why not try passive for once? She might even find that she liked it. When Matthew sat down beside her, she found she liked that too; but then he said, ‘Harry, we need to talk,’ and she started to feel unhappy again. And, when he refilled her glass, she was certain that whatever he was going to say wasn’t going to cheer her up at all.

  ‘All right,’ she said, quickly. ‘I know what you’re going to say; but, before we get down to details, I’m going to have to admit that you were right about Little Spitmarsh and I was wrong. And, even if I could pretend that the changes in the town won’t affect me, I can’t ignore what’s been going on at Watling’s. I really thought there might still be enough people out there who would like to escape to a quieter place and the gentle pleasures of pottering around in the water, but you only need to take a look over at the marina and all the motorboats to see I was wrong about that, too.’

  She shook her head. ‘Water miles don’t seem to count the way air miles do; recreation means powering across vast expanses of sea for the thrill of it, and sod everyone and everything else! I’ve tried, Matthew, but whichever way I look at it I can’t keep Watling’s going in its present form.’ She held up her hand. ‘I know, I’m sure you’re going to remind me about what you said about my land being better off in someone else’s hands; someone who could realise its potential. Well, I haven’t got a choice now; it’s either sell land to you, or lose the boat yard altogether. The game’s over.’

  ‘I’m not going to buy your land,’ he said gently.

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ she sniffed. ‘You don’t need to now. Not when you own half the seabed. It makes Watling’s absolutely worthless.’

  Matthew cupped her cheek in his hand in what she took as a brotherly sort of gesture, and made her look at him. That was fine, except that her heart was pounding in a response that didn’t feel at all sisterly.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it, and you’re right,’ he said, lulling her with his soft, throaty voice. ‘Any kind of housing development along Campion’s Creek would be utterly insensitive. Not only would it be detrimental to the wildlife and so much natural beauty, but Little Spitmarsh would entirely lose its character. You’ve only got to look at the development at the marina at Great Spitmarsh to see what could happen here.’

  Thank you! Harry thought silently. My point exactly.

  ‘However hard they’ve tried to disguise those holiday apartments with a bit of architectural tweaking and a few nautical references, the effect is still that of a housing estate with a floating car park attached. I’d hate to see that happen to the creek. With the extensive rights I’ve a
cquired, I could ensure that it will remain untouched.’

  He dropped his hand and Harry found she was missing it. She looked at the thin leather band he wore round his wrist and the faded chambray shirt she’d seen him in so many times. Renovating Samphire must have cost him a small fortune; he’d probably been counting on the housing development to finance the restaurant.

  ‘But how can you afford to do that?’ she asked.

  Matthew smiled at her. ‘I don’t need to worry about money. And I’ve now found my next development, so there’s plenty to keep me busy.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s marvellous, isn’t it?’ Harry said, wondering why it didn’t feel marvellous at all. Hadn’t she known all along that Matthew wouldn’t have any long-term interest in Little Spitmarsh if a more interesting and lucrative development came along? And in the meantime, whatever he claimed now, the charter would ensure that he could always return for a second bite at the cherry, if market conditions dictated it in the future.

  But, for now, Campion’s Creek was safe and her land unthreatened by development. She ought to have been celebrating, but something didn’t feel right. Puzzled, Harry couldn’t stop her gaze lifting to Matthew who, she suddenly noticed, was so close that she was acutely aware of the warmth of his body, the sound of his breathing, the clean masculine scent of him. If she reached up, she could stroke his cheek or run her finger down the soft bare skin between his ear and his sideburn. ‘I can’t afford to keep Watling’s going,’ she croaked, feeling more sorry for herself by the second. ‘I don’t know why, but it just hasn’t worked out.’

  Matthew picked up his glass and drank some wine. ‘It will, Harry, there have been some big changes in the town. You’ll notice the difference at Watling’s too.’

  She shook her head. ‘God knows how hard I’ve tried, but I just can’t attract customers any more.’

  ‘Yes, well, there’s a reason for that,’ he said, furtively.

  Harry went cold. Now what?

  ‘And it’s not one you’re going to like. Still, at least George is out of your way here.’