Turning the Tide

by Christine Stovell

  ‘George?’

  ‘He’s been doing his very best to drive all your customers away. Thought it might force you to turn to me for help.’ Matthew’s dimpled flickered, briefly. ‘As if.’

  Harry sat still and listened. By the time Matthew had finished, she didn’t know whether to sack George all over again or kiss him when she next saw him. Silly old sod. No wonder he’d hit the bottle, the strain of the subterfuge must have been unbearable for him.

  ‘At least I know now, even if it doesn’t help me out of the current mess,’ she said, wiping her eyes.

  ‘I promise you there are customers ready to go,’ Matthew assured her. ‘As soon as George told me what he’d been up to I made him start chasing up anyone who’d made enquiries and telling them there’d been a misunderstanding. A couple of Frankie and Trevor’s clients have asked about the chances of keeping a boat up here, and I bet the families who eat at Samphire would much prefer a Swallows and Amazons-type mooring to life in a marina. I’ve also reinstated your adverts in all the sailing press which George cancelled for you – and I’ve put your prices up too, your new customers will be able to afford them.’

  Matthew glanced at her; presumably, she thought, to make sure she wasn’t about to scream. ‘With the amount of business coming in, you’ll soon be able to afford to pay someone to take the day-to-day strain off you and George. It’s about time you both had a rest.’

  Harry ran a hand across her forehead; it was all a bit much to take in.

  ‘Matthew, why have you done all this?’

  ‘Do you remember the day we first met?’

  She’d need a blow on the head to forget. ‘You were sitting in my favourite thinking spot.’

  ‘Was I?’ Matthew grinned. ‘No wonder you weren’t thrilled to see me. The thing is, Harry, I never forgot what you said about trying to maintain a working waterfront. I’d bought the old clubhouse by then, so it was easy to justify the development by telling myself I was doing a service to the area.’

  ‘Everyone else thought so, too,’ Harry acknowledged.

  ‘I’m used to getting my own way. I could see that a smattering of expensive apartments along the creek would be a perfect complement to the restaurant, but you wouldn’t have it, would you?’

  ‘Because I wanted a working waterfront for everyone to enjoy, not just the fortunate few!’

  He reached over and took her hand. ‘It’s all right. I did get the message.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘When I found the charter, it would have been simple for me to put you in a position which would have made it very difficult for you to continue trading.’

  ‘I think George almost beat you to it.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘It’ll be fine, just you see. But I couldn’t do it. And do you know why?’

  Harry shook her head.

  ‘Because of you,’ he said, his eyes dark in the shadows of the lamplight. ‘Every time I decided to act, I thought about you; I thought about when I first met you, a little tough tomboy all wary and mistrustful. I thought about you refusing to back down when you thought my proposals were wrong, even when you were on your own. And I thought about what you said about keeping the boat yard going in memory of your father. Well, you certainly achieved that. If George hadn’t decided to take matters into his own hands, you’d probably be looking at a profit. Your father would be proud of what you’ve achieved.’

  ‘I don’t think he’d be too thrilled about me sailing onto a sandbank! He’d have something to say about that, certainly.’ Harry ran a hand across her forehead; spilling everything out had left her exhausted.

  Matthew must have read her thoughts. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s turn in. Hmm, these saloon berths don’t look as if they’ll be very comfortable.’ He looked at the two narrow seating areas that doubled as beds.

  ‘They’re not,’ said Harry, standing up and going to the folding teak door which divided off the fore cabin. ‘But fortunately this end of the boat’s really quite civilised.’

  She pulled back the door to reveal the V-shaped double bed that her father had cunningly fitted into the small space. Like everything else on the boat, Harry had made it a rule to have a home from home; so the bed that nestled in the crook of the glowing timbers was beautifully fitted with her second-best bedding.

  ‘Clever girl,’ Matthew said approvingly.

  Harry was glad that her face was buried in a locker. So, she was so utterly unfanciable that he thought he could share such an intimate space with her without, apparently, even registering that she was a woman? Just because he’d changed his mind about Watling’s didn’t mean that she’d give him a second chance to humiliate her. She tossed him a sleeping bag. ‘See you in the morning, Matthew. Try not to make too much of a noise if you use the heads in the night, will you?’

  The mist collected on George’s beard and rained gently onto the cockpit sole, as he steered his way towards Calypso on the high early-morning tide. He was slightly concerned that the skiff’s engine would not be powerful enough to drag the stranded yacht off its shallow grave. But he’d resisted the urge to summon help from a bigger boat at the marina, for fear that talk of Miss Harriet grounding her boat would be all round the sailing fraternity. He was keeping his fingers crossed that, if they took it slow and gentle, Calypso would be waterborne once more and no one else need know.

  George’s main worry, though, was that Harry and Matthew might not have resolved their differences and that one or the other had been forced to walk the plank. As George approached Calypso, he was reassured to see two people waving at him, but it was too soon to decide on the state of play. Positioning the skiff amidships of the yacht, he took lines from Harry and Matthew who were standing at either end of the boat. Calypso was deeply buried, but after ten minutes of gentle persuasion the yacht floated off with no harm done. Motoring closer to agree the next course of action, George thought that Harry looked more relaxed, as if free of some of the worry that had been haunting her for too long. So far as anything else was concerned, there was nothing.

  Having checked that all the mud and debris churned up by Harry’s efforts to release the boat herself hadn’t done any harm to the engine, George led them along the channel back to Watling’s, disappointed that his scheme hadn’t quite come off. So much for hoping that his days of taking responsibility for Harry Watling were numbered.

  Instead of being delighted when the familiar black-stained buildings hugging the creek came into view, Harry began to wish that she and Matthew could have had a bit longer on the mudflats. Out on the boat, it had been just the two of them; Matthew had been almost caring, the future of Watling’s looked secure and she wouldn’t even have to worry about having a housing estate on her doorstep. As they crossed the tide gate and entered the little basin where the smaller boats were moored, Harry could see George getting ready to take the lines. And Jimi was there, waiting anxiously, with a very glamorous woman. Teeth and Hair, thought Harry miserably, the woman George had spotted leaving Matthew’s house.

  There wasn’t much time. ‘Matthew?’

  He dragged his gaze away from the shore and looked at her questioningly.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘For what?’

  ‘For everything. For giving me time and not using the charter, for looking after George, for helping to save Watling’s.’ She bit her quivering lip.

  Matthew laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘What’s wrong, then?’

  Harry looked at the pontoon; just a couple of minutes before the spell was broken, and they went off to their separate worlds. ‘I wondered when you were leaving, that’s all.’

  He frowned and shook his head. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  It was her turn to be puzzled. ‘But your next development?’

  ‘It’s in Little Spitmarsh. I’ve bought a block of Victorian houses, I got the idea after I’d had a look at Walton House. They’re going to look amazing when they’re renovated,’ he s
aid happily. ‘Just the sort of luxury holiday apartments people are after. Now are you going to do something about getting this boat tied up safely, or are you just going to stand there and let her crash into the pontoon?’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Harry could have done without a welcoming committee as she jumped ashore. The sight of Teeth and Hair pacing up and down in her spike-heeled boots, waiting to pounce on Matthew, was certainly one she could do without. She used the pretence of ducking to secure the mooring lines to avoid seeing the happy couple reunited, which meant that she was unprepared for Jimi rushing forwards and grabbing her as soon as she straightened up.

  ‘Harry, I was so worried. I thought I’d lost you!’ he said, hugging her tight.

  It was nice of him to be concerned, thought Harry, looking over his shoulder to see if Matthew had noticed; but possibly a bit over the top. Perhaps he was trying to prove something to Teeth and Hair? Pity he was wasting his time. Anyone could see that she and Matthew were far too engrossed in each other to notice anyone else.

  ‘’Ere, that special resin you’ve been waitin’ for is in,’ George said, eyeing Jimi balefully. ‘Postman’s taken it back up to the town. Jimi, you can give me a hand ’ere.’

  ‘Bloody great,’ Harry muttered.

  ‘I’d ’ave got it meself, only with all this toin’ and froin’ I’ve been otherwise engaged.’

  ‘That’s all right, George.’ She pulled herself together. ‘You’ve been wonderful. Thank you – I owe you for looking after me and for coming to rescue me.’

  ‘I tek it I got me job back, then?’ he said, raising a bushy eyebrow.

  ‘You’re lucky there’s still a job to come back to!’ Harry reached up and kissed his weatherbeaten cheek. How had she thought she could manage without him?

  Matthew walked away, wishing he hadn’t witnessed the tender little scene between Harry and Jimi. He’d guessed what was going on, but it still wasn’t very pleasant seeing it under his nose. Of course, he would never have admitted that half the reason he was so cross was because he was disappointed in Harry. How could a girl with so much spirit and resolve allow herself to become embroiled with a narcissistic, strutting, shallow little weasel like Jimi? All the more reason to wash his hands of the restaurant sooner rather than later.

  Abruptly he came to and realised Gina had stopped walking and was watching him through narrowed eyes. ‘So why didn’t you tell me Harry Watling was a girl?’

  ‘Well, hardly. Not so you’d notice,’ Matthew snorted.

  ‘Oh, I think you have, Matthew. And Jimi certainly has. Isn’t that why you’ve got a face like thunder?’

  ‘Gina!’ he shouted, before adopting a more reasonable tone of voice. ‘Gina, be serious. I mean, look at you – and think about Harry. Kerisst! I mean she dresses like a boy, she’s got hands like a builder, and it looks as if she cuts her hair with a knife and fork! C’mon!’

  ‘So why haven’t you got on with your development? You always said you needed the housing to make the restaurant worthwhile. You’ve got the legal means to acquire the land, yet you’ve been umming and ahing about taking it further. There has to be a good reason why you’ve been so reluctant to do anything that would be detrimental to Harry Watling.’

  ‘She’s had a tough time.’ It sounded pretty feeble. ‘I wanted to give her a chance to make a success of everything she’d worked for. I felt …’

  Fraternal? Yes, that’s what had given him that nice warm feeling, a sense he could give her some brotherly guidance about the direction she should take, knowing how alone she was. He thought about her on Calypso looking up at him with those serious grey eyes, a delicate heart-shaped face and that wide mouth that was both clumsy and alluring. Sitting next to her, he was aware of the smell of the warm sea breeze, white cotton, washed hair and a sweet, feminine scent that was all Harry’s own. And, when she’d rubbed her eyes with her small practical hands, suddenly they didn’t look like little fists any more. Nor, for that matter, did they seem so innocent.

  ‘Horny?’ Gina suggested tartly. ‘She blew you out, didn’t she? That’s why you’re trying to put a different spin on it. You spent the night on a tiny little boat together and she wouldn’t let you! Jeez!’ Gina shook her head in disbelief. ‘Maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong? Maybe if I’d played hard to get, you’d have fallen in love with me.’

  ‘I am not in love with Harry Watling!’ Matthew roared.

  ‘I think you’d better work that one out, Matthew,’ she said, smiling sadly. ‘Because one thing’s for sure – you’re not in love with me.’

  For once the dark blue eyes met his without mockery. ‘I came here to tell you that G Mag House has offered me promotion. Assistant Editor.’

  ‘That’s great news for you, Gina. Congratulations.’ Even to his own ears it sounded weak, as if he was addressing a stranger.

  She gave a short laugh. ‘Actually, Matthew it’s great news for you too. The job’s in New York. That’s why I’ve needed to see you, to tell you. I had this crazy idea of us starting again somewhere fresh and exciting. But I’m not the one exciting you any more, am I?’ Again the dark eyes were naked, unguarded. ‘Tell me, Matthew, is there any reason why I shouldn’t go?’

  Matthew opened his mouth to protest, then decided against it. They both knew he was only going through the motions. Their relationship had already been dying when he decided to take on the development of the old clubhouse.

  ‘No? I thought not.’ She smiled at him wearily. ‘You wanted out, Matthew. That’s why you ran away up here, the last place I would ever want to stay.’

  It sounded too hollow to deny it. ‘You still found me a great chef.’

  Gina laughed. ‘I was trying to make you jealous and I certainly succeeded – although not quite in the way I imagined!’

  ‘I still don’t know how you persuaded Jimi to come up here. He’s not my favourite person, but he’s brilliant at his job. And hungry to get his own kitchen. How did you manage to convince him that a restaurant in the middle of Little Spitmarsh was worth seeing?’

  Getting Jimi aboard had been a major coup; even though, having walked out of his previous restaurant under a cloud, the guy knew that there was something of the last-chance saloon about this job. He’d kept himself out of debt by working for an agency with private clients, and had proved himself a creative, passionate and driven chef. Matthew was anticipating menus that would set the restaurant reviews alight.

  ‘Well, not like that, darling, although he is very good-looking.’

  Matthew was still relieved to hear it, even though Gina was, and always had been, a free spirit.

  She pulled a face, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Oh, Jimi’s hungry all right. He could always see the attraction of being the next big seaside chef, but there was more to it.’

  ‘Oh?’ Matthew couldn’t think what other reason there could be to draw Jimi to Little Spitmarsh.

  ‘His father ran a boat yard somewhere up here on the east coast, apparently. Jimi lost his mother some years ago to breast cancer, but it was only recently – after the man he thought was his father died – that he discovered that his real father was someone else. I think Jimi’s been looking for his past.’

  Matthew breathed out slowly.

  ‘Hey!’ Gina said, more gently. ‘Don’t look so worried. Your Harry isn’t in love with him. Any woman can see that.’

  I bloody hope she isn’t, he thought grimly.

  As fairy tales went, Little Spitmarsh was more of an Ugly Duckling than a Sleeping Beauty. Even Harry had to admit, as she walked slowly back to the yard, that it hadn’t exactly woken up to be beautiful; but the little family excitedly unloading their rental van outside a terraced cottage in Sea Lane were thrilled with its unconventional charm.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re here!’ Mum sighed, as Harry stopped to help them with a large chest of drawers.

  ‘We said we’d do it,’ Dad chipped in. ‘But that’s all most people do – talk ab
out moving to the coast. Well, we’ve done it.’

  By selling their ex-local authority flat on the fringes of London, the family had netted enough cash to move somewhere where they didn’t have to worry about their outside wall being daubed with graffiti every night, finding used needles thrown over their fence or being mugged for their mobile phones.

  ‘We love the mixture here,’ the woman enthused. ‘It’s got old-world charm, but with some really lovely shops too. It feels up and coming, but it hasn’t been overwhelmed, unlike some places in the south-west.’

  Despite Harry’s predictions of doom, Matthew’s restaurant had succeeded in making its mark as Little Spitmarsh’s Unique Selling Point. Not least with the family beside her. ‘It’s great for a tiny place like this to have such a brilliant restaurant opening too,’ the woman continued. ‘And, with the money we’ve saved moving away from London, we can even afford to go there for special occasions.’

  Recharged, they returned to their unpacking, their children spilling around them. Not quite the Up-From-Londoners Harry had anticipated, but a real family eager to make a new start. Whether Matthew had just been lucky or extremely perceptive, Harry couldn’t guess; but she had to admit that his vision had raised spirits in the down-at-heel town. The film festival was an inspired touch to draw people to the area; and, with the council and tourist partnership trumpeting its success at every opportunity, similar events were bound to follow.

  Not everyone drawn to Little Spitmarsh would be so keen to stay there permanently. Some of the old flats in Victorian houses ripe for renovation would certainly become dark spaces in the winter with blank windows, curtains left undrawn and no children to swell the numbers in what was left of the local schools. The summer visitors and second-homers would fly back to their comfort zones; but, more importantly, they would return. In winter the little businesses emerging would struggle, but when the sun came out again there would be money to be made, staff to be employed, homes to find and the balance of the economy might just tip in the locals’ favour.