by Rachel Hore
Everything went wrong from the moment she stepped into the vessel. ‘Sit down, no, over here, you’re rocking the boat,’ he commanded. She moved, wobbled and clutched at a wooden pole, which swung free, nearly knocking her over. ‘Ouch,’ she cried.
‘Are you all right? Now, mind the boom or it’ll get you again.’
He gave her a rope that was tied to the sail and she sat down. ‘The boom,’ she repeated. There was a whole new language here. He started up the engine and they motored out between the arms of the harbour in a cloud of fumes. A cold wind struck immediately and Lucy gasped. They set off for the centre of the bay.
‘Right,’ Anthony cried. ‘If you take the tiller, I’ll get the sails up.’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said.
‘Just hold this. If you want to go right move it this way – left, that way. Straight to go straight. Keep her into the wind. You’ll pick it up easy.’
They swapped places. She pulled and pushed the tiller arm and the wind blew them in little circles. ‘Hold it still, will you?’ he said.
‘I can’t,’ she replied.
‘Try, or we’ll end up in the drink.’
Eventually she got the hang of it and Anthony got the sails up and turned off the motor. He thrust the end of a rope at her and said, ‘Right, grab this and change places. Now.’ They did a stupid dance, trying to pass one another.
‘Don’t let the boom go,’ he shouted and she pulled on the rope, panicking as the strength of the wind filled the sails. The boat whipped along, the rope sawing at the skin on her fingers. ‘There’s some gloves in that locker,’ he said, but she couldn’t move to get them and now the boat was tearing towards rocks.
‘Ready about,’ Anthony shouted. ‘Pull the rope hard.’ She did, and the sail flapped in the wind. ‘Now. Duck! Watch the . . . oh hell.’
The swinging boom this time hit her on the side of the head as the boat wheeled round. She cried out with the pain. ‘Keep hold of the rope,’ he cried. ‘Haul it in! Haul it in!’
‘I can’t. Everything hurts. Stop shouting at me.’
‘Here, take the tiller. Hold it steady.’ He reached for the rope and pulled the sail tight, then hitched the rope round a convenient cleat and returned to take the tiller.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Untie that rope and hold in that sail for dear life. When I say “ready about”, hold it firm, I’ll move the tiller and the bow will swing round. Then watch out for the boom which will move across the boat. And that’s the moment you tighten the rope and hold on for dear life. Got it?’
‘Yes,’ she said, crossly, rubbing her face on her sleeve. ‘Just stop shouting at me.’
‘I’m not shouting, I’m giving instructions.’
‘You could at least say please.’
He looked at her in astonishment, then his expression turned to a comic urgency as he cried, ‘Ready about. For God’s sake, do it!’
‘Please,’ she shouted back, but ducked under the boom just in time and hauled on the rope.
‘Please and bloody thank you,’ he said, and she sat up straight and smiled.
‘You are something else,’ he said finally.
She was starting to enjoy it now, the excitement of the wind and the spray dashing her face, the flight of the craft skimming through the blue-green water. She was freezing, but getting to the stage of numbness where it was starting to feel warm. She closed her eyes and was relaxing a little when he shouted, ‘Ready about, again. Please.’ And she pulled the rope and got the sail across just in time.
They were right out to sea now, far from land and she didn’t like to think of the fathoms of water beneath. It was an act of faith, this, being on a boat, working with the weather and the capriciousness of the sea. No wonder sailors were a superstitious lot. What else did they have but the signs of the sky and the water and the hints the gods gave them? She looked back the way they’d come. St Florian was a scar of white and grey on the flank of the land.
It was on their way back that the disaster happened. They were nearing the harbour and Anthony ordered her to swap places again and hold the tiller while he reeled in the sails. He was just coming to reclaim his seat and Lucy stood up to swap over, but she let go of the tiller too early. A great gust of wind blew the boat round and she wobbled, screaming. She grabbed the nearest object, which happened to be him; he stumbled, roared and fell over the side.
‘Help, what do I do?’ she shrieked at the empty water. After a long, long moment he surfaced, gasping, still holding tightly to the rope, and clutched the side of the boat.
‘Sit down!’ he spluttered. ‘No, over there. Now lean out that way.’ With a supreme effort he managed to haul himself back in. He didn’t stop to recover, but seized the tiller and brought the boat under control. His eyes were steel and she was afraid to say anything. They entered the harbour and slipped quietly into their mooring.
She waited until he’d tied up before saying meekly, ‘Anthony, I’m terribly, terribly sorry. It was my first time. I didn’t know what to do. I should have listened to you.’
She was relieved to see a slow smile spread like a flame across his frozen face. His eyes sparkled and he started to laugh.
‘What?’ she said. ‘What? Tell me!’ Then she started to laugh, and soon they were both helpless with laughter.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please. Oh, wait till I tell the boys that.’
‘What boys?’ she asked, but he was still laughing.
Finally he said, ‘Go on, you go and get changed. I’ll finish up here.’
She climbed up onto the jetty. ‘Thank you,’ she called down. ‘Buy you a drink in the bar later?’
‘I’m staying in a borrowed house till Sunday,’ he said an hour later, taking a draught of the local bitter. They were sitting opposite one another at a wooden table in front of the hotel, the evening being mild. ‘It was my friend’s boat, really, but it doesn’t get used much now. I thought you did very well, by the way.’
Lucy almost choked on her lager in surprise. ‘Don’t be daft. I was a disaster.’
‘No, really, for a first-timer. You kept your head.’
‘And tipped the skipper in. Surely they used to make you walk the plank for that.’
He smiled in that way she liked, which illuminated his face. He was a little older than her, she thought, but not by so much. His tanned skin and short, sun-bleached reddish hair signalled long hours spent outdoors. She sat, chin in hand, watching him roll a cigarette and light it with slow, capable movements. She wanted to ask him about himself, but she sensed a barrier.
‘So you’re on holiday?’ was the question she settled on.
‘That’s about it.’ He stared past her, out to sea. Finally his eyes met hers. ‘I’m an Army officer. Just finishing home leave after a long stint in Afghanistan. Reporting for duty again Monday.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘You’re frowning. What are you thinking?’
‘Just that it sounds a bit more important than TV film production.’
‘That’s what you do?’
‘Yes.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘Historical drama at the moment. With the odd documentary thrown in.’
‘Which is the kind of programme I enjoy watching when off-duty. Therefore vital to the world.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes.’
She hesitated for a moment then said, ‘Have you had an awful time?’
Again, that far-off look out to sea. After a moment he nodded. He took a long drink of his beer. ‘It’s good to be home, to sit on an April evening by the sea.’ His eyes crinkled. ‘Hey, what about you? Holiday?’
‘Not really – well, sort of. I mean, I don’t have to be back at work till Monday either, but this trip was a bit unplanned. I’m trying to solve a family mystery.’
‘That sounds interesting. A skeleton in the cupboard?’
‘Possibly, yes. My granny’s family used to live he
re. In Carlyon Manor up the road.’
His face betrayed surprise. ‘That burnt-out place? I walked past it the other day.’
‘The man at the museum said it happened a long time ago.’
‘Oh, I’ve met him.’
‘He’s been very kind. Fixed me up to see an old lady who turns out to be my great-aunt by marriage.’
‘And she’s got a story to tell?’
‘A fascinating one. I’m on the trail of a great-uncle who disappeared in the Second World War. My father was obsessed with the mystery, and I’m trying to find out why. She’s still telling me about it all.’
‘What did your great-uncle do in the war?’
‘I don’t know exactly. Something to do with Special Operations.’
He nodded slowly. ‘I’ve read up a bit about that. Would I have heard of him?’
‘I’ve no idea. His name was Rafe Ashton.’
‘Rafe Ashton. No, it doesn’t ring any bells.’
‘His official file was empty.’
‘Was it now? Cover-up by our people, do you suppose?’
‘It looks like it.’
‘Let me know if you want me to sift around. See if I can find anything through my channels.’
‘I will,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She brought out her purse.
‘It’s definitely my round next,’ he said.
‘No, I’ll buy,’ she replied, ‘but it’s not that. I was looking for this.’ She handed him one of her business cards.
‘Lucy Cardwell,’ he read aloud. ‘Blue Arch Studio. That’s you?’
‘Yes, that’s my mobile number. And my email.’
He pulled his wallet out of his jacket and stowed the card away safely then gave her his contact details.
‘Well, Lucy Cardwell,’ he said, ‘it’s definitely my round. And I’ll bring out the menu – unless you’ve got other plans.’
Later, in her hotel room, she checked her phone and found another message from Will. He was beginning to sound impatient and she knew she couldn’t pretend any longer. It wasn’t fair on either of them. She called his number, and when he answered they had one of those stumbling conversations at the end of which both parties were in agreement that things weren’t working. It was, they decided, best that they return to being friends.
After switching off her phone again, Lucy was surprised to feel not sadness but a soaring relief. She lay down on her bed and thought of the time she’d spent with Anthony, their laughter when they’d regained the safety of the quay – and she smiled.
Chapter 10
Today, Tuesday, a large flat cardboard box had joined the photograph albums on Beatrice’s table. Beatrice coaxed off the lid, lifted several layers of tissue paper and shook out a gorgeous dress of silver slashed with midnight blue, onto which was sewn a small train of a pewter-coloured gauzy material.
‘It’s the dress from your photograph. How wonderful,’ Lucy said, stroking the soft garment. ‘To think it’s survived so long.’
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Beatrice said. ‘My mother made it. The rows we had over the fittings! I was so cross and fidgety, having to stand still with pins sticking in me, that she lost her temper one day and threw it into the dustbin. That shocked me. I had to creep out and rescue it and apologize.’
‘Was it made for a special occasion?’
‘The Wincantons threw a party at Carlyon Manor two days before Christmas 1938. It was, I’m sure, Oenone Wincanton’s idea. She felt, no doubt, that her chicks were starting to fly the nest, and wanted to mark the fact. I think she also felt sorry for me. My life had come to a temporary halt, you see. I was still weak and thin, and I had a slight limp from my illness. And I was going away to school, not somewhere marvellous abroad or having a season. The party was like a consolation prize, my only chance at coming out. Rafe was invited and a whole host of young people from local families. Even Michael Wincanton graced us with his presence. After all, there were appearances to keep up, no matter how stormy their marriage was in private.’
As an honorary member of the family and because Angelina begged her to help her dress, Beatrice arrived at Carlyon early, driven by her father in his borrowed car, her dress wrapped in tissue in a box on her lap, her mother’s only good jewellery tucked safely in a vanity case on the back seat.
Brown, who admitted her, said, ‘Thank God you’re here, miss. Maybe you’ll put some sense into that young lady. I don’t know what they’ve been teaching her in France, but it certainly ain’t good manners. Find your own way up, miss, would you, or Cook’ll have me guts for gaiters.’ And she fled through the green baize door.
Beatrice stood in the hall for a moment, listening to the tension that crackled through the house. From the dining room Mrs Wincanton could be heard giving orders. Bless the butler nodded a greeting as he passed through with a callow youth in train, each of them bearing a tray of champagne flutes. From the floor above emanated a girlish shriek of temper followed by a throaty laugh. Angie and Peter. Picking up her luggage with a sigh, Beatrice went upstairs.
She reached Angie’s room in time to see Peter sauntering out of it, hands in trouser pockets and with a sneery smile pasted on his face. When he noticed Beatrice, his expression went blank in that strange shy way he had. Muttering, ‘Hello,’ he dodged past her.
‘Hello, Peter.’ He’d grown appreciably since she last saw him at the beginning of the summer. Sixteen he was now – taller, the coarser, adult features beginning to form. Where Ed was assuming the best side of each of his parents, his mother’s temperate blonde beauty and his father’s handsome physique, the leaner Celtic looks of some more remote ancestor were blooming darkly in Peter. His cleverness, though, and the moody air were all his own. Beatrice felt awkward with him and pitied him in equal measure. She had gathered from comments Ed let drop that, though no longer bullied, Peter lacked friends at school and that his shyness and surliness drew unfair comparisons with his elder brother. Ed clearly felt sorry for him and had done his best to protect him. Now Ed had gone up to university Peter was alone and no one was certain how he fared.
‘Go away!’ Angie cried, when Beatrice knocked on the half-open door.
‘It’s me,’ Beatrice said, going in.
‘Thank heavens you’ve come. No one here has time to help me with my dress.’ She was standing at the basin in petticoat and stockings. On the bed lay the most beguiling confection of pale green satin and froths of white lace.
‘Oh, Angie,’ Beatrice cried, fingering the silky fabric. ‘It’s beautiful.’ She helped Angie pull it over her head, aware of the girl’s warm back under her fingers as she fastened the column of tiny buttons. The cut of the gown flattered Angie’s curves perfectly, and against the green her skin glowed luminous, without a flaw. The fashionably natural waves of her honey-coloured hair needed merely the flick of a brush. Soon pearls gleamed at her ears and throat.
Beatrice stood back to see the effect. Manners or no, Angie had certainly acquired a kind of allure abroad, a sophistication. She looked perfect.
‘How am I?’ Angie asked, twisting and turning to see her reflection in the big cheval mirror.
‘Wonderful,’ said Beatrice. ‘The dress is lovely with your hair.’
‘Now it’s your turn,’ Angie said happily, and Beatrice opened her box and took out her precious dress.
Moments later, Beatrice took her turn by the mirror, a curious expression on her face.
‘Oh,’ Angie said, staring at her. ‘I think I’m going to cry.’
It was the first time Beatrice had seen herself full-length in the dress and she couldn’t believe that the stranger who looked back, rather a beautiful stranger, was herself. The blue and the silver glimmered against her glossy dark curls, highlighting her pointed ivory face and bright chestnut eyes. Her mother’s sapphire pendant lay on her collarbone, and she clipped on the matching drop earrings. They pinched her ears madly, but the pain must be borne. She slipped her feet into the silver kid sandals her mother h
ad bought in Truro.
‘You’re not little brown Bea any more!’ Angie whispered. The face looking over Beatrice’s shoulder in the mirror did not show admiration so much as envy, and Beatrice was shocked. But when she turned to look at Angie the expression had been smoothed away. All was as serene as before.
‘Come on,’ Angie said, handing her some gloves, and they went downstairs together.
The hall was already full of men in dinner jackets and women in opulent dresses divesting themselves of coats, hats and fur wraps, taking glasses from the young boy’s tray, noticing the wonderful Christmas tree covered in candles before moving into the drawing room to be greeted by Mr and Mrs Wincanton.
As the girls came down the stairs, they were received by a sea of admiring faces. They were looking not just at Angie, but at both of them – blonde and brunette, light and dark, a pair of opposites, but both lovely.
Just then, Bless opened the front door, and there on the doorstep stood Rafe.
He paused on the threshold, looking from Beatrice to Angie and back to Beatrice, who smiled at him shyly, but it was Angie who pushed forward to greet him.
‘Oh, Rafe, you’re nice and early,’ she said, taking his coat. ‘Don’t we all look grown-up?’
‘You both look very well,’ he stammered, and blushed. His eyes said ‘stunning’ and Angie laughed, one of her golden infectious giggles.
‘Thank you. So do you, doesn’t he, Bea?’
Rafe, too, was all grown up, tall and dashing in formal dress, his fair hair soft in the light of the candles. As they helped themselves to champagne, Beatrice couldn’t keep her eyes off him.
‘Well met, Ashton!’ called Ed, coming across and clasping Rafe’s hand. And turning to Angie and Beatrice, ‘I say, you girls look . . .’ He trailed to a halt.
‘Don’t they?’ Rafe said, the first rush of champagne hitting its mark.
‘Shall we take you to Mummy and Daddy?’ Angie asked. She was looking at Rafe, who immediately presented his arm to escort her. Beatrice pushed away her disappointment to take Ed’s.
‘Darlings!’ Oenone said, as they passed into the drawing room. ‘So lovely. And boys, you look so handsome. Where’s Peter, by the way? Is he down?’ No one seemed to know.