Wallace Dakin’s coarse red face turned an ugly purple hue, and his pale grey eyes bulged in anger. Giving in with a regretful little cluck of her tongue, Polly whirled round and smartly left the busy tap-room.
Directly opposite was the door to the cellar. She yanked it open, descending the steep stone steps to the bottom where the kegs of ale and casks of wine and spirits were stored. The former was delivered openly and legitimately by the brewer’s cart every Monday.
The latter Polly felt fit to wonder about. There was more here now than yesterday. How had it got here? And when had it come? Shrugging the matter aside for now, she seized a flask of good French brandy and remounted the steps.
She was a pretty girl with a lot of curling chestnut brown hair and bright, intelligent hazel eyes, the legacy of her mother who had been a Platt before her marriage. The Platts were a well-to-do Parkgate family and it was common knowledge that Marion had married beneath her.
Polly loved her attractive mother and even had it in her to feel a spark of fondness for her father. Wallace, when not in his cups, was a handsome, larger than life man with a mane of red-gold hair and bushy beard and eyes that flashed with humour.
She could see how in his youth a girl might have been swept off her feet by him. A charmer, her mother had once said. Polly’s brother Edward, the elder by eleven months, had inherited a fair share of the Dakin charm.
As had Polly, although she was not aware of the fact. Swinging the door shut, her lips tightly compressed, she went to place the brandy on the table in front of her father, where he sat on a stool by a sizzling fire of peat and driftwood. Without a word she gathered up her thick woollen shawl from the peg behind the door, threw it across her shoulders and went outside.
Sharp October rain stung her face as she made her way carefully across the straw and dung-strewn tavern yard, heading for the harbour where the ferry from Flint would dock once the tide was fully in. The boats ran infrequently now, due to the canalizing of the river to run on the Welsh side and the subsequent silting up of the harbour at Parkgate.
Father told of how it used to be when the ferry boats put in at regular intervals and Parkgate had been a thriving fishing port, with cod and herring being salted on the quayside and the air ripe with the smell of fish and rowdy with the banter of the fishwives.
Coming to the edge of the quay, Polly stood peering into the distance, the wind blowing her hair and billowing her brown homespun skirts about her small, determined figure. Sometimes, John’s boat could be seen out on the estuary when he returned from checking the herring nets.
Thinking of him, his merry brown eyes and ready smile, Polly could have hugged herself. She and John Royle had been meeting in secret for the best part of six months now. What with Father never in the best of humour and her mother in poor health, they had thought it best not to disclose their feelings for the time being.
Polly did not mind. John loved her and she him, and for now that was all that mattered.
There was no sign of John’s boat, the Lady Mary, but Polly’s quick eye caught in the middle distance the outline of a figure on the saltmarsh to her left. Whoever it was had clearly been caught out by the tide and was rushing this way and that in panic, aware of becoming trapped, but not knowing how to escape.
All around was the bluster of the wind and the slap and gurgle of water as the running sea sent ever-increasing eddies along the narrow channels cut into the marsh for access for the fisher-folk. If the person – a woman, by her flying cloak and hair – did not receive help she would be cut off and would surely perish.
Polly cupped her hands to her mouth and hollered.
‘Stay where you are! I’m coming!’
Without a thought for her own safety, she skimmed down the slippery weed-slimed steps which would very soon be under water, and made off across the saltmarsh to where the woman stood stranded. Polly was at home on the marsh and followed a well-known path. Sure-footed, bending into the wind, she reached the person, who carried a wicker trug filled to the brim with seaweed.
Polly recognized her as Meg Shone, a reclusive person who dealt in cures and charms and lived in a small cottage behind the village.
‘This way! Quickly!’ Polly cried and, seizing the woman by the arm, she guided her back across the soggy ground and up the steps to safety.
There, gasping, soaked and wind-tousled, the two women faced one another. Meg Shone was younger than Polly had supposed; a tall, strong-looking person, swarthy skinned, with far-seeing black eyes and a wide, mobile mouth.
‘My thanks to you, missy,’ she said simply. ‘You’ve saved a foolish body’s life. Gathering the seaweed, I was, and lost count of the time. Meg Shone never forgets a favour. If ever you need a friend, and one day, you surely will, remember me.’
Sending Polly a nod, she gathered her bounty to her and sped away, vanishing into the October murk.
Thea came to her senses with a start. The sun had sunk below the horizon; dusk stole across the area where she sat. The papers had slithered from her grasp and lay at her feet on the dusty floor. She stared at them, her mind in turmoil. What had just happened? Who were those people, and how come she had seen them?
A car door slamming made her jump and she looked up with relief. She would have to tell Geoff about this vivid, weird kind of dream … would he think she was crazy? What on earth was happening to her?
Chapter Two
Thea’s first thought was one of gladness that Geoff was here, coupled with a feeling of surprise that she had dozed off so readily. She’d never nodded off like that. And as for that weird dream.…
She bent to pick up the documents that had fallen to the floor, smoothing them out, her face puzzled and frowning. She had been here in this very room. It had been so real! The innkeeper, the girl, the gypsy woman at the mercy of the oncoming tide. She had even felt the woman’s fear.
Geoff’s echoing footsteps in the empty hall brought her head up abruptly and a moment later he was in the room with its peeling wallpaper and smell of dust and damp.
‘Hi there,’ he said, going to where she still sat in the window casement to drop a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Are you OK, love? You look a bit wiped out.’
Thea rubbed her throbbing temple absently.
‘Just a headache. I’ve felt a bit off all evening. There’s one of those bugs going round at school. I must have picked it up.’ She smiled at him, making light of it. ‘Better keep your distance. Can’t have you catching it too. Who’d do the milking in your place?’
‘Oh, you know me. I never seem to catch these things. An outdoor life sees to that. There’s nothing like a good old westerly for blowing away the nasties.’ He stopped, looking at her more closely. ‘There’s something else.… What is it, darling?’
‘I had this dream. Geoff, it was so real.’ Hesitantly, she related what had happened. ‘Dreams generally fade when you wake up but this one hasn’t. I can remember every detail as if I’d seen it in a movie. It’s weird.’
Geoff sat down beside her and took her in his arms.
‘You’ve been overdoing things, that’s all, Thea. A good night’s sleep and you’ll be fine. Are these the deeds?’ He picked them up. ‘That accounts for the nightmare, then. You were looking through them, dozed off and your overworked imagination did the rest.’
Thea was silent. Common sense told her that Geoff could be right. Deep down, however, she didn’t question. Somehow, the past had opened up to her.
‘A schoolhouse, eh?’ Geoff was glancing with interest through the papers. ‘Knocks your dream on the head. A tavern’s a far cry from what it says here.’
‘Actually, I remember Dad saying the Harbour House had been a coaching inn at one time. The tide would have come in every day then. There was a ferryboat service from across the estuary and transport laid on to carry travellers on to the station. I wonder what happened to bring about the change? It all looked to be thriving to me.’
Geoff was looking at her with so
mething close to exasperation.
‘Forget it, Thea. Strange dreams, freaky Fridays. It’s like I said, you fell asleep and your mind wouldn’t let you rest. And no wonder. School all week, horse shows every weekend. I hardly ever see you.’
A sudden and totally irrational irritation rose up.
‘I could say the same for you, Geoff,’ she snapped. ‘When was the last time we went out without you having to dash back to catch up with something at the farm? What about tonight’s history group? I waited and waited for you to show up! So don’t talk to me about never having time to spare, Geoff. You’re no different!’
‘But I told you when you rang on your mobile,’ he insisted. ‘There was a lot of catching up to do. Heck, Thea. You know as well as anyone that the milking doesn’t do itself.’
‘Well, the same goes for my schoolwork. The ponies, too, come to that. And you’re wrong about the shows. I haven’t done one in weeks because my best prospect has been out of action. That wouldn’t concern you, of course. Ponies don’t count as much as cattle.’
‘That’s not true!’ Geoff drew in a calming breath. ‘Look. I’m sorry about the history club tonight. I fully intended being there but Dad was taken poorly. There was a bit of a panic on, to be honest. We were in the middle of the milking. I had to leave off and get him into the house.’
All Thea’s anger evaporated. ‘Geoff, I’m sorry. You did say when I rang. I thought he was just feeling under the weather. How was he when you left?’
‘A bit brighter. Mum called the doctor – well, you can’t be too careful. Doctor Malone was off duty so they sent a locum. She was very thorough but it’s never the same when someone isn’t familiar with the patient.’
Thea nodded.
‘Sorry, I was prickly.’
‘You weren’t.’ He kissed her tenderly. ‘What happened just now … your dream. It hasn’t put you off the house?’
‘Of course not. I love the Harbour House.’
‘That’s all right then. But you really do look exhausted. Why don’t you get off home? You hang on to the deeds for now, Thea. I’ll see them another time.’
He pulled her to her feet and together they went out into the deepening evening. Dusk had gathered and the murmur of the distant tide was loud on the soft summer air. In the deep channels that criss-crossed the saltmarsh, the water sucked and gurgled.
Still under the spell of her dream, Thea gave a shiver. She remembered the raging wind and rain against the wooden window shutters, the roar of the oncoming tide. The inn had seemed a rough and ready sort of place. A place with a past, maybe a dark one.
Getting into her car, bidding Geoff goodnight, she drove slowly home. The tiff had upset her more than she had realized. They never argued. Her head was now throbbing and she turned with relief into the drive at Woodhey. An early night would put her back on track. She’d check on the ponies and then go to bed.
Home at last, she sipped a comforting mug of hot chocolate and couldn’t resist another glance at the bundle of deeds. Her father and sister had both been out when she arrived back; Dad to a darts match at the local and Bryony clubbing with her friends. But Mum had been there and was as intrigued as Thea at the night’s find.
‘A schoolhouse! Well, I wouldn’t have thought it was big enough.’
‘Dominic said the same thing. I guess in those days they’d only have needed a few boarders to make it pay. Maybe they made the attics into a dormitory and had the schoolroom and other facilities downstairs.’
‘You could be right. What stories that old house could tell if only it could talk,’ Mum had commented innocently.
Finishing her drink, Thea put mug and documents down on the bedside table, switched off the lamp and plumped up her pillows. Tired though she was, sleep wasn’t immediate. Fragments of her tiff with Geoff ran distressingly through her mind.
Superimposed over Geoff’s irate face was that of Dominic’s as he sifted through the large box of documents and drew out those all-absorbing papers. He had been so pleased for her, as if he’d found gold. Inevitably, Thea’s thoughts went to the house itself.
Her eyes closed; she heard the sea slapping against the harbour wall with an oily sound, the murmur of voices. Turning on to her side, she tried to blot out the memory, but it was too strong for her and she slept, her breath quiet and even, her eyes behind the closed lids describing a series of twitches as the scenes took shape.
John Royle stepped out from the shadows of the boatshed and Polly flew into his arms.
‘John! I’m sorry to be late. I was worried in case you’d given me up and gone.’
‘Never. I saw the ferry come in this morning and guessed you’d be busy. There looked to be a lot of passengers. Was it a full house?’
‘Yes, they all came in clamouring for food. I didn’t know if I was on my head or my heels!’ Polly paused. ‘Mam’s not well either. That’s what delayed me. I couldn’t very well leave her with all the pots. Still, never mind. I’m here now.’
She gazed up into John’s lean, clever face and her heart skipped a beat. How she loved him! Loved the way his dark-brown hair fell endearingly over his brow and the blue eyes that shone when they beheld her, as if she was everything to him. He had never said as much, not yet.
How could he, when all they had were snatched meetings and whispered words to mark their growing attachment for each other? Polly knew that if her father were to find out he’d take his strap to her. His daughter and a common fisher lad?
Useless to tell him that John held ambitions over and above the usual. Da wouldn’t listen.
‘I’m sorry about your mama,’ John said. ‘It must be a worry for you. She’s such a lady. Not really cut out for the life of a tavern-keeper’s wife, is she?’
Polly sighed. It was true that Marion Dakin, with her frail good looks and gentle manners, was more suited to sitting with her embroidery than coping with an inn full of travellers, well-to-do though many of them were.
She wondered if her mother was aware of the others, the ones that came stealthily at night, their boats sliding soundlessly through the waves.
Polly bit her lip.
‘John, there’s something else. It concerns my father. I’ve reason to believe he’s involved with the moonlighters.’
There, it was said. The fear that had possessed her ever since she had discovered the mysterious haul in the cellar was now shared. Knowing the serious nature of her suspicions, Polly was unprepared for the wry smile that came to John’s lips.
‘Oh, Polly, my sweet innocent,’ he said. ‘You’d be surprised how many Parkgate folk have a finger in that particular pie! I see much of what goes on when I’m out on the boat. There’s been a marked increase in contraband activity ever since the Custom House and the Watch Tower ceased to operate. People think they are safe.’
‘And are they?’
‘Not as such, there’s always the risk of discovery.’ His hands held her shoulders as he turned her towards him. ‘Polly, you must have a care. For your own good you’d be wise to turn a blind eye to what goes on. If ever it came to official ears that your father was involved and you were questioned, you could then answer with all honesty that you know nothing.’
‘But Da would be in serious trouble. It would kill my mother.’
Touched as she was that John thought enough of her to bestow the warning, Polly wanted further proof that her father was involved.
The pile of unaccounted-for goods she had inadvertently stumbled across preyed on her mind. Polly wanted to establish how they arrived in the cellar and where they were going.
‘The tide’s on the turn,’ John said. ‘I shall have to see to the nets. Take care, Polly. Remember what I said.’
His lips came down lingeringly on hers. He tore himself away and went loping off along the quayside to where his fishing boat was moored. Polly was reflective as she made her way back to the tavern.
When she entered the kitchen however, all thoughts of contraband fled. Her mothe
r was bent over a pail of root vegetables she had been peeling, her hand to her brow, her face ashen.
‘Mother!’ Polly darted to her side. ‘What is it? Are you ill?’
‘It’s nothing, Polly love.’ Marion Dakin made a visible effort to pull herself together. ‘I came over a little faint, that is all.’
‘You must go and rest. Never mind the evening meal. I’ll see to it. Here, let me help you upstairs.’
Polly helped her mother to bed and made her comfortable, then hastened back to the kitchen to pick up where Marion had left off. Voices and spontaneous bursts of laughter issued from the tap-room where the overnight boarders were gathered.
Glancing up, Polly then swung the stock pot over the fire. It was going to be a long evening….
Midnight had struck before she had finished. Wearily, Polly put the gruel to steep for the morning and dragged herself off to her room under the eaves. She was drifting into sleep when the sound she most dreaded brought her abruptly back to consciousness – the creak of the trapdoor to the cellar below being opened.
Getting up, Polly flung her shawl around her shoulders and crept down the steep wooden stairs, keeping to the shadow of the wall. Sure enough, in the lobby below, her father and two burly seamen were stowing away a shipment of goods.
There was a murmured exchange of words, a furtive handing over of money, and the men melted silently away into the night. Before Wallace Dakin could ascend the stairs Polly had darted off back to her room.
Her heart was thumping in her throat. So her suspicions had been correct. Her father was involved with contraband.
The enormity of it drove all prospect of sleep from her head. Wallace Dakin was not renowned for his discretion, especially when in his cups. One slip, and everything would be lost.…
The next morning, Polly, heavy-eyed from lack of sleep, sought out her brother and told him what she had seen.
‘Da’s making a few pennies on the side?’ Edward simply grinned, his tawny eyes dancing. ‘That doesn’t surprise me. Forget it, Polly. How’s your John?’
Across the Sands of Time Page 3