George let her news sink in for a moment, hoping he’d realise where she was leading.
‘Jack, I don’t suppose you want a job for a few weeks? I need someone I can trust, tomorrow morning.’
Jack stared at her. She reached over and put her hand on his, where his fingers rested on the base of his glass. ‘Please?’
He looked down at her hand, but didn’t move.
‘Let me think about it.’
George sat back, breaking contact. If she and Jack ever got together, she wanted it to be when he wasn’t half pissed and hadn’t just been dumped.
‘Jack, I’ve got to go soon. I don’t want to make my way back in the dark, at low tide.’
‘Stay here, if you like.’
George knew he wasn’t hitting on her. He just needed company, in the way she’d needed company after her fright in his forward cabin.
‘I’d better go.’ In full daylight, the saloon had almost felt safe, all polished wood, gleaming brass and sailing books. Now, the memory of something nasty lingered in the corners. Soon, she’d be a frightened little girl and Jack would stop respecting her. When George stood, the light outside had already faded enough for her to see the navigation lights out in the channel.
When she looked back at him, she sensed shadows creeping out of the corners, stretching across the floor to reclaim him, real enough in her mind for her to climb out of them onto the cockpit ladder. It wasn’t the divorce that was dragging Jack down, it was that frigging boat. She turned back to him from the first step.
‘See you in the morning?’ She could hear the hope in her voice.
‘Perhaps. I’ll call you later. Make sure you got back safely.’
He’d come. She could see it in his face.
VIII: GEORGE
Some times could be so happy that George would be frightened. She couldn’t quite believe that good stuff happened and might keep happening without being taken away from her. The next two weeks were like that. Unreal. Too good to last.
Jack rang her that night, just to make sure she had got back all right, and talking with him was so easy and chilled. They spoke about anything. The yard, and yes, he’d come and help. Boats. People. His parents. George’s mother. Happy stuff, too, like they were in their own private world. Maybe it was safer, in a way, being able to chat but not being in the same room, together but not together. The words flowed until his phone battery died, and afterwards George was so happy that she punched the air.
And they made a good team around the yard. Jack didn’t have Chippy Alan’s shipwright skills, but he knew the basics, so they outsourced the specialist tasks to a boatbuilder. George thought Jack was drinking less, maybe a lot less. He’d also moved back into his cottage to save time rowing ashore in the mornings, now the holiday rental people next door had gone. The darkness around him began to fade, as if the boat had lost its hold on him. He’d arrive on time, bright-eyed, and work hard.
In their breaks, George would sit near Jack, with her eyes closed, just to enjoy the image of him in her mind, and the colours in the image were brighter every day. They told her things that she needed to know, without him saying, things that made her want to run her fingers through his hair and hold him and tell him she felt the same way.
The colours were the colours of love, but Jack’s behaviour was just that of a good friend, like there was some barrier between them, some line he wouldn’t cross. At first she thought it showed respect, so for a while it was enough to be together, to laugh and be easy.
One day they sat outside the office, enjoying the sunshine while they ate lunchtime sandwiches. Jack was close enough for George to see the fine, sandy hairs on his wrists as he gripped his sandwich, and far enough away for their lunch wrappers to be on the bench between them. The seagulls wheeled and swooped and made a lot of noise, and from time to time they had to swat them away from the food. Frigging shitehawks. They were the only irritation on an end-of-season hot day, a T-shirt day, while they watched a gin palace of a motor launch come alongside one of the floating pontoons. George felt too idle to go and help, too easy with Jack, and besides, there were people on the pontoon ready to take the lines. The skipper of the gin palace was making a hash of his approach and George frowned as he came in too fast. He was probably trying to impress the woman on the foredeck, who held a fender on a rope in one hand and made frantic ‘back off’ signals with the other. The boat went hard astern, almost jerking the woman into a forward roll overboard, and George winced as the boat’s fenders ground against the floating pontoon. Inflated plastic groaned against wood, and the whole structure flexed away from the hull.
Jack swallowed a bite out of a sandwich. ‘Is that what they call pier pressure?’
George groaned and punched him lightly on the shoulder. They’d started playing the ‘worst pun’ game again, now he was more relaxed. The woman on the foredeck threw her line to someone on the pontoon, and shouted back at the man at the controls. She didn’t sound happy. George hooked her elbows over the back of the bench, enjoying the show.
‘Maybe he’d have been better off picking up a buoy.’
Jack made a deep, rumbling chuckle, and glanced at her. He turned away quickly, but not before she’d seen his look flicker over her figure. George closed her eyes and tilted her head back, enjoying the sun and the warmth of being desired. She had a picture of a flare of red low down, in Jack’s core, an instinct that came not from the mind or the heart but somewhere altogether earthier. Feck, if he felt like that, why not do something about it?
‘We should celebrate.’ George broke the silence.
‘Celebrate what?’
‘Your first week. Will you tikka chance on an Indian takeaway?’
‘Naan better.’
*
Jack fell off the wagon that night. George couldn’t afford restaurants, and she didn’t like the idea of cycling back from his cottage in the dark, so they ate at her apartment. It wasn’t much: one bedroom and an open-plan living area, in a cheap part of town, but it was convenient for the boatyard. Jack brought a couple of bottles of wine.
They were both a bit nervous, which was strange when they were so easy in each other’s company at the yard, but having him in her apartment felt as exciting and as awkward as a first date. Jack was restrained with the wine, at first, sipping at a single glass because he had to drive, until she told him he could use her sofa if he wanted. After that he got stuck in. They had the takeaway sitting round the breakfast bar that doubled as a dining table, and by the time they’d finished they’d put a dent in the second bottle and were both a bit mellow. Jack started dreaming about places he’d like to take Draca, waving his arms as he spoke.
‘Mediterranean. Adriatic. How’d you like to island-hop around Greece?’ The way he’d said that made it an idea rather than an invitation, but his eyes were shining and he looked all boyish and hunky so she leaned across the breakfast bar and kissed him on the lips. They were soft and dry, and parted ever so gently. Their faces stayed so close, after, that she breathed spice and wine.
‘That’s not a yes, by the way.’
Jack was probably too surprised to speak. When George pulled her head back he was staring at her, all wide-eyed and startled.
‘I have to earn a living, Jack, see? Besides…’
Jack stopped her with another kiss. This one lasted a bit longer.
‘Besides what, George?’
That second kiss had thrown her. She’d lost her train of thought.
‘Oh. Besides, your boat freaks me out.’
He leaned back, frowning. Seemed he didn’t like that.
‘Are you sure it wasn’t a bad dream, that night? We’d both been drinking…’
Their beautiful moment began to fade, like a wave on a beach. George didn’t want to think about that night. ‘It was like being groped, Jack. I was touched. I felt breathing. Even last week, I was frightened on board when it began to get dark.’
‘I’ve slept in that cabin quite a lo
t, and never sensed anything.’
‘Maybe whatever it is doesn’t fancy you,’ George snapped. They’d just had their first proper kiss and he was getting all defensive about his boat.
‘It has good taste then.’
‘Or it’s got you right where it wants you.’
They stared at each other across the breakfast bar until George sighed and began to clear up. Jack put his hand over hers to stop her.
‘Sorry, George. You can sense things I can’t. What was it your mum said about you?’
‘That I was psychic.’
‘And?’
‘And a healer.’
‘So how do you heal people?’ His voice was gentle now.
George shrugged. ‘I’ve only done it a few times. People aren’t open to that sort of thing.’
‘But how, George?’
‘With my hands, like what I tried to do in the boat that night. And you thought that if I touched you we’d end up in bed together.’
‘I’m going to feel bad about that army physio for a very long time.’
‘I think you should let me try again. Just healing.’ It wasn’t the army woman who worried her; it was the darkness that gathered around him on his boat, like something was eating him up. ‘No promises, no guarantees, but it’s worth a try.’
Jack stared at her with eyes that were slightly unfocused. When he didn’t speak she took the wine glass out of his hand, and moved to stand behind him.
‘This ain’t going to work like this.’ She had to reach up to his shoulders as he sat on the stool. ‘You should be lying down.’
‘What do you suggest, George?’
She tugged him to his feet, and led him into the bedroom.
‘Just keep your hands to yourself, right?’ She wasn’t sure if she meant that.
It didn’t work out as she’d planned. She made him take his shirt off and lie face down, but she felt him tense at the first touch of her hands. His skin was smooth and soft under her fingers but the knots stayed bunched beneath. The whole scenario felt contrived.
‘Relax. Think of something peaceful. Think of Witt Point.’ George pushed her thumbs up his spine, strong and deep in the muscles. ‘Think of waves on the foreshore.’ She let her hands retreat, softly, wave-like, but Jack’s back tightened, almost like a jolt of tension.
‘Something wrong, Jack?’
He relaxed a little, but still held himself taut, as if ready to jump up and run.
‘You called it a ‘thin’ place, a place where worlds are close,’ he mumbled into the pillow.
‘It’s peaceful.’
‘I think I saw a ghost in the trees, near the cottage.’
The healing wasn’t happening. To heal, she had to almost empty her mind and unlock something within her.
‘You told me.’ George knew why she wasn’t emptying. Kneeling astride Jack, with her crotch against his bum and her fingers on his back, too much of her mind was occupied by what she wanted him to do to her. ‘Charl said Old Eddie did too.’
‘What?’
Jack lifted one shoulder, twisting to look at her.
‘Charl said she read Eddie’s diary…’
Jack sank back onto the bed, but George had sensed the shutting of a mental door as soon as she’d mentioned Charlotte. Soon, he would get up and reach for his shirt. She moved further up his back and began to massage his scalp. Scalp massages are good for stress. She’d been able to send her mum to sleep with one, every time. Maybe that was what Jack needed: sleep.
In time, George felt the tension flow from him, and she softened her touch, letting him go. The more she softened, the further Jack drifted from her, even when she leaned forward and let her chest touch his shoulders. He was so deeply under that he didn’t stir when she climbed off and pulled the duvet over him.
There was a little wine left, and she splashed it into a glass and watched Jack from the doorway, sipping, not fully understanding what had just happened. Waves on the shore. Charlotte. And the evening had literally slipped through her fingers. After a while, George took her kit off, found a blanket and curled up on her sofa.
*
It was still dark when Jack’s shouting woke her, and George found him thrashing around on the bed, bellowing something like ‘break right, break right’. She tried to hold him and talk to him to bring him out of the nightmare, but his forearm caught her a glancing, painful blow across the chest. She held his arm before he could hit her again, and then lay on top of him, pinning him down while he woke. There was enough light from the street lamps outside to see him staring up at her with eyes that looked big in his face. His chest was clammy with sweat and moved in short, gasping pants like he’d just run a mile, so she let go of his arms and stroked his face, shushing him as if he was a little kid. Jack let out a great, shuddering sigh and wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her tightly to him until the desperation became another kind of need, and George took him into her body.
It must have been a long time since he’d had sex.
*
George woke at first light to see him standing by the window, looking down at the town through a crack in the curtains, his naked outline perfect until she looked down at the contraption where his foot had been. She went to stand behind him, and wrapped her arms around him.
‘Hey.’ George inhaled his smell where it concentrated between his shoulders: male sweat and a scent that was uniquely Jack. He reached behind him and touched her side, but lightly, as if he was unsure of his welcome despite the way she pushed herself into his back.
‘George, I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’ It was her turn to mumble. She was savouring the texture of his skin against her face.
‘It shouldn’t have been like that.’
‘How should it have been?’ George reached around him and began to explore down his belly. There was a point at the level of his hips where his stomach muscles formed miniature valleys that angled downwards and inwards…
‘Gentler. Kinder. More… mutual.’
She turned him, stood on tiptoes to kiss him and once again tugged him towards the bed.
‘Show me.’
He did. Which was why George skipped into the boatyard in the morning with this crazy grin all over her face. Perhaps it was a good thing that Chippy wasn’t around, because he would have known. Feck, anyone would have known. She was practically shouting it, doing happy dances along the pontoons.
*
For the next week, they couldn’t get enough of each other. Her flat. His cottage. The sail store at the boatyard, anywhere but on board Draca. Jack even took her bent over the desk in her office while she was on the phone to a client. That was a seriously weird conversation.
Once he admitted to her that he’d thought she was gay. Charl had even let him think they were lovers. Bloody Charl.
They took a long lunch one day, and Jack drove them to a pub on the downs where Jack drank orange juice and stroked the inside of her legs under the table until they left the food and climbed over a stile to look for a discreet place to get noisy. They were tottering together like a four-legged beast, legs entwined and hands everywhere, so they didn’t see the sheep behind the thicket and the sheep didn’t see them until George squealed as they scrambled out from under their feet. Jack was so surprised that he fell over, pulling George with him.
‘George, I think I’ve fallen for ewe.’
She could do better than that. ‘We’ve been sheepwrecked.’
‘Nah. We’re just three sheeps in the wind.’
George was lying on top of him and felt the phone in his pocket vibrate before it rang.
‘Ooh, that’s exciting. Ask them to ring again.’
Jack fumbled for the phone and George squirmed against his hand, teasing him.
‘George, you’re baa-rmy.’ He looked at the screen and groaned. ‘Grandpa’s lawyer. Better take it. He might have finally got probate.’
George rolled off him, enough to let him talk, but not so much
that she couldn’t touch him. Above them, a skylark hovered, twittering, swooped and hovered again as if stitching its song to the heavens, and George had never known such happiness. Between her and the skylark, Jack’s lovely face was bathed in sunlight, but the light went out of it as he listened, as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. When he closed the call down his shoulders were high and his face had tightened into hard angles that pulled in all directions and stood out like wires down his neck. George put a hand on his leg, trying to comfort him, and he took three deep breaths before he spoke.
‘My father has launched a legal challenge to my grandfather’s will. He says Grandpa didn’t have the mental capacity to make a decision.’
George swallowed. Part of her reaction was sadness for Jack, but part was selfish, wondering if Jack would move on if he didn’t have Draca or the cottage.
‘He promised.’ Jack’s voice was dangerously tight, as if he was about to snap. ‘He promised.’
Then raw anger flared around him like thunderclouds, and for a moment George was frightened because she saw the violence inside.
‘The lawyers have called a meeting to see if we can resolve it between us before we burn up the entire estate in fees.’
The thunderclouds boiled and became a lightning bolt as Jack struck the ground with his fist.
‘Bastard.’
IX: HARRY
Harry was gutted that it had come to lawyers. Five people sat around a table in the offices of the solicitor Old Eddie had appointed to be executor of his will. The executor wasn’t up to much: he was just a small-town guy in a suit that was shiny at the elbows and had a collar that was starting to fray. Harry almost felt sorry for him: his man would have him for breakfast. Still, what an obscenity to have lawyers squaring up to each other within the same family. Jack sat with the executor in a scruffy, open-necked shirt and jeans, and glared at him across the table. He smelled of varnish.
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