Turning the Tide (3 page)

Quite a surprise, thought Matthew, rubbing his hand over his stubble, finding out that Harry Watling wasn’t some thick-set bloke, after all. Funny little girl, like a grey-eyed pixie with attitude, especially when she squatted warily next to him on the bank, short dark hair all ruffled by the wind. For a moment he considered what it would be like to watch her large, expressive mouth spread slowly into a smile. Not that it was something he was ever likely to see. Besides, he liked tall, sexy women, not tough little tomboys; but Harry did have something he found deeply attractive. The dimple flickered across his cheek. She was well endowed with land. Now all he had to do was persuade her to part with it.

Letting himself into the clubhouse, and ignoring the sound of rasping claws as something scurried away, Matthew lowered himself onto the split red vinyl seat of the nearest bar stool. Before him an old bar towel gathered dust and, in addition to a handful of dead flies, a Red Barrel ice bucket still held a pair of tongs. Running his fingers round the cloudy rim of a VAT 69 whisky glass, he stared into a flecked mirror at the debris behind him. Wondering if he was adding more dirt than he was taking off, Matthew wiped his hands on the bar towel and got up to have a better look round. Once the tired furniture had been removed, he thought, and all the rubbish, there wasn’t anything here that his own well-paid and super-efficient team of specialists couldn’t handle. Matthew frowned as he pulled open a drawer to find a pile of paperwork forgotten by the Spitmarsh Yacht Club. At some point he’d have to make time to return that, too.

The swirls of plaster on the walls, fake beams, grimy nylon carpet tiles and a dash of 1970s pine cladding made the place seem far worse than it was. But at the far end of the long room the windows opened onto the creek, giving spectacular views of water and sky. Huge anvil-shaped thunderclouds loomed above him, blocking out the sun and chasing the soft blues and greens to grey, and the first breaths of a chilly wind stirred up a few choppy waves. The marshes themselves, it seemed, were turning a cold face to him. A secret, inaccessible landscape with a rare, raw beauty. And that was why Matthew knew his instinct had been sound. In an age where everyone longed to escape, what could be better than this truly unspoilt location? First, the restaurant to tempt them in. Then the holiday homes to hook them. Over at Watling’s a handful of masts, like pikestaffs, did their best to put up a show of defence around the boat yard. Matthew smiled to himself. One way or another he was going to win. Harry Watling wasn’t such a big problem. Everyone had a weak spot. It was just a question of finding it.

‘Brought you a cup of tea,’ said George, offering her a mug labelled Bovril. ‘Thought you looked as if you could do with some cheering up.’ Nestled in the grimy folds of his coat was a circular tartan tin. George fished it out grudgingly. ‘Biscuit?’ he ground out, with obvious difficulty.

Normally Harry would have raised a smile at his plight; she must be looking every bit as downcast as she felt for George to go that far. The only sign of the internal battle raging within him was a slight shake of his fingers as he held out the precious hoard for her perusal.

‘Er, let me see …’

She could feel George watching her, waiting in agony to see which jewel in his collection was about to disappear. A rich dark Bourbon, a handful of plump custard creams and several Happy Faces twinkled up at her. Harry waved a finger over them.

‘Got any fig rolls, George?’

‘’Fraid not,’ he replied, slamming the lid back on and whisking the tin back into the depths of his coat. ‘Can’t abide them, Miss Harriet. As you well know.’

Harry smiled to herself but, with his biscuits out of harm’s way, George had regained his composure.

‘So what are you going to do, Miss Harriet?’

‘About what?’

George nodded out to where a scattering of boats bobbed carelessly in a shaft of sunlight glazing the slatey sea. ‘New
 
customers.’

‘Oh, you heard, did you?’ Trust George not to have missed anything. Harry tried to close her mind to the cold whisper of doubt Matthew had started. It was true that many of her customers were retired couples sailing only as long as time and health permitted. Had she really rebuilt the business just to watch it wither away?

‘Short of running a water-taxi service or rustling up breaded scampi and chips every time they come down to use the boat, there’s nothing I can do. I can’t turn back the clock and make them any younger.’ Harry forced a mouthful of scalding tea over the lump that had mysteriously appeared in her throat.

‘There’s no stopping time, that’s true. Wouldn’t be proper either; it’s the natural order for the old ’uns to make room for the young ’uns.’

‘It might be the natural order,’ she croaked, throwing him a sideways glance and debating whether to ask for one of his Happy Faces – which would be guaranteed to wipe the rather too serene look off
his
happy face. ‘But where are we going to find young people in Little Spitmarsh who can afford to sail?’

George gave a distinctly false-sounding cough. Harry looked into his red, weather-beaten face and followed his watery gaze past the yard, past the lapping water, past the line of masts to the dilapidated building collapsing on the opposite bank. He turned and cocked a bushy, nicotine-yellow eyebrow at her.

‘So they were having a little tussle, you know, as they do, and then I noticed things had gone a bit quiet and when I went to look you’ll
never
guess what?’

The Flowerpot Men was the slowest florist in town, but no one protested since it was also the only florist in town.

‘No?’ Harry offered weakly, trying not to let her eyes stray to the clock behind Trevor’s head. For a man who looked like the strong silent type, Trevor could go on talking for hours. Having ended the previous day blowing all chances of having a crack at George’s biscuit tin for the foreseeable future, Harry was mindful that starting the day leaving George to face the bottom of a forty-foot boat by himself would certainly put the foul back into anti-fouling.

The trouble was that Matthew’s predictions for the boat yard had left her with such a horrible empty feeling, it would take more than a biscuit to cheer her up. A bacon butty breakfast, she’d decided, would help set her up for the day and justify a quick stroll into town. Whilst she was there, she’d pop in to ask Frankie and Trevor to look out for all the brand new four-wheel drives and BMW convertibles that, according to George, Matthew Corrigan’s restaurant would attract.

‘Kirstie was giving Phil a piggyback!’ Trevor hissed at her. ‘I thought they were too young for all that.’

In London, The Flowerpot Men would probably have been called Wild Orchids and fitted out in brushed steel and blond wood or such like, but Little Spitmarsh wasn’t the place for such flamboyance. Fortunately, the air of neglect that pervaded the outside of the shop was not reflected inside. Whilst the decor could never be described as trendy, there was a good range of flowers and plants to choose from and the proprietors were always anxious to make sure their customers went away happy – even if they were talked to death in the process.

‘Well, we’ll just have to sit down and have a little chat with them, won’t we?’ said Frankie, winking at Harry as he came in from the back of the shop carrying an armful of hot-pink tulips protruding from cellophane sheaths.

It was a bit early in the day, thought Harry, to deal with sexual miscreants, especially when the couple involved were Jack Russell terriers. Besides, she had matters of her own to attend to, albeit none of them involving illicit humping.

‘Can’t you just get one of them done?’ she suggested, in an impatient attempt to divert the conversation and amuse them with her news.

There was a collective sharp intake of breath. Even Phil and Kirstie looked up from the basket where they had been curled up together, presumably having a post-coital nap, to turn accusing eyes on her. Frankie, weaving his small, honed and subtly tanned frame through the gap at the end of the counter, dumped the tulips in a bucket and laughed. ‘Well you needn’t think that Phil’s taking all the blame. Why should he have to suffer? She’s the one egging him on. Not just him, either, by the way she keeps slipping out when she thinks no one’s looking.’

‘I wonder where she’s got that from,’ muttered Trevor, with a touch of bitterness.

‘How about this for an idea?’ Harry said, nipping a potential scrap in the bud and silently marvelling at Frankie’s air of injured innocence. ‘What do you think of someone who opens a new restaurant here, installs some low lighting and a high-class chef and claims he’s going to have wealthy townies buying up properties left, right and centre?’

Frankie rocked back on his heels. ‘Since when did Little Spitmarsh acquire a patron saint?’

Obviously she hadn’t made herself clear. ‘Frankie, the old yacht clubhouse has been sold and the guy who’s bought it, Matthew Corrigan, reckons he’s going to reopen it as an upmarket restaurant.’

Trevor clapped his hands down on the counter, frightening the dogs. ‘Excellent! It’s about time there was a decent place to eat here.’

‘Oh, Trevor! Do you mean to say you don’t enjoy those flaccid baguettes they have the nerve to serve at The Admiral?’ Frankie clucked. ‘Other towns may have gastropubs, but we’re the only ones lucky enough to have a gastroenteritis pub.’

Was she the only person capable of seeing past the end of her nose? Trying to make first George and now Frankie and Trevor recognise the dangers of Matthew’s scheme was a bit like warning children not to accept sweets from strangers.

‘Look, it’s not just that; he’s also approached me about buying my land to build houses. The man’s ruthless; luckily, he’ll soon find out that he can’t just march into Little Spitmarsh and expect everyone to roll over.’

Just then the doorbell jangled for a second time. Phil cocked his head expectantly, his stump of a tail switching into first-gear wag, whilst Kirstie flipped over onto her back and poked a coquettish tongue out of the side of her mouth.

‘Glory, glory, hallelujah!’ Frankie drawled softly.

‘Harry,’ said Matthew. ‘Just the person I was hoping to see.’

How dare he make it sound as if he knew what she had on underneath her dungarees?

Frankie pulled himself together. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend, Harry?’

Matthew grinned, extending his hand. ‘I’m Matthew Corrigan.’

Since Trevor had gone back to gawping at Matthew, he didn’t seem to notice Frankie’s reluctance to let go of his hand. Pity, thought Harry; an outbreak of bickering might be just the thing to break the spell Matthew was casting.

Then Frankie opened his mouth. ‘If you’re here to order flowers I guarantee that at The Flowerpot Men we aim to offer superb arrangements and unparalleled personal service,’ she was aghast to hear him say. ‘We’ll send any flowers you like wherever you like, but you’ll also be needing someone to take care of the flowers when you open your new restaurant, won’t you?’

Any satisfaction Harry felt about the flash of irritation Matthew sent in her direction was completely extinguished by her horror at Frankie’s audacious sales pitch. Hadn’t he listened to a word she’d said?

‘Let’s just start with one order, shall we?’ Matthew said, looking pained.

Frankie drew himself up to his full five feet eight and took a deep breath. ‘This is my partner, Trevor Dillon. There’s not a lot of call for it in Little Spitmarsh, but Trevor’s had considerable experience in dealing with flowers for some of London’s best hotels. He’s handled everything from small-scale weddings to grand corporate occasions and he isn’t flustered by budgets, installation deadlines or anything else you can throw at him. If you want simple, beautiful and original designs in your restaurant, why don’t you let us show you what we can do?’

As the shop bell jangled for the third time, not even Phil and Kirstie looked up. Harry, who couldn’t bear to watch any longer, closed the door behind her. All right, she was prepared to admit that Matthew Corrigan could turn a few heads, and his personal magnetism was formidable, but it was too soon to panic. Once he’d looked around, would he really want to pursue a rather uncertain project in a dull seaside town?

Beneath the gold lettering that should have read Crimps but, due to ineptitude or sheer mischief on the part of the signwriter, looked unfortunately like Chimps Hair & Beauty Salon, Carmen Moult lounged in the doorway like Little Spitmarsh’s answer to Sophia Loren after she’d eaten all the pasta. A firm believer that neither hair nor breasts could ever be described as too big, she was pulling at the plunging vee of her tight top and blowing down her cleavage, trying to disperse some of the heat built up blasting perms into submission all morning. As Harry headed towards her, Carmen’s immaculately plucked and sculpted eyebrows rushed towards each other like two playful tadpoles, and her face darkened.

Harry had plenty of dark thoughts of her own without needing to know how she’d managed to incur Carmen’s disapproval. She tried a smile, the kind she used for fierce dogs, which made Carmen stamp a tiny stiletto-clad trotter and scurry inside.

‘Hey, Harry!’ she cried, reappearing and almost making Harry jump out of her skin. She pushed a piece of paper into Harry’s hand. ‘Special half-price offer next week. Make sure you come, yes?’

Fortunately a stomach-churning waft of permanent wave solution and a tremulous cry of ‘I think I’m done now, Carmen!’ from within made the other woman squawk and run back inside. It also spared Harry the necessity of telling her she’d probably prefer to eat her own foot than take up the offer. Even so, rather than risk being spotted binning the leaflet – which could result in her being forcibly dragged in for half a head of highlights and a leg wax – Harry scrunched it up and stuck it in her pocket. All right, so she didn’t actually feel the need to shout about the fact that she got George to trim her hair when it needed it; but, given that it was one of the few skills he had managed to pick up in the merchant navy, she felt marginally safer in his hands than Carmen’s.