Turning the Tide (7 page)

‘It’s just a temporary problem, George,’ she told him, hoping that the exasperation in her voice would shut him up.

‘So why ’ave you got me crawling round perfectly good pontoons in case someone sues?’ he retorted, coming back for more.

‘Health and safety, apart from anything else.’ She folded her arms, although he probably couldn’t see in the dark. ‘And, as I said, I think that last batch of timber may have been faulty.’

‘Nature is responsible for lengthwise cracks and Man is to blame for transverse and like much of Man’s mistakes they’ll be harmful in the end. Them cracks is lengthwise, Miss Harriet, so nothing to fret about.’

That was another thing about George; he could be very smug. ‘Remind me of that, George, when you fall through one. In the meantime I’d be very grateful if you could just do what I ask.’

‘What I’m told, you mean,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s all right, Miss Harriet, I know my place. Well, I best get some kip. Looks as if I’ll be crawling around on my hands and knees tomorrow. Ain’t easy at my age, but if those are my orders I know better than to question them.’

‘Yes, and if you squeeze any money out of anyone I’ll even be able to pay you!’

George pulled up the collar of his ancient woollen coat, the one that was so redolent with the smell of him that Harry felt he was still in the room on the rare occasions he took it off. ‘Pay as well, Miss Harriet?’ he sniffed. ‘There was me thinking that I was working my fingers to the bone for the honour of serving the Watling family.’

Harry watched him wander off and suddenly felt very lonely. Perhaps she did expect too much of him? Despite his occasional grumbles, George was in extraordinarily good health for someone who’d been torpedoed in the war, had drunk like a fish for many years afterwards and still believed that smoking cleared his lungs. Perhaps it was time he had an easier life?

She felt really guilty about him by the time she returned to her boathouse. Her bedroom was usually a safe haven where she didn’t have to keep up the tough, capable face she wore at work. The cream-painted wrought-iron Victorian bedstead had refused to be ignored when she’d spotted it in one of Little Spitmarsh’s junk shops; she’d sneaked it home before anyone could laugh and wonder what Harry Watling was doing with something so unashamedly romantic and feminine. Now, with its goose-down quilt and the best bed linen she could afford, it was the place where she could dream or cry and not have to pretend to be the toughest girl in the class.

The trouble was that her safe haven didn’t feel quite as secure as it used to. Plenty of hard physical work and an unwavering confidence in her own abilities had once meant that nothing woke her up, except her own sixth sense tuning into a change for the worse in the weather or a potential problem in the yard. But, increasingly, doubts and anxieties were crowding in on her. Tonight she was worried that George’s years of self-destruction would suddenly catch up with him. He was all she had and, if anything happened to him, it would be her fault for not making enough money for him to retire in comfort. Not that his caravan was her idea of comfort; but God knows how many times she’d offered him better accommodation and he’d turned it down with a protest of ‘All I need is a dry bed and a tight deckhead, Miss Harriet.’ Stubborn old bugger.

Eventually Harry gave up trying to sleep and reached for the photo she kept on the pale-blue painted cabinet beside her. With his shaggy, sun-bleached surfer hair, blue eyes crinkling in the light, her dad seemed forever young. A big man, there were many ways in which Harry Watling senior had acted up to his larger-than-life image. Yet there was a quieter side to his personality. He read widely, and especially loved travel stories and poetry; and he was fascinated by Far Eastern culture, from his days skippering charter trips in the Indian Ocean. It would have surprised anyone only familiar with the man who, perhaps with precognition, lived each day as if it were his last.

A fleeting sensation came to her mind, of being swept off her feet and onto her father’s shoulders. The giddy excitement of being held high, the sound of her mother’s protests fading away, wind in her face and fear making her breathless as her father picked up speed. That reckless enthusiasm for life might have clouded his judgement about priorities at times; and certainly the size of his debts had been unexpected and worrying. But Harry was quite sure that everything would have been repaid if only he hadn’t died so tragically young. Leaving his wife and child with such a financial burden had surely been unintentional. In her memory her father had never worried much about tomorrow. Harry hadn’t inherited his confidence, but she had inherited his boat yard and, unless she found new customers to keep it afloat, she would lose the little she had left of him.

Unlike his shed, which was his daytime retreat and filled with the detritus of his everyday life, George’s caravan huddled by the waterside and was shipshape to the point of austerity. He’d had plenty of time to discover what was really important and it wasn’t possessions. Leaving his coat and boots by the door, George poured himself a glass of water and crossed the dimly lit room to prepare for bed. His body ached, but his head was full of the past.

George rubbed his hand across his face as if to wipe away the memories. He buttoned his pyjama jacket and tried to concentrate on what mattered. He loved Miss Harriet, just as he’d loved the man who’d brought her into the world, however flawed he’d been. He’d already done more than she would ever know to protect the girl, but these days he was beginning to feel his age. He couldn’t just stand there and watch her let everything she had worked so hard for slide away from her; but he was too worn out to take her on. If only she could see that Matthew Corrigan might – and even George felt it was a long shot – just provide the lifeblood that would reinvigorate the boat yard again.

George turned out his light and rested his head. Tomorrow he’d check the pontoons and maybe he’d have a word if he saw any of the owners. Although in his opinion the ones who were left, the ones who hadn’t buggered off to the marina, were not worth having anyway. His last thought, before he nodded off, was that in some ways it wouldn’t do any harm if they all slung their hooks; then Miss Harriet would have no option but to cast her net wider, would she?

For someone who still behaved like an adolescent boy, thought Trevor, staring up at the ceiling of their bedroom, Frankie wasn’t completely selfish; he seemed to have been persuaded that they were better off out of the limelight, whatever happened at the restaurant.

Frankie was naïve to expect that Trevor’s relationship with his daughter would continue if Sophie was allowed to know the truth about them. His ex-wife might have remarried, but she was as poisonous now as the day she had evicted him from the marital home, jealously guarding Sophie, malignant as a virus, always threatening to infect his fragile relationship with his daughter. If Frankie thought a contact order could protect them, he’d underestimated Jane’s ability to thwart the law. Trevor had regularly turned up at her house to find that Sophie was mysteriously ill or had a pressing appointment within the hour. The only answer, as far as preserving his relationship with his daughter was concerned, was to keep apart the two people he loved most, however much it disappointed Frankie.

Sensing a gap in the door just wide enough for her to work on, Kirstie came bustling in, sniffing the air suspiciously. Miffed that she had been excluded from the fun, she jumped up on the bed and curled into Trevor. She knew he was a softer touch than Frankie who, for once, seemed disinclined to shout at her. Trevor ran an idle hand over her, setting her quivering as he tickled her tummy. Suddenly his fingers encountered a swelling and he sat up to inspect his discovery.

‘Oh look, Frankie, what’s that?’

Frankie took a quick squint. ‘It’s a nipple, you fool.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he said, pinning a protesting Kirstie down. ‘But why does it look like that?’

Frankie dumped the towel he was bearing on the floor. ‘Like what?’

Trevor pointed. ‘Isn’t it a bit, you know, pinker than usual?’

‘How the hell should I know?’ Frankie scowled and threw himself down beside Trevor.

‘Well, perhaps you should find out.’ Trevor dropped Kirstie on Frankie’s lap. ‘Perhaps you should take her to the vet’s.’

‘Absolutely not, Trevor,’ said Frankie, handing her back. ‘You’re the one who wants to know.’

Since the frolics were clearly over, Kirstie dropped to the floor and started worrying Trevor’s pants.

‘All I can say is, thank goodness we haven’t got kids,’ said Trevor, shooing her off. ‘I can see who’d always be the one getting up in the night.’ As he headed for the shower he caught sight of Frankie’s stricken face in the mirror. A bit of him wondered if Frankie just made noises about being a surrogate stepdad to Sophie because he knew it would never happen; but perhaps even Frankie yearned for someone else to take care of? Trevor groaned. After Frankie had respected his need to be discreet about the restaurant, he’d rubbed him up the wrong way over a dog.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, returning to the bed and putting his arm round Frankie’s shoulder. ‘That was unfair of me. Tell you what, I’ll ring the vet’s to make amends.’

Frankie smiled. ‘Well, that would be a start.’

Kirstie glanced up but couldn’t raise the energy to make a further nuisance of herself. Perhaps a Doggy Choc had disagreed with her, because she really was beginning to feel quite unwell.

Chapter Six

‘Harr-ee!’

Seeing Trevor waving frantically from the other side of the road, Harry resisted her first impulse, which was to pretend she hadn’t seen him. Since he was wearing a pink floral shirt opened halfway down his hairy chest, she had to admit that this would be a difficult claim to pull off. Reluctantly, she waited whilst he crossed over, wondering if she would be able to hide her disappointment from him. She hadn’t quite forgiven Frankie for making a business proposition to Matthew right under her nose – and straight after she’d expressed her own disapproval of the man.

‘You don’t look very happy, what’s the matter?’

‘I’m fine!’ Harry lied. After another tense morning trying to negotiate more time to pay her bills and cheaper prices from her suppliers, she had walked into town to clear her head. The fact that there was nothing in the deal for the suppliers considerably reduced her bargaining power. For a little while she’d even considered sobbing down the phone, but since she’d always been proud to run with the big boys it was an underhand tactic and certainly not one her dad would have respected.

Still, there was no point in depressing Trevor, who was prone to being a bit morose himself. Since he had to put up with Frankie, that was understandable. As much as she liked Frankie, who could be both charming and bitchily amusing, no one would ever describe him as a rock of support. But at least she only had to worry about Frankie’s business propositions; unlike Trevor, who had to live with him.

‘You know, Harry, it’s never too early to think about a little Botox here and there,’ he beamed at her. ‘It’ll just freshen you up a bit and stop you looking quite so down in the mouth.’

Smiling through gritted teeth, Harry thought it best to change the subject. Kirstie was cradled in Trevor’s arms, looking like the cat who’d got the cream or whatever it was that spoilt dogs got. ‘What’s up with Madam? Is she too grand to walk anywhere?’ Now that she looked closer at Kirstie, the lack of exercise was definitely showing. ‘Gosh, Trev, you are going to have to be careful about doggy obesity. She’s getting positively porky!’

Two sets of accusing eyes turned on her. That’s for the Botox dig, Harry thought, her face a picture of innocence.

‘Well!’ Trevor confided, clearly so desperate to tell her something that he was prepared to overlook any slight to his pride and joy. ‘I’ve only just come out of the vet’s and I really should wait to tell Frankie, but all I’ll say is that it’s not fat.’

‘Congratulations!’ Harry said uncertainly. ‘When’s the happy event?’

‘Not a word,’ said Trevor, raising a finger to his mouth. ‘My lips are sealed.’ He looked at her closely. ‘I know you’d prefer us not to have accepted the contract to do the flowers for Matthew Corrigan’s restaurant, Harry, but business is business. I’m not sure how happy I am about the whole thing either. I mean, we’ve lived very quietly here. But Frankie needs this. He’s desperate for a new challenge and I don’t think I can hold him back. It wouldn’t be good for us.’

Harry eyed Kirstie who smirked at her. ‘One way or another Frankie’s going to have his hands full. So, you didn’t get round to taking Phil for his little operation, then?’

‘Oh, we did, poor thing, and he was quite grumpy about it –’

Harry watched as Trevor stopped tickling Kirstie’s ears. He looked at Kirstie who looked back, innocently. ‘Oh!’ he said, looking shocked. ‘Who’s the daddy?’

But when Harry arrived back at the yard, she soon stopped smiling. George had dragged a couple of old deckchairs from his shed, and he and Matthew were sitting in the sun drinking tea, like an old married couple in front of a beach hut watching the world go by.

‘Come and join us,’ Matthew invited, waving a biscuit from George’s tin which was perched on a box between them. Judging from its depleted condition, he’d enjoyed unrestricted access.

‘You may have plans to turn this place into a holiday camp, Matthew, but unfortunately for you I’m still in charge here,’ Harry said, folding her arms.