Turning the Tide Page 13

  Casting her gaze across the rippling water sparkling under a blue sky and the bright colours of the bobbing boats in the sunshine, Harry decided she needed to get out and feel the wind in her hair. What was the point of moping round the place looking for something that didn’t exist, when it would only remind her of everything she had to lose?

  George shook his head as Harry coaxed Calypso through the tidal gate and out to the winding channel through the backwaters. He watched as the sails filled and could almost feel the little craft respond to Harry’s expert touch on the tiller. But he didn’t like it. The sea made its own rules. And it made you ill. George had got much better at hiding his suffering since, as a puny fifteen-year-old deck boy and feeling particularly green around the gills, he’d sought a cure for seasickness from one of the sailors and found himself with a mop and bucket clearing up after everyone else. But he was never really happy on a boat and couldn’t believe that anyone else ever was either.

  Not that Miss Harriet would have taken him anyway and that’s what he particularly didn’t like. He recognised that obstinate look in her eye of old; she got it from someone else who was equally pig-headed.

  Come to think of it, it was Harry senior’s fault. If he hadn’t bought that damn boat for Maeve, that child wouldn’t be out there now. George scowled up at the clouds scooting across the sky. It wasn’t the North Atlantic, right enough, but he’d warned her there’d be a good old blow out there today and she hadn’t listened. Now he’d damn well be fretting until she was back in sight.

  A little wooden yacht, her timbers glowing gold against the spray, was edging into the wind with a solitary figure on deck furling the mainsail. Without knowing exactly what sort of boat it was, Matthew could see that it was a traditional design which couldn’t have been more different from the sleek plastic racing yachts of his experience. The slim figure on deck who, with her dishevelled, short dark hair, might have been mistaken for a boy at a quick glance, was, he ruefully acknowledged, also way outside his usual experience.

  ‘That’s Harry Watling, isn’t it?’ Jimi piped up. Having had enough of cleaning the kitchen, he’d suggested they sample a fruity Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon on the terrace. Lounging back in his chair, he was watching with interest.

  Matthew had another look at what was happening on the water. Even Harry’s choice of boat demonstrated that she didn’t believe in making things easy for herself. Those heavy old yachts could be tricky and demanding. Furling the sail in such a stiff breeze without modern reefing gear required concentration if you wanted to avoid being pitched overboard. With the pick of any number of newer boats right under her nose and the ability to fix most of their problems, why on earth hadn’t she chosen something a bit more up to date? Yet Harry didn’t look like a martyr or even the slightest bit anxious; in fact, she looked totally in her element.

  By Harry’s standards she was positively glamorous in a faded striped polo shirt and denim shorts, showing off a really shapely pair of legs. He glanced at Jimi to see if he’d noticed, but his expression was unreadable behind his habitual dark glasses. Harry and her yacht made a bright summer snapshot – the kind that, when the restaurant opened, would enhance everyone’s enjoyment of eating by the creek and make them all feel that they were participating in a healthy outdoor lifestyle.

  Now that Samphire’s opening had been postponed until the end of August, all hopes rested on generating more publicity and an influx of late holidaymakers. Nevertheless, Matthew felt aggrieved that he was the one with all the worry when Harry seemed totally carefree. He took another swig of wine. His initial suspicions were that Harry knew more about who started that fire than she would admit. Coming out and all but accusing her of setting fire to the place hadn’t been his shrewdest move; but something had been on her mind that day and he was pretty certain he knew what it was, although the police had remained tight-lipped about their enquiries.

  It wasn’t just the restaurant on his mind. With Gina showing no signs of finding more time for them, he was constantly wondering what she was up to and increasingly losing track of what he was meant to be doing. Yet, as Harry settled herself back at the tiller to take the boat home, he couldn’t help thinking that Gina wouldn’t have been at all comfortable in Harry’s place. She was a long-legged girl with the kind of self-assured stride that turned pavements into catwalks. Provided the right guests were in attendance, she might be persuaded onto a party cruiser on the Thames, but it would be a very long time before he saw her folded into a tiny cockpit, teeth gritted against the lash of a gale.

  ‘Does she have a boyfriend or a partner?’

  ‘Harry?’ Matthew shot him a look. ‘She’s married to the boat yard.’

  Jimi relaxed back in his chair. ‘She must get lonely sometimes, though.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Matthew. ‘Thinking of keeping her company, were you?’

  Jimi shrugged. ‘Maybe I’d like to get to know her.’

  Now why didn’t that make him feel any better? Matthew tried to catch a glimpse of what was going on behind the dark glasses. Jimi was a pretty shrewd operator; maybe he had an eye on Harry’s assets too?

  ‘Good luck with that, mate,’ Matthew snorted, knowing that Harry would spot any threat to the business a mile off.

  Jimi shrugged. ‘Harry could make life difficult for you if she put her mind to it. Imagine, after waiting so long for the restaurant to open, everyone sitting out here happily enjoying themselves – then Harry decides to start dredging the channel! It’ll be a bit of an anticlimax if they can’t even hear themselves think.’

  ‘Believe me,’ Matthew assured him, ‘I can make life very much harder for Harry.’

  An eyebrow rose above the dark glasses. ‘I still think my approach is preferable. I bet I could get her eating out my hand in no time.’

  ‘Really? Watch she doesn’t bite it off.’

  ‘I’m good with girls,’ Jimi smiled, showing even white teeth. He gave a lazy stretch of his arms and added, ‘Gina’s article came out really well, didn’t it?’

  ‘Hmm, she was really pleased.’ Pity she hadn’t exactly rushed up to show her gratitude. At least Jimi had been busy at the restaurant where Matthew could keep an eye on him. He didn’t like to think of him and Gina spending too much time together.

  ‘We ought to capitalise on the publicity,’ Jimi suggested, pulling himself up straight again.

  ‘Remind me, just why have we been working our balls off here? We’re not exactly in a position to exploit the publicity at the moment.’

  ‘C’mon, that was just a prank that got out of hand.’ Jimi’s right leg jiggled impatiently.

  ‘A very expensive prank! If someone was hoping to stop Samphire becoming a profitable business, they’ve made a very good start. Look how much we lost in potential revenue through missing the best part of the school holidays. At least the police are taking it more seriously than you seem to be.’

  ‘Well, that’s because it’s the most exciting thing to happen round here in years! Someone sets a bin on fire and they’re racing round as if it was a major terrorist incident! C’mon, Matthew, if someone had really wanted to finish off the business they’d have burned the restaurant to the ground. You must admit that the Little Spitmarsh Liberation Front, whoever they are, don’t seem to be the most active brigade in the world. Or maybe the police have assigned a close personal protection officer to you and you’re just not telling me? Had any more death threats recently?’

  ‘It was hardly a death threat,’ said Matthew, beginning to hope Jimi would jiggle himself off his chair. Except he might get hurt and then he’d have to look for a new chef.

  ‘Well then, just forget about it! Think of this as an unexpected opportunity to attract more punters. If we can draw enough attention to the town, by the time the restaurant’s ready to open everyone will be desperate to eat there.’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘Yeah well, if you can think of something and do all the work, then you get on with it – because I�
��ve got enough to do here.’

  ‘Great, because I have actually. I ran it past Gina and she’s interested too. What do you know about the Little Spitmarsh Film Festival?’

  George was cross. Harry could see that as she nipped through the tidal gate at the last minute. It wouldn’t have mattered very much if she had been too late; she would have just picked up a deep-water mooring further upstream and waited for the next tide. Except then she would have had George pacing up and down, wondering where she was.

  Despite, or because of, his merchant navy service, George didn’t trust the sea. Even though she’d only gone as far as Spithead Buoy and back, to clear her head, there was too much sea in the equation as far as he was concerned. It was kind of him to worry about her, but she wasn’t a little girl any more; so why couldn’t he just relax and accept that she knew these waters better than anyone? She gave him a little wave as she passed, but he was pretending to be busy closing the gate. Nothing that a packet of chocolate HobNobs wouldn’t cure, she decided.

  There was, of course, another reason for George’s concern; given what had happened to her father, she couldn’t blame him. But, if she allowed her thoughts to dwell too much on that, she wouldn’t go to sea either, and then where would she be?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Was it summer or Samphire bringing Little Spitmarsh alive? Frankie couldn’t say; but, with more visitors in the streets and fresh faces in the town, he was simply glad that the refit was complete and the shop ready to open at last. News of the fire had been unsettling; but, rather than putting him off, it seemed to have convinced Trevor that improving the shop was the right thing to do.

  ‘If it’s not an isolated incident, if this is the start of a campaign against change and innovation in the town, then whoever is doing it will have to take us on as well,’ he’d insisted. ‘Matthew Corrigan didn’t deserve that after all the hard work he’s put in.’

  Other traders in the town seemed to feel the same as, one by one, drab little businesses washed off years of grime and applied new paint. When Trevor had trailed home with organic dairy ice creams, a new line he’d spotted at the General Store, and claimed to see a notice in the window announcing that a tapas bar would be opening in the back room there at the weekend, Frankie couldn’t help wondering if the notice was real, or if they would wake up any time soon.

  And some people, Frankie guessed, would have said anyone opening a shop called Jetsam, that only sold what appeared to be absolutely useless decorative items, was dreaming too. But at the rate cushion covers in boat prints, striped drawstring bags for who-knew-what purpose, eye-wateringly expensive glassware, and pebbles printed with shiny black letters which read ‘by the sea’, were walking out of Jetsam, the woman running it would soon be able to buy an Aston Martin.

  Then there was the young couple who had arrived in the area and taken on Walton House. The six-bedroomed Victorian villa had been given a total facelift and kitted out in cool colours, crisp white sheets and sleek, restful bathrooms before the couple realised there was no market for a luxury retreat in Little Spitmarsh. It was rumoured that they were close to losing everything until the news of Samphire’s opening had brought a new breed of gourmets looking for fashionable accommodation a short walk away.

  The fire could have been a disaster for them; but the couple had cleverly distracted some potentially very dissatisfied customers with mini-bars offering all kinds of temptations, and provided good, plain evening meals so that their guests completely forgot about what they might have missed.

  So if anyone in Little Spitmarsh lay awake listening for strange noises outside, they didn’t mention it, and if anyone blamed Matthew Corrigan for drawing unwelcome attention to the place it certainly wasn’t apparent from all the support he’d received. Turning such an inauspicious beginning round and taking advantage of the annual film festival had been a masterstroke.

  The Little Spitmarsh Film Society had been a half-hearted effort by a small bunch of film buffs to make up for the loss of the town’s cinema. Like so many other ventures typical of the town, it had begun with high hopes – but, in a very short space of time, had become the preserve of a few diehards who revelled in select screenings of worthy and obscure foreign language titles. Quite how Matthew’s chef had persuaded them all to allow the culmination of their year to be dumbed down into something so unashamedly populist as a favourite film competition, Frankie couldn’t begin to speculate, although he was willing to bet that free meals at Samphire were involved. If whoever started the fire at the restaurant had planned for Little Spitmarsh to fade back into obscurity, their plan had spectacularly failed. Even Trevor, forgetting to voice his usual concerns when he’d heard that Frankie had organised some publicity for the unveiling, was caught up in the excitement.

  ‘You wouldn’t think the local rags would be so interested, would you?’ Trevor said, looking round in amazement as they posed in their Black Narcissus tee shirts outside the newly painted shop to a strobe-like accompaniment of flashes.

  ‘Just smile and think of the money we’re going to be taking,’ said Frankie, not mentioning that he had called in a few favours and a couple of ex-boyfriends with the right connections. ‘There,’ he said, pressing vouchers on reporters and public alike. ‘Ten percent off your first order. Treat your granny to an exotic arrangement today.’

  ‘She sees one of them every night when the old man takes his clothes off!’ some passing wag observed. ‘I’ll send her some roses to commiserate.’

  Gina Weston’s article for What’s Hot had created quite a stir too. ‘Kiss Me Quick’, her cheeky article about the joys of slipping off for a passionate weekend, wasn’t entirely complimentary about Little Spitmarsh. ‘Britain’s last resort – but at least you won’t bump into anyone you know,’ she’d written. The accompanying photos taken in Samphire were sensational, however, and Black Narcissus had received several enquiries since being credited for the floral arrangements.

  ‘So what do you think of the idea of this film festival?’ one of the reporters asked.

  Frankie was impressed. It looked as if Jimi had also been working the media. ‘Great idea. Great fun. It’s a real opportunity for everyone in the town to work together,’ he said.

  ‘And what film will you be voting for?’

  Frankie laughed, showing off his newly whitened teeth. ‘Hmm, well, there’s a lot to be said for An Officer and a Gentleman but there’s really only one choice at the end of the day. For visual sumptuousness and breathtaking colour’ – he stepped back and pointed with a flourish at the new shop – ‘you have to pick Black Narcissus.’

  Taking a five-minute break from the engine she was trying to lever back in place, Harry looked up to cries of ‘Cool!’ and saw a gaggle of thirty-somethings who might once have posed in a Jamie Oliver recipe book and thought they still could.

  ‘Awesome!’ nodded one of the men, sporting chunky retro-framed glasses. ‘Just the kind of contrast we need.’

  ‘Big skies, open waters, little boats scattered against the bleak landscape. You can almost feel the modern world recede,’ agreed his Gul-clad, would-be-surfer-dude colleague.

  ‘Yuk! It certainly has in there!’ complained a skinny blonde in a lemon camisole, as she emerged from the loos. ‘I’ve seen better facilities on French campsites. Talk about primitive.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ a pretty black girl mused. ‘It’s kind of a romantic place to sail from.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Corinne,’ said Specs. ‘I refuse to trek up here every Friday night to spend two nights on a boat if I can’t even have a decent shower at the end of it.’

  ‘How about a speedboat at the marina then?’

  ‘Throw in a luxury hotel and you might be getting close,’ someone joked.

  Probably safe to assume that they weren’t there because of one of her adverts then, thought Harry, watching them laugh, take their photos and walk off along the creek. Before Matthew, she would have taken only the briefest
look at the occasional group of visitors wandering round the boat yard, out of curiosity; now she couldn’t help but wonder if they were the vanguard for a sustained invasion of wealthy incomers.

  ‘You can’t stop them, Harry,’ said a voice beside her.

  Harry acknowledged Jimi Tan with a tentative smile. He ought to know – he was one of them, standing there in his skinny jeans, white tee shirt and a black scarf slung round his neck. There was nothing about him Harry could relate to either. He bore her gaze with tolerant amusement as someone who was used to being the object of naked speculation. Harry realised, with a jolt of embarrassment, that Jimi was different from all of them. The blend of his dual heritage both distinguished and separated him from the pack. How soon in his life had he become aware that almost every encounter would begin with a curious glance and an unframed question about his identity?

  She was sorry that her reaction could have been misinterpreted. Besides, did it sound any better if she tried to explain that, to her, he was just part of the new wave of visitors who were threatening to change forever the town she loved?

  ‘Congratulations. You got the job.’

  Jimi returned her smile. ‘Never any doubt about it. The only problem at the moment is that I don’t have a kitchen to work in. Someone tried to burn the place down.’

  Harry dabbed at the engine with a greasy rag.

  ‘You know, they’ll keep coming; the whiz kids, the young families, the GBGs.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Grey but Groovy,’ he grinned. ‘Everyone’s looking for their own piece of paradise.’