Turning the Tide Read online

  As Trevor’s worried expression was replaced by a smile of genuine happiness, Frankie felt a huge burden lift away.

  ‘Why not? Yes, you’re right, Frankie. We’ve worked for this, we deserve our success. Let’s make the most of it. What harm can it do?’ Trevor lifted his coffee cup, then paused before taking a sip. ‘We haven’t seen Harry for ages; I think it’s time we asked her round.’

  Harry shook her head and made a rapid adjustment to the glossy makeover which had transformed the seedy shop formerly known as The Flowerpot Men into a celebrity florist’s.

  Along with the dispirited old shop front Trevor and Frankie had shed their anonymity, emerging flamboyantly from their previously low-key existence.

  ‘We’re liberating Little Spitmarsh from the tyranny of clichéd carnations,’ Frankie had told her with great delight when, to her pleased surprise, he’d dropped by to invite her to the celebration they had planned for the pups. ‘And talking of liberation,’ he’d quipped, almost blowing the new spirit of reconciliation between them, ‘you didn’t send George round to the restaurant with a can of petrol, did you? Oh, don’t look like that, Harry. Half the reason we’ve been frightened to ring you is because we knew you’d give us another tongue-lashing about Matthew Corrigan. He really is only trying to improve the area. Think about what all those celebrity chefs have done for Cornwall.’

  ‘Yep,’ Harry shot back, having had plenty of time to do just that. ‘Pushed the property prices sky high so that even their own staff can’t afford to live there.’

  ‘And given a boost to all the local suppliers, the food and drink industry, tourism and disadvantaged young people,’ Frankie went on. ‘Come on, Harry,’ he pleaded, ‘Little Spitmarsh needed a champion. I thought that’s why you turned up to the film festival meeting, because you were coming round to the idea. If Matthew and his chef are helping to reinvent the place, that’s got to be good. Being on the coast alone isn’t good enough any more; no one’s ever coming to Little Spitmarsh just to sit on the beach.’

  Harry didn’t interrupt, not when they’d just started talking again. And, standing outside Trevor and Frankie’s front door, now painted a highly-polished black like the glossy shop, she could see Frankie’s point. You’re more worried about keeping this lot to yourself than promoting the town’s well-being. That’s what Matthew had said. He’d accused her of acting selfishly; but was it so wrong to want the place where she had grown up, where all her memories were, to remain the same?

  When an excited Frankie welcomed her in, smiling broadly, she was unexpectedly relieved that they hadn’t become too smart to include her in their fun. For a horrible moment she felt quite tearful, realising how much she’d been looking forward to time out and having a play with the puppies.

  The couple’s home, in contrast to the previously shabby shop front, had always been streamlined, calm and orderly. Today, however, the cool, tasteful interior of the airy upstairs living room was hung with jaunty bunting. A tea table, complete with embroidered linen tablecloth, was set with gilt-edged old-rose china, a legacy courtesy of Frankie’s aunt. Once stowed away on the grounds of taste, it now had pride of place. Along with plates of dainty sandwiches and bite-sized sausage rolls, an antique-glass cake stand was arranged with pink and blue iced cup cakes sitting on doilies. Enticing as the food looked, it was only a side act to the main event and Harry couldn’t wait to get a peek.

  Despite Trevor’s worries about her extreme youth, Kirstie showed every sign of being an excellent mum, lying back contentedly as the stars of the show, oblivious to all the celebrations in their honour, nuzzled into her side. Only the odd short warning growl, when the occasional overeager claw scratched her soft tummy, revealed anything of the old Kirstie. Anxious for Phil not to feel too left out, Harry had bought him a dog chew, which she slipped to him quickly before either of the boys made a fuss about the sisal flooring.

  ‘Oh, they’re adorable, aren’t they?’ said Harry, sinking to her knees to admire the puppies. ‘What a clever girl you are, Kirstie!’

  ‘I suppose if you were being picky you could say they were a right bunch of misfits and mutts, but we think they’re rather gorgeous, don’t we, Trev?’

  Kirstie threw them a look which suggested that, for any less than total worship of her offspring, there’d be hell to pay once she was up and about.

  ‘So what are you going to do with them all?’

  ‘Well, Matthew’s keen to have the little one with the eyepatch,’ said Trevor.

  Pirate for a pirate, thought Harry, feeling slightly disappointed that Matthew had been allowed to see them already.

  ‘But other than that we don’t really know yet.’

  ‘Don’t let’s worry about that now,’ said Frankie, popping open the champagne. ‘Let’s celebrate. To Kirstie and the pups!’

  ‘Kirstie and the pups!’ they chorused.

  ‘Now do help yourself to eats. Trevor’s been cooking and preparing food all morning.’

  When the doorknocker rattled again, Harry was thankful that she’d made an effort and had put on her best jeans and a soft-blue wrapped top. The boys hadn’t mentioned inviting anyone else, but maybe Matthew had come to check on his puppy? Well, this would show him that she wasn’t ready to curl up in a ball and die just yet. She might not compare with Teeth and Hair, but for once she didn’t look like a boy either.

  Although she had decided against the idea of letting Carmen loose on her − after all, no one would ever confuse her with someone who’d just stepped out of the pages of Vogue, no matter what she did − she had to concede that it wouldn’t hurt to scrub up occasionally. George had been ready to cut her hair, but Harry had put him off. For some reason she didn’t mind wearing it a little longer and the dark spikes had formed more manageable curls. Harry ruffled them discreetly whilst Frankie, looking genuinely curious, headed downstairs to see who was there.

  When he reappeared with a young girl in pink sandals and a peppermint dress, Harry’s hand, which was poised to select a feather-light fairy cake, aborted its flight. Meanwhile Trevor looked as if the mouthful he’d already taken had turned into a bath sponge in his throat.

  ‘Sophie!’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you had puppies, Daddy,’ said the girl, dropping to the basket.

  Daddy probably hadn’t told her he had kittens either, observed Harry, but it looked as though he was going to.

  ‘Sophie, darling. Is Mummy with you?’ he asked weakly.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Daddy. You know she doesn’t like you. I decided to come by myself.’

  A phone rang ominously. Trevor blanched, Frankie went red and Harry took action. ‘I’d better get on with that elusive bilge leak I was dealing with,’ she said quickly. ‘Lovely party, adorable pups … I’ll see myself out, then.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Harry walked back to the boat yard wondering which of them had been most surprised. Trevor had always been a bit soppy about the dogs, but she’d never imagined him as a father. He’d never so much as hinted that he had a daughter. People had all kinds of reasons for keeping secrets; perhaps it was too painful for Trevor to discuss?

  On the other hand, she had the distinct impression that Trevor’s daughter was a plucky little soul who wasn’t prepared to fade into the background any longer. Perhaps this was yet another new beginning for them all? Harry smiled to herself; a little later she’d phone Frankie and Trevor to ask how they were coping with their unexpected guest; but she had the feeling that, once they’d all got over their initial shock, they’d be fine.

  Turning back down the lane towards the boat yard, Harry stopped smiling at the sight of a police car speeding out of Watling’s. As it hurtled past as fast as the bumpy road would allow, she caught a glimpse of Johnny MacManus’s dazed face staring blankly out at her.

  Breaking into a run, she cantered into the yard and found a stricken George standing next to Johnny’s abandoned boat.

  ‘George, whatever’s happened?’


  He wrung his hands. ‘They’ve only gone and taken him away, that’s what.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Attempted arson. The empty petrol can ’e used was in the cockpit.’

  ‘Well, that’s no proof. He might have been using it to top up an outboard. Johnny’s too drunk to know whether he’s coming or going. He only moves when he’s run out of lager. What on earth must have got into his head for him to try to burn down the restaurant?’

  George made a choking sound. Harry had never believed he cared much for Johnny, but the pair of them must have been closer than she’d thought.

  ‘That’s not all,’ he added. ‘He managed to find ’is way to Mr Corrigan’s house and deliver a letter from the Little Spitmarsh Liberation Front claiming responsibility.’

  Harry shook her head; who would have thought that Little Spitmarsh would produce its own extremist organisation? ‘Gosh! You mean it really does exist? In that case there must be some Mr Big behind all this.’

  ‘Not quite,’ said George. ‘There ain’t no Little Spitmarsh Liberation Front. The stupid bugger invented them to scare Mr Corrigan.’

  ‘But that’s dreadful! Poor Johnny! The booze must have finally taken its toll for him to start showing these signs of paranoia.’

  George stood with his head bent, staring at the ground, clearly too upset to speak. Harry still wasn’t convinced that there wasn’t some underlying illness making him look so strained; she’d have to find out what was bothering him.

  ‘Come on, George.’ Harry patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t distress yourself. One way or another, Johnny is ill. Hopefully he’ll get the treatment he needs – he must have been a desperate man to have got to this stage.’

  Harry’s fleeting party mood had been chased away by deeper concerns, so she headed back to her house to change. Finding Matthew standing at the front entrance wasn’t something she’d planned for. She’d attended the meeting about the film festival for Jimi’s sake and had even tried to work up some enthusiasm for something that would take her mind off the threat hanging over her. But, although she managed to wriggle out of talking to Matthew that day, there was no escape now.

  Looking at him watching her, she was struck by just how easily she could forget the threat he represented. There was gentleness in the hazel eyes and a latent strength in his lean frame that made it hard not to ask him just to hold her and make everything better. Strange what you could make yourself believe if you wanted to; soon she’d turn into the kind of woman who thought the TV weathermen were sending secret messages just for her.

  Breathe, you idiot, she told herself, realising that she couldn’t just stand there any longer. This, after all – she willed the anger to well up inside her – was the man responsible for the changes that had bothered frail Johnny MacManus so much that he’d actually set the restaurant on fire.

  ‘I wondered if I could have a word?’ he said, softly. ‘I can come back if it’s not convenient.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she snarled, wishing she was wearing her dungarees – where her keys would be to hand in her pocket, instead of hiding themselves in the bottom of her useless and unfamiliar handbag.

  ‘I’ve heard about Johnny.’

  ‘Well, congratulations!’ Her fingers closed on the keys; a couple of seconds and she could escape. ‘You must be feeling pretty proud of yourself. Not only did you falsely accuse me of arson, but now you also have the satisfaction of knowing that a harmless old live-aboard who’s never hurt a fly is in serious trouble because of you!’

  As she wrenched the keys out the bag they snagged on the zip and flew out of her hand. Matthew bent and picked them up for her.

  ‘Come on, Harry,’ he urged, holding them out to her. ‘That’s not strictly true, is it?’

  There was no triumph in his voice; in fact, he sounded tired and concerned. The sea-green shirt he was wearing was a little more crumpled than usual and he hadn’t had a chance to shave. About time he used his bed for sleeping, not that it was any concern of hers; although anyone passing looking at the pair of them, heads bowed and awkward, might be wondering if they were looking at a lovers’ tiff.

  ‘Oh, this is stupid, standing on the doorstep like this. Would you like to come in for a coffee?’ Now, where had that come from?

  He looked as surprised as Harry felt.

  ‘This is a vast area,’ he said, following her through to the main living space. ‘You could so easily have fallen into the trap of making it feel like a waiting room, but the way you’ve used the space to create smaller sections is really clever.’

  Even knowing that his praise was purely professional, Harry was pleased that he’d been so quick to see the difficulties the conversion had presented and the solutions she’d found to overcome them. Whilst she put the kettle on and fetched cups, she tried not to watch him as he looked around, smiling and nodding his approval at the sitting area. Two ample sofas flanked a salvaged wooden table; and a handsome old steamer chair which, like everything else, she’d picked up for next to nothing, offered a quiet corner to enjoy the view across the creek from a different angle. Beyond the sitting room, she had created a kitchen and dining area. By sticking to a palette of neutral and aqua tones, she’d ensured that the main decorative feature of the space was the waterscape beyond. She didn’t need Matthew’s good opinion of her achievements, but it was still gratifying to see it in his admiring expression.

  Feigning indifference to his presence wouldn’t work if her hands shook, Harry thought, filling the cafetière. She placed the tray on the table between them and took the seat opposite, in case he got the wrong idea; then realised how stupid she was being and ticked herself off. Who was she trying to kid? She could have served coffee naked in her bedroom, and the only move he was going to make on her any time soon was entirely to do with her land. She sighed and passed him a cup.

  ‘I have to admit that it did cross my mind George might have had something to do with the fire,’ he said. ‘But common sense told me that was completely out of character. I never really believed either of you were involved, but as for Johnny – well, that’s a different matter.’

  Harry opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Deep down, wasn’t she relieved that it was Johnny, not George, who had been responsible?

  ‘Mmm, good coffee, and very welcome,’ Matthew said, looking a bit surprised. ‘The thing is, Johnny’s admitted the offence and on paper it doesn’t look good; a pre-planned, politically motivated attack on a public building, using an accelerant to get the fire going.’

  Harry let out the breath she’d been holding. ‘But that’s not really how it is; Johnny isn’t a political animal.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t help him, Harry – it’s out of my hands. I’m not pressing charges, but he won’t be coming back to his boat any time soon. He’ll be detained and there’ll be a psychiatric assessment.’

  She ran her hand through her hair, appalled at the consequences of Johnny’s action, saddened at what lay ahead for him.

  ‘He needs professional help. He needed it before when he was a malnourished, neglected man with a serious drink problem, but now he’s crossed the line. At least this way someone will make sure he’s not a danger to himself – or to anyone else.’ Suddenly he broke off and eyed her over his cup. ‘Harry, you look worn out. All of this must have come as a nasty shock to you. I’ll drink up and leave you in peace.’

  She picked up a piece of flapjack she didn’t really want. Peace? Everything Matthew said about Johnny was true and, if she’d been a bit more alert about the state he was in, she might have averted a crisis.

  He put down his cup and leaned forward. ‘It was sweet of you to invite me in. I know we’re not the best of friends so I really appreciate it. Will you be all right?’

  She dragged her gaze up to meet his and wished she hadn’t. Of course, he’d just said something nice to her, which didn’t help. Men fell for good looks, women fell for good lines. That had to be
why she was staring into the velvet depths of his eyes for far longer than was polite, wishing he didn’t have to go. Are you crazy? a voice in her head was screaming.

  Maybe Matthew had heard it too; a small frown creased his brow and he leaned back in his chair looking dazed. ‘I’d better go,’ he muttered.

  Harry heard the door from a long way off. At least they agreed about something.

  George had been sitting in his caravan, wondering what to do about the suitcase tucked away under his bunk, when the phone rang. Damn thing. It was only there because Miss Harriet had insisted he had to have one. As it was, he didn’t phone no one and no one phoned him. No point in having the damn thing. George sat still for a moment, hoping the caller would just go away. He could sense trouble; Miss Harriet had been lifting so many stones in her quest to uncover the past, there was no telling where the search would take her and no telling who would scuttle out. Feigning utter indifference would only put her off the scent for so long, and he was beginning to feel the strain of the burden he was carrying.

  George had a nasty feeling that whoever was ringing could tell he was there. Eventually he picked up the phone to hear a voice he’d been half expecting, as if he’d summoned an unquiet spirit. George didn’t know how much more his nerves could stand. Maeve Watling − no, Kendall, he reminded himself − was still resentful about the past and longing to have her say.

  He’d always had mixed feelings about Harriet’s mother. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine her slender frame touched by middle age, and silver threads glimmering in her dark hair. She had once been a beautiful woman and, for a while, until the spell was broken, Harry senior had worshipped her and had been a happier, more stable man for loving her. Of course, she’d been very young and very much in love; but, however hard Maeve had tried to lock Harry to her side with a wedding ring and a child, there was always a fugitive aspect to his personality which escaped her. Even after all these years, George’s own bond with the man who had been her husband still rankled.