Turning the Tide Read online

  ‘Why don’t you get George to do that?’

  Resplendent in his trendy black cardigan and white vest top, Jimi clearly wasn’t in the mood to get his hands dirty, Harry thought ruefully.

  ‘George doesn’t work here any more,’ she told him crisply.

  Jimi’s eyebrows rose. ‘So, what about the manorial rights stuff? Did you get anything useful out of him about that before he left?’

  Harry bent to tighten the lid of the petrol can. ‘George wasn’t making much sense about anything when I saw him last,’ she bit out. ‘And he didn’t leave. He was sacked. You see, unfortunately, George is an alcoholic. And I was stupid enough to think he wouldn’t relapse … so that’s it.’

  Jimi whistled softly. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  Harry straightened up and pushed her hair off her face. ‘Well, why should you? It’s not as if you can tell by looking. Besides, it was Matthew who started him off. Nice guy, your boss.’

  ‘In the circumstances you didn’t have a choice,’ he said, taking off his sunglasses to reveal dark eyes hard with resolve. ‘I’ve seen it all before; I’ve worked with one or two. They can stay dry for months, years even, and then something pushes them over the edge and the whole cycle starts again.’

  ‘Something or someone,’ Harry said with feeling. ‘If Matthew Corrigan hadn’t been so keen to make George one of the lads, this wouldn’t have happened.’ She examined her split nails and battered hands. ‘I’ve lost George and, unless my solicitor comes up with something fast, I’m in danger of losing the yard too.’

  ‘What about all the publicity the town’s had? And that sailing article? Won’t that help the business?’

  Harry looked round for her life jacket. ‘I’m not counting on that. It could be months before that’s published. Besides, it could be all over by then. Let’s face it, the sort of people who’ll be coming up to dine at Samphire aren’t really the sort who sail from Watling’s. They want CCTV to keep an eye on the valuable boats they never sail, and locked gates and all that malarkey.’

  ‘But not everyone wants that, surely?’ Jimi mused, looking round at the straggly array of yachts lining the bowl of the creek. ‘I can’t believe you haven’t had a single enquiry; it’s such a beautiful spot.’

  ‘Until Matthew builds a block of flats here.’

  Harry thought about Matthew sitting on her sofa, talking about Johnny. Listening to that intimate sexy murmur, she’d found it so easy to be seduced into believing that he cared – not only about Johnny but also, and she felt stupid just thinking it, about her.

  ‘You know, it’s at times like this that I really wish Dad was here.’ Harry shoved her hands in her pockets. ‘He would have been able to tell me what to do, he always trusted his instincts.’

  Jimi tried to mask his expression, but not before Harry had seen the hunger there. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, giving a tight, thin smile. ‘Listening to you makes me realise what I’ve lost. You grew up with a father who loved you. I had a stepfather who resented me all his life for not being his real son. How old were you when you lost your dad?’

  ‘Eleven.’ Maybe she got a few sympathy points for being so young?

  Jimi’s eyes looked past her at the silver water and the boat yard. ‘At least you’ve got all of this to remember your father by – I’ve got nothing.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have something in common, won’t we?’ said Harry, trying to lighten the mood.

  He turned to her sharply. ‘What?’

  ‘I won’t have anything either. Not if Matthew takes this lot away.’

  Jimi smiled grimly. ‘Don’t worry, Harry. I’m not going to give him the chance. Anyway,’ he went on, before she could ask him what he was going to do, ‘where’s George now?’

  Harry thought sadly of George’s shed. The door had blown ajar during the night and she’d tentatively pushed it open, half hoping that there’d been a terrible mistake and George would be sitting there, making tea. But there was no whistling kettle, just the sound of the hinges creaking in the wind.

  ‘He’ll be at the caravan,’ Harry said with certainty. Where else was there for him to be?

  ‘Do you want me to look in on him? Make sure he’s okay?’

  ‘Would you?’

  Jimi unfolded his sunglasses. ‘Sure. I’m due at the restaurant, but if there’s anything you should know, I’ll be right back. Okay?’

  Harry felt tears prick her eyes and tried to blink them away, but not before Jimi had seen.

  ‘Aw, c’mon, kid,’ he said gently. ‘You’ve done the right thing.’ He held out his arms and Harry stepped towards him.

  If the thought of what Harry might be like in bed had ever crossed Matthew’s mind, he’d tried to let it get away pretty quickly. But he would really, really like to know what she was doing with her face buried in his chef’s chest. He’d heard about Jimi’s reputation, did the guy have no self-restraint? Whilst he was standing there trying to frame a sentence from something other than ‘hell’, ‘fuck’ and ‘playing at’, the happy couple split apart. Jimi disappeared up one of the paths behind the boat yard, but he wasn’t about to let Harry get away.

  It was a nice hug, Harry thought, wandering over to the pontoon to prepare the dinghy for her inspections. Not creepy, not sexy, but strangely comforting. She clamped the outboard motor on the back of the dinghy. How long had it been since anyone had given her a simple, straightforward hug? Noticing movement along the shore, Harry was startled into action. Here was one person who wouldn’t be giving her a hug any time soon. Giving the starter a tug, she prepared to cast off the dinghy, eager to escape Matthew who was bearing down on her fast.

  ‘Harry, wait!’

  Fortunately the motor was loud enough for her to pretend not to hear; now was not the time to be answering questions about why she’d been embracing his chef. Collecting the lines in quickly, she was starting to power away when the dinghy rocked and Matthew climbed in opposite her, hooded hazel eyes glittering green in the shaft of light that sliced across his face.

  ‘Cut the engine,’ he ordered.

  ‘It’s too late now,’ Harry told him. ‘You know what they say about time and tide and I’ve got work to do. There’s a spare life jacket under your seat, I suggest you put it on. And, since you’ve got no waterproofs, you’re going to find the ride rather wet.’

  She was just going to hit the throttle when Matthew calmly leaned across and turned off the engine.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at, you idiot?’ she bellowed.

  ‘I could ask the same of you,’ Matthew said coldly.

  ‘Get out, Matthew. Haven’t you caused enough grief? I haven’t got time to play stupid games with you.’

  ‘You don’t have time for anyone. Period,’ he accused. ‘Like the poor old sod who’s given up most of his life to wait hand and foot on your ungrateful family.’

  ‘What! Now let me see – who’s in the wrong here? My family, who’ve given George chance after chance where most employers would have thrown him out long ago? Or you, Mr Magnanimous, throwing drink down George’s throat until he was absolutely senseless?’

  Harry knew she was lashing out, but she didn’t care; as far as she was concerned, the mess she was in was entirely due to the man sitting opposite her. His sheer good looks still made her legs go weak, but like everyone else she’d been completely taken in by his casual charm. She’d just made another grab for the starter, when Matthew leaned across and held her firmly by the shoulders.

  ‘Let me go!’

  Matthew’s fingers dug in even tighter. ‘Will you get off your high horse for just two minutes and listen to me! George is ill − something you might have found out for yourself, if you’d been a little less high-minded and had had the decency to see how he was doing.’

  Harry felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her body. Matthew, glaring at her, seemed to fade away and she could hear the sound of her own blood pulsing through her head, before she found the strength
to pull herself together. ‘How bad is he?’

  Matthew gave a snort of disgust. ‘Not as bad as he would have been if he’d spent another night in that caravan.’ He shook his head and gave her a withering look. ‘I wonder at you, Harry, I really do. It must have been very convenient for you having George on the doorstep like that, in the cheapest, meanest accommodation your so-called caring family could put him up in.’

  ‘But …’ Harry shut up. How could she protest that George liked living in his caravan, that he’d rejected any offers of anywhere more comfortable? It didn’t ring true, especially when she looked into her heart and asked herself how long it was since she’d actually been in there to see the state of the place.

  Matthew sat back, his mouth in a hard line of disapproval. ‘He’ll be all right,’ he said slowly. ‘His lungs aren’t in great shape, that’s the legacy of his wartime service and all the smoking over the years. Fortunately he’s only got a chest infection, though I dread to think where it might have led if he’d been left to fend for himself much longer.’

  A mental picture of what might have been made Harry wince. Poor old George, lying there wondering when help would come. She’d bought him a mobile phone, but she knew full well that he never used it. He probably didn’t even know how to use it, though nothing would have enticed him to admit it. If he’d died, she would only have had herself to blame. ‘Which hospital is he in?’ she said, at last.

  Matthew shook his head. ‘It’s not serious enough for that, thank God. And anyway, he made it clear to the doctor that if an ambulance was summoned he wouldn’t get in it. Said he didn’t want no hospital, as if the doctor and I were trying to finish him off.’ He gave a short wry smile and looked at Harry. ‘No, George is at my place, resting up in the spare room. Very nice he looks too, surrounded by all the chintz wallpaper. You’ll see for yourself when you come up.’

  ‘No.’ She felt herself shrinking back.

  ‘What do you mean – “no”?’

  How could she explain that every fibre of her body was screaming at her not to go anywhere near the old man? Matthew was right; she had harmed him enough already. She should have insisted on better accommodation for him, she should have been up to check on him sooner, she should have taken better care of him the way he’d always taken care of her. But she couldn’t visit him, because it would only remind her of what she’d tried so hard to forget.

  She’d been insistent on seeing her father, even though Maeve had done everything to prevent her. But Harry knew better, refusing to eat until she was allowed to see him one last time, convinced that when he saw her he would sit up in bed and ask for a mug of tea and they would talk about the next job to do at the boat yard. So Harry had demanded to be let in; only Daddy didn’t even open his eyes. They’d hidden the worst of the damage, of course; but one glance at his dear, strong face, ravaged by the sea, and she knew he was lost to her forever. It wasn’t a memory she shared with anyone and she wasn’t about to start now.

  ‘No, I won’t come up to the house, thanks. I’ll wait until George is up and about and catch up with him then.’

  Her voice sounded stiff and distant even to her own ears. She sat hunched up with misery, as Matthew pulled the dinghy to the shore and angrily lifted himself out. He looked down at her as if he could barely bring himself to speak.

  ‘I’ve met some cold people in my time, but you are one heartless little cow, Harry Watling. Did you ever care about George, or was he just a useful bit of kit to be discarded once he’d served his purpose?’ He flung the line to her and kicked the dinghy savagely away. ‘Well, go on. Hurry up before you miss the tide. Got to get your priorities right, haven’t you?’

  Harry and the dinghy started to drift away, but Matthew turned round for a parting shot. ‘And another thing!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t you think you’ve got enough trouble without messing with my chef as well?’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The floppy cotton hat she’d been wearing had once been white; it wasn’t the most flattering garment, but it stopped her getting sunstroke. If she keeled over now, there’d be no one around to pick her up; so it was only prudent, in the circumstances, to be careful. Of course, if she was being really sensible, she’d sell the boat yard, put a deposit on a little flat and get a steady job in an office. Maybe she could even get a steady man and live happily ever after?

  Harry plonked herself down at the edge of the pontoon, pulled off her shoes and used her hat to wipe her forehead as she dangled her feet in the cool water. Late August and the boat yard was more like a graveyard, with the sad pale husks of once blithely coloured and polished vessels now spectral in the shadows. One or two of her most independent skippers had slipped their moorings in shimmering pink dawns to set off on summer passages. The remaining boats, even fewer now, moved only in the turn of the tide.

  A little wave rolled across the creek and lapped up at her shins, a rope creaked and strained close by and a solitary seabird cried as it crossed the lonely sky. Harry let her shoulders drop and ran a hand across her stiff neck. Now that she had given herself permission to stop for a break, her eyelids felt heavy in the soporific heat; but sleep had become fleeting and elusive as her restless conscience demanded attention. For almost a week she’d got up every day and told herself that today she would see George; but each day there would be another pressing job, another payment to negotiate – and then she’d feel too drained to look George in the eye, knowing that she should have taken more care of him.

  Her immediate reaction had been to lash out at Matthew, but now she was ashamed of that too. After all, he hadn’t known that George was ill when he’d bought him a drink; it had been George’s decision alone to take the first sip. And Matthew had done everything he could since then to make it up to the old man. The best she’d managed, and she could just imagine Matthew’s opinion of the gesture, was to slope up to Matthew’s front door very early one morning and post a get-well card, before anyone hauled her in to face more recriminations.

  Without George the days seemed longer. Tea did not magically appear when she thought her tongue was about to stick to the roof of her mouth. Biscuits, which had flashed before her in brief tantalising glimpses when George was feeling particularly generous, were non-existent. She didn’t only miss him for what he did for her, but for all the habits she’d previously found so annoying. Where was the sense of danger in any knots she had secured herself? These days she could walk past any load in perfect safety, only to find herself listening for the crash that signified George was back at work. She could even forgive his penchant for coming out with a pithy comment when she least needed it, to have life back to the way it was. ‘Ah, Miss Harriet, misery loves company,’ he would often tell her when she moaned about everything going wrong at once. Well, she was pretty miserable right now, and she felt like the loneliest person in the world.

  Harry swung round and rested her back against the warm wood of a mooring timber whilst she waited for her feet to dry. George also said that the first step was the hardest. Watling’s quivered in the heat haze; was it destined to become a place of wraiths and sad memories? Without evidence to show that the manorial rights had been relinquished long ago, she was looking at a dead end. As for her chances of coming to an arrangement with Matthew, she stood more chance of winning the lottery. One step at a time. Some things she couldn’t do, like working any harder, but there was one thing she couldn’t put off any longer. She scrambled to her feet; it was time to see George.

  A big box of family favourites − that might cheer him up. Or some chocolate shortbread. Or both? Harry deliberated as she headed into town, determined to do the right thing. In the summer heat the grass was dry and withered. Just like me, she thought; I’m crying out for a break in a long barren spell to perk me up and make me feel alive again.

  The further she got from the boat yard, the more uncomfortable she felt. Convinced that everyone would blame her for what had happened to George, Harry pleaded pressure of work as
an excuse for not joining in more of the preparations for the film festival. George was one of Little Spitmarsh’s treasures, well-known and well-loved. The news of how badly she had let him down would be all round town. What justification could she give for not visiting a frail old man? Harry began to drag her feet. How could she explain her own irrational fear that seeing her would only make him worse?

  Laughter and the sound of conversation from the General Store stopped her in her tracks, before she remembered that the first screening of the film festival was due to take place. In anticipation of the main event, the store was in full tapas bar mode, keen to soak up any tourists and encourage them to part with their cash. Harry wondered what to do next. Stroll in? Order a drink? Pretend she just happened to be passing? Before she could make up her mind, she found herself standing opposite the open door where the sound of someone playing ‘These Foolish Things’ floated out to her.

  Harry had to look twice to register that it was George, suited and booted, sitting at the piano, with Phil asleep under the piano stool. Harry grinned with relief and delight. You had to hand it to George, he was a man of many talents, constantly surprising her with skills he had picked up during his naval service. He looked great, a bit thinner in the cheeks and paler than usual, but very much the George she knew and loved. She had to take a deep breath for a moment to quell her grateful tears and stop herself rushing in and flinging her arms around him.

  Scanning the room, she could see Frankie and Trevor sharing a joke. Harry was puzzled. From the brief conversations she’d had with Frankie, she’d understood that the boys were up to their eyes with a combination of the new business and looking after all the new additions to their family, both human and canine; yet they’d clearly taken time out for the festival. Uncomfortable as it made her feel to think of them blaming her for George’s predicament, she couldn’t help but think that it was payback time. Remembering how she’d thrown her toys around when they’d been so quick to seize the business opportunity offered by Samphire, it was a wonder they’d stuck with her this long. Now, justifiably, she knew what it was like to be the one left out in the cold.