‘He must have been carried in on the tide.’ Marina gave an update on the situation to the coastguard.
Lachlan was on the move. ‘I’ll go down and see how he is. I can get there quickly. The guy could have hypothermia and I can ask him about the other kite surfer and call you with any info.’
‘Are you sure?’ she said, alarmed at him getting involved.
‘I’ll not get into trouble,’ he said, pausing at the door.
‘Well, be careful going over the rocks to the far beach,’ she called after him.
A few minutes later, Marina saw him scrambling over those very rocks. Meanwhile, an update had come through from the coastguard. The big all-weather boat had been diverted from its training session to an incident down the coast so the small inshore lifeboat was being launched from Porthmellow, along with a coastguard helicopter.
She had a quick look to see Lachlan appear, jogging along the beach but Marina daren’t take her eyes off the kite surfer for more than a moment. She was clinging onto her kite and at the mercy of the swell. All Marina could do was keep updating the coastguard, and she sighed with relief when, a few minutes later, she saw a black dot in the sky approaching from the west.
Lachlan called her on his mobile. ‘I’m with the male casualty. He’s sustained a few cuts and bruises from being blown onto the rocks but seems to be in good shape, otherwise. He’s far more worried about his girlfriend. She’s called Ursula and she’s diabetic. He’s worried that she’s grown very weak.’
‘Tell him the helicopter’s on its way for her and the lifeboat for him.’
There was no answer but the wind was blowing. ‘Lachlan?’
‘OK. They’d better be quick,’ he said, and rang off.
The inshore craft arrived at the same time as the helicopter and soon, Ursula was being airlifted from the water. It flew off with her to hospital while the inshore lifeboat crew picked her boyfriend up.
An hour after they’d spotted the kite surfers, Marina was still waiting for Lachlan to return to the station and he wasn’t answering his phone.
The helicopter and the whole rescue had clearly brought back the trauma of his accident or he wouldn’t have made such a rapid exit. Should she call in to the cottage and see how he was, or did he want to be left alone? Her attempts to draw him out of himself and into the community had both backfired so far and she felt guilty. It must have been a very bad accident to have such an effect on him.
At five o’ clock, Marina still hadn’t heard from him, and the two volunteers who had left a family birthday early, especially to help her, arrived to take over. She was drained and left the hut with mixed feelings. On the one hand, she was relieved that the kite surfers had been rescued, but she was also trying not to think what might have happened if Lachlan hadn’t spotted them. Even though it was his visit that had distracted her, she had to focus on the positives: if the station hadn’t been there at all, if she hadn’t stuck out the watch, if Lachlan hadn’t brought it to her attention – things could have been very different.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Whoa, steady. Let me give you a hand.’
Tiff grasped Dirk’s arm as he and one of the other crew members helped her off the lifeboat as it moored alongside the quay.
‘You OK?’ He didn’t let go of her arm and she didn’t push him away until she was safely on the quayside.
‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine.’ Finally, and unwisely, brushing off his hand, she tottered up the quayside and back towards the station, feeling as if the ground was a giant marshmallow.
‘You’ll soon have your land legs back,’ he said.
‘What legs?’ Tiff mumbled. ‘They don’t appear to be working.’
She’d changed – or been helped to change – out of the dry suit by one of the other female members of the crew after her ‘dip’.
She convinced herself that would have been OK – just about – if the lifeboat had headed straight back to Porthmellow station as scheduled. Except it hadn’t – it had been re-directed to a real ‘shout’ a few miles out to sea where a yacht’s engine had failed and was drifting towards a notorious reef.
Rachel had taken the decision to race immediately to the yacht, with Tiff still on board. Tiff had been briefed and understood the urgent need and had tried not to show how seasick she felt. But by the time they’d reached the yacht and towed it back to port, it was mid-afternoon and she’d thrown up twice.
The crew had been amazing, checking on her and bringing her cups of water, sweets and some seasickness pills which, although a little late, had helped a bit. She hadn’t wanted to make life difficult for them, or to take them away from their main task of recovering the yacht, so she’d done her utmost to look cheerful even though she felt like death.
She’d uttered another of many silent prayers as the lifeboat puttered gently into the calm waters of the outer harbour and only now, back on the safety of dry land, did she finally allow herself a small smile that the experience, though horrendous, would make a hell of a good feature – in fact she might even be able to sell it to a national magazine, let alone Cream of Cornish, if she could find a strong enough topical slant to it. There was one added angle she could use, of course, but she didn’t think Dirk would be happy about it.
‘You were awesome!’ Rachel trilled. ‘The perfect casualty. No matter how many times the crew try to act like a real casualty, they never get it right.’
‘Thanks. I aim to please,’ Tiff muttered, grateful that a chair was within collapsing distance. ‘I can’t believe you do this for the love of it.’
‘Dirk gets paid. Most full-time mechanics do because we need a trained expert on site at all times.’
‘I’d volunteer anyway, even if I wasn’t paid,’ Dirk said.
‘You have to eat, Dirk!’ Rachel laughed. ‘And you do come out on shouts at all hours as well as your regular duties.’
‘What else would I do with myself?’ he muttered.
‘I can’t imagine spending a moment longer than I had to on that … thing.’ Tiff shuddered, glancing back at the lifeboat. Two of the crew were preparing to take it back to the station where it would be winched onto the launch slipway.
Rachel patted her on the shoulder. ‘There’s a brew on,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we all have a cuppa and a debrief. You can ask your questions for the feature at the same time? Or if you’d prefer, you can head home and call me when you’ve recovered?’
Although the dry suit had, as promised, kept her clothes dry despite full immersion, Tiff’s hair was stiff with salt and she could taste it on her lips. She did need a shower, but right now, she could barely contemplate getting wet again. She shook her head.
‘That’s OK, I’d rather do it while it’s fresh in my mind,’ Tiff said, her journalist’s mind clinging onto the sights, sounds, fear and exhilaration like she’d clung onto the crew member who’d swum into the heaving seas to ‘rescue’ her.
A while later, she was seated in the crew room around the table with a mug of sweet, ‘builder’s’ tea that she normally wouldn’t have touched, but which tasted like nectar. She’d set her phone to record and dug out the notebook and pen she always kept in her handbag. Rachel was chatty as ever, more obviously skilled than the others in talking about her role, though a little too ‘on message’ for Tiff’s liking. Others opened up, though everyone was ultra-keen to play down their part, dismissing it with dark humour.
She’d interviewed people who had done ‘heroic’ acts before – people who’d stayed behind to help the fallen during terrorist attacks, or dragged strangers from burning cars. Almost invariably, they gave the same answers to the question, ‘What made you step into danger and do something while others stood by?’
Usually still in shock, few could articulate the reasons behind their actions. They’d simply acted ‘as anyone else would’. But not many people were as brave as these people – the crew – who kept on putting themselves in danger. Every single time they went out.
As a third party, necessarily detached, the one thing she hadn’t fully ‘got,’ that perhaps she now did, was the rock-solid camaraderie, the uniting in a common cause. She’d glimpsed it at the Wave Watchers shifts as well as during her experience today. The sharing of goals, the confidence that your mates and colleagues would always ‘have your back’ – and perhaps even sacrifice their life for yours, or, more remarkably, a random stranger’s. The disparate parts that coalesced as one, like molten lava fusing into solid rock.
They weren’t saints. Of course not. There were annoying people, bossy people and pedantic people in the crew and the Wave Watchers. However, when it came to the crunch on a ‘shout’, they had all become one person, or at least acted as one person with one aim: to save lives.
It didn’t take a genius to recognise the contrast between this world and the one she belonged to – or rather, had belonged to. But writing and journalism were now part of her DNA. Plus, she knew it wasn’t accurate that all her former colleagues had deserted her. Two had come up trumps with auction prizes, even though one was too late, and then there was the editor who’d been happy to commission her freelance stories.
The one person she thought had truly mattered – Warner – had not only let her down, but twisted the knife for good measure. The experience had made her even more cynical and distrusting of everyone except her closest family, but today had helped restore her faith in humanity a tiny notch.
When the rest of the crew dispersed, Tiff was left alone in the crew room with Dirk. ‘I um … should apologise for putting you in a situation where you felt you had to do that,’ he said.
‘I didn’t have to do anything. I can assure you, Dirk, that if I hadn’t wanted to, I wouldn’t have.’ Tiff hid a smile.
‘Mind you. You did make a great casualty …’ There was a distinct glint in his eye.
‘Then I’m glad you had your three hundred quid’s worth,’ she said.
‘Oh, I think it was worth more than that.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Wow, high praise from Mr Dirk ’n’ Stormy.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Look, I think it’s my turn to owe you something. Will you come back to the house for something to eat?’
The mention of food made Tiff’s stomach swim. ‘Erm …’
‘A cup of ginger tea, if a meal is too much?’
Tiff realised that this was her opportunity to get to know Dirk better. She could use his guilty conscience to find out more. ‘Well, I can’t imagine putting anything solid in my mouth for the foreseeable future but I might manage a ginger tea …’
Dirk’s eyes narrowed briefly and his lips twitched, whether in a smile or because he was trying to frame a response, she wasn’t sure.
He stepped away, seemingly at sea himself. ‘Tea it is, then.’
It was surprising how quickly she’d recovered, Tiff mused, when Dirk opened his front door and gestured to her to go ahead of him. Her legs still weren’t quite steady and she didn’t feel like eating just yet, but she was more than ready for ginger tea.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he said, and went out into the small hallway and through to what she assumed was the kitchen, from the sounds of the kettle boiling and cupboards opening and closing.
Left alone, she got up to look at some prints hanging above the fireplace. They were a mix of scenes of Cornwall in all its moods, from sunny to wild, but her heart sank when she saw her reflection in the glass of one stormy seascape. God, what a sight she was! Her hair was wild and stiff with salt, her face pale and devoid of any make-up.
He was back in a few minutes with a tray with mug of herbal tea for her, coffee for himself and a plate of ginger biscuits.
‘Try one,’ he urged, offering the plate. ‘They’re Cornish fairings, the sugar and ginger will do you good. It’s been a long time since breakfast.’
‘Thanks.’ She nibbled at the biscuit, deciding to see how her tummy responded before eating more, but the warm tea was soothing and her appetite began to return. She selected another biscuit.
‘I can rustle up some proper food, if you want?’
Her stomach rumbled. She couldn’t deny she was now hungry, and she wanted to spend more time with Dirk.
‘Cheese and mushroom omelette with salad?’
‘That sounds good …’ she grinned wickedly. ‘Though I kind of expected you to put me to work in the galley.’
‘I think you’ve fulfilled your auction duties for the day and besides, you haven’t tasted my cooking yet. That might be part of the forfeit.’
She laughed, and glimpsed a smile that told her Dirk had enjoyed making her laugh.
‘Join me in the kitchen?’ he said, somehow making the request sound absolutely filthy – or was that only in her fevered mind? She doubted that he felt the same crackle of static between them, or that his pulse hammered away when they accidentally touched, or that he also lay awake thinking about her.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll even lend a hand.’
Dirk whipped up the eggs while Tiff grated some Gruyere and chopped up some mushrooms. Eventually, he divided a pretty passable omelette onto two plates, and they ate it at the kitchen table with a salad and some sourdough. The table was positioned in an extension to the rear of the kitchen, which had obviously been recently done, with its bifold doors and roof light flooding the dining area with light. She could see out to the fence between his elderly neighbour’s garden and Marina’s place.
They chatted about the lifeboat crew while they ate and he seemed to relax and open up when talking about his work. She longed to record him now his guard was down a little, but didn’t dare. He’d be bound to clam up immediately if he thought she was going to write about him and she didn’t want to do anything that would stem his obvious passion for his vocation. She lapped up every word about the incidents he’d been involved in … some funny, some uplifting, some tragic.
‘It’s the ones you can’t save that stay with you …’ he said. ‘They haunt you.’
Tiff paused, reaching for the salad bowl.
Clarity exploded in her mind as she finally remembered the story the Herald had run, previous year. The picture they’d chosen had been taken after a tragic incident at a Thames lifeboat station where Dirk had been working – however, the photo had nothing to do with the story that accompanied it.
The newspaper had chosen it to go with a piece about Dirk – or rather, about his ex-wife. The Herald had published a series of stories on Amira, a successful actress in a long-running medical soap. Dirk’s name had been mentioned in some of the articles – and not always in a flattering light.
Tiff’s hands were not quite steady as she scooped more salad onto her plate with the wooden servers. Should she stay silent or confess that she’d come across him before?
Should she carry on deceiving him or be honest?
She toyed with her salad until she looked up and found him watching her.
‘Do you miss London?’ he asked, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil in her mind.
Caught off guard, she answered, ‘Do you?’
He held her gaze for a second as the significance of her question sank home. ‘Some things,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. He’d never told her that he’d lived in London.
Tiff took a leap of faith, not knowing whether it would take her to the bottom of the sea, never to resurface, as far as Dirk was concerned. ‘You’re talking about what happened with Amira, I suppose?’ she murmured.
‘Amira?’ His expression turned as chilly as the sea she’d been thrown into. ‘I suppose she had to come up some time. How long have you known I used to be her partner?’ he said coldly.
‘Your face first rang a bell while I was helping you with the bow tie, but it’s taken me until now to realise it was because I’d seen you in the Herald. You already know I worked for them, I take it?’
‘Evie let slip that you worked on the Herald before the fundraiser. Marina mentioned it, apparently.’ He shook his head. ‘Jesu
s. Is there no hiding place? Why are you people so interested in people’s private lives? Is that why you’re here now? To dig up more dirt?’
Tiff had expected a reaction, but even she was surprised by the bitterness in his voice. ‘If by “you people” you mean the press, then I won’t insult your intelligence by explaining why we’re interested,’ she declared. ‘But on the subject of why I’m here now, you couldn’t be more wrong. If you think I put myself up for auction on the off-chance you would buy me, and throw me out of a boat into the Atlantic then, I can promise you, even a cunning hack like me couldn’t have arranged that.’
‘I never thought you did,’ Dirk muttered.
‘Just to make it clear, I had no idea you even lived in Cornwall, let alone near Marina – and I also didn’t arrange to be asked to deliver the leaflets to you or for you to be so crap at tying a bow tie.’
He grunted, which Tiff momentarily took to be an acknowledgement that she might be right, before he murmured, ‘Convenient for you, though?’
‘I’d say the opposite. I did all I could to avoid you at the auction. You went over the top with your bid. Anyone would think you were stalking me, not the other way around.’
‘That’s tosh!’
‘Why did you pay so much for me then?’ she asked.
‘It was for a good cause,’ Dirk shot back.
‘Oh, of course. The search and rescue volunteers.’
‘Actually, I meant it was worth it to see the look on your face.’ And he added, raking her body with his intense dark gaze, ‘The look on it right now.’
Tiff struggled to regain her composure. ‘Well, I guess now we’re even. You had your revenge for whatever ills you think I’ve done you.’
‘The ills I think you’ve done me?’ He snorted in derision. ‘I’m hardly likely to forget that it was your rag that hounded Amira and me to the point where she couldn’t handle it any longer and our marriage broke down.’
Chapter Fourteen
The switch in atmosphere was sudden and sharp. The banter, so sexually charged a few minutes before, had shifted to anger and resentment on Dirk’s part, and unease on hers.
A Perfect Cornish Escape Page 12
