He threw off the stern line and gave the catamaran’s rear end a firm push with his Derry boot. “You might have worn something appropriate,” he said, stepping aboard. Simon’s three-quarter length, baggy grey shorts, and the bright t-shirt fell far short of his expectations.
Sensing his cue, like an automaton with a new coin, Simon animated himself to the wheel and threw her into reverse.
“Could have smartened yourself up a bit too,” Martin added over the accelerated engine noise. He thought Simon’s hair looked like hay pulled from a horse’s feed bag.
Simon looked over his shoulder and shrugged. “Don’t have a black t-shirt. She don’t pay me enough to buy one specially.”
Martin shook his head. He slipped a Leatherman multi-tool from a worn leather holster on his hip and dexterously flicked open one of blades with his thumb. “You must have been able to find something less colourful than that!” he said as he sliced through the frayed end of the stern line and pulled a lighter out from his shirt pocket.
“What can I say,” Simon said. “I’m a colourful guy.”
Martin sealed the fibres, pressing the hot nylon between his thumb and forefinger. Though he couldn’t see Simon’s face, he knew the smirk that lived there. He lifted a seat lid and pulled out a heavy, navy blue marine performance jacket. “Put this on!”
The jacket thumped into Simon’s back and dropped behind him. When he realised what it was, he looked out at the clear late morning sky and protested, “You’re kidding, I’ll fry!”
“Just put it on!” Martin pointed a warning finger. “And when we get there, remember… No one else gets on.”
“I know.”
Martin had his doubts. He checked the time and realised they were later than planned, but they were okay. There was still thirty minutes to spare. He looked across to Helford point, his gaze fixed. By halfway he could see a few people at the bottom of the steps near the pick-up point, no doubt waiting to cross. Today, they would have to wait.
As they drew closer, Martin saw another figure descending the steps - a lone figure moving slowly and deliberately, head sunken, clutching her flowers. He felt for Amy, for what he knew she was going through. He thought of that well coined phrase, ‘Time is a great healer’, but he’d seen no change in her since it happened, no sign of letting go and moving on with her life. Two years today… Where does it go?
The engine revs dropped. A quick shift into reverse jolted Martin back from his thoughts; memories of a morning nothing like this. The catamaran sidled up to the jetty. A glance at his watch again told him they had twenty minutes left. Perfect. The two walkers waiting to cross seemed to get the picture. Clearly, they had seen the signs; seen Martin in his black shirt and black jeans, and seen Amy with her flowers, also in black: an ankle-length skirt and boots, with a black turtle-neck sweater finished at her slim waist by a narrow black velvet belt. No words were exchanged. The walkers respectfully stood back.
Martin pulled the boat close to the jetty and his eyes fixed on Amy. He thought how good she looked despite everything. Her bright eyes - a palette of greens and blues that matched the colour of the river beneath the full sun - shone out through the glow of her earlier tears and he wanted to comfort her. He felt suddenly ashamed at the inappropriateness of his thoughts. He wanted to say he was sorry again, like he’d said so many times before.
As Amy approached, he stepped up and offered his hand to steady her aboard. He smiled an understanding half-smile that mirrored hers exactly. Amy did not speak as she sat down, and Martin could feel her hand trembling in his; see her white knuckles tight around the flower stems. At the wheel, Simon kept to his business. The engine revved up again and they were soon heading out towards the mouth of the river, weaving between anchored sailboats towards Durgan and beyond to Toll Point where Gabriel’s fishing boat had been found.
Toll Point…
Christ! Martin thought. That was a dark day.
Reaching above the north bank of the Helford River, Toll Point offers little more than a small shingle beach and a quiet place to anchor. If Rosemullion Head to the north and Nare Point to the south delineate the mouth of the Helford River, then between the headlands of The Gew and Toll Point is the river’s sometimes gargling throat. In bad weather it can be a dangerous place for the ill-prepared.
But not today.
As Amy arrived at that fateful place the water was as calm as the sky that sighed gently over it. A cormorant swooped past, low on the water. Then it rose and folded its wings before darting beneath the surface without making a splash. Not much was said on the way. What was there to say? Martin had offered his support as he always did - had suggested, as he had this past year, that she needed to move on with her life. She knew he meant well, but she didn’t want to hear it.
The boat was steady, engine shut off. A gentle sway now and then was all that gave the river’s presence away. Amy felt cold despite the sun. She rose slowly from her seat as though frail with old age and leant out over the water. Martin came to her side and Simon approached, mimicking, like he didn’t know what use to make of himself.
Amy reached out to place the flowers. Her hand dipped into the water, breaking the seal - cold. Her thoughts drifted and she wondered, as she always did, what it must have been like; what Gabriel had gone through before peace finally found him. Her fingers were numb. She could not let the flowers go and she only knew she had when she saw them float away - drifting like her thoughts. Where is he? Where is Gabriel?
She watched the newspaper cutting sink out of reach and wondered how her heart continued to beat. She swallowed, dry and painful, forcing back the lump that had risen in her throat. Then she turned away and collapsed onto the seat, burying her head into her lap, unable to quell the shiver than ran continually through her.
She felt Martin’s hand on her shoulder; heard him sigh as he began to circle a palm across her back.
“It will get better,” he promised.
Amy doubted it.
Chapter Eleven
The Ferry Boat Inn has been a celebrated feature of Helford Passage for over three hundred years and continues to service sailors and fisherman along with a busy tourist trade. Inside, the inn speaks of its piratical past and of smuggled contraband, with its ship’s lanterns and bells, ropes and wheels. An old ship’s mast stretches the length of the bar like a sturdy lintel.
Jefferson Tayte was outside, still smiling to himself after learning from two of the locals that the place was known as the FBI; at hearing Tayte’s accent they had been keen to engage him in conversation seemingly just to impart this information. He took a slow step beyond the terrace, leaving the cool shelter of the faux ship’s sail that canopied over it, lashed to imitation masts.
He was facing the river, comfortably fed and slouched with his hands in his pockets, jacket resting loosely through his arm. Before him, a short but lively beach ran to clear water that was turquoise under a strong sun barely past its zenith. Children played at the water’s edge, monitored by their parents, and further out, the river was active with the mid-week sailing fraternity; a melee of white sails gently aslant in a soft breeze that was barely there. The sun felt hot on Tayte’s face.
Although not a great walker by preference, he found the stroll to Helford Passage almost as good a tonic as his lunch. Along the way he’d passed the hamlet of Durgan, which consisted of a cluster of stone cottages surrounding an old school house at the edge of a small shingle beach by the river. He’d spent a few minutes looking up into the sub-tropical gardens of Glendurgan while he was there, but those scant minutes were too few to do justice to the exotic beauty that was two hundred years in the making; the giant camellias and magnolias, now resting in preparation for next year’s show, when they would once again exhibit in all colours from white to deepest crimson.
Tayte strolled onto the beach towards a metal railed gangway that arched onto the river to a floating pontoon. An unusual catamaran approached, and to his right, at the top of the
beach, level with the gangway, a sky blue kiosk advertised ‘Ferry Boat Hire’. Tayte went closer. Shingle and sand stirred and sank, crunching beneath his loafers. He glanced at the operating times, taking nothing in. Then he proceeded towards the pontoon which rocked as the catamaran arrived and moored up alongside it.
Tayte watched a cheery-looking couple dressed in matching forest-green walking garb disembark and he wondered what it must be like to feel that close to someone. As soon as they were on the pontoon, they extended their walking poles in perfect unison and linked arms before setting off towards him. The boat hands’ attire was oddly conflicting, he thought: one dressed in black, the other in a bright blue t-shirt.
The man in black called out to Tayte. “You going across?”
Tayte waved a dismissive hand. “No thanks. Maybe some other day.”
He watched the ferry operators tie off the craft, then they followed after the walkers. A lunch-time lull, Tayte supposed. He smiled politely as they passed, all heading for the inn. Then his gaze wandered back to the start of the coastal path, wondering as he set off towards it, whether his donation to the church of St Mawnan had been money well spent.
When he arrived back at the church, Tayte got the impression that the Reverend Jolliffe had been standing there in the south doorway all this time, just admiring the view. He was exactly where Tayte had left him a little over two hours ago. He was all smiles as Tayte approached along the path and Tayte perceived the news to be good.
“Lady Fairborne has been very accommodating,” Jolliffe said, his face beaming. He moved out from the doorway to greet Tayte, who returned his smile.
“I was lucky enough to be able to speak with her in person,” he continued. “Did you have a good lunch?”
“Yes, thanks,” Tayte said. “I took your advice. Good call.”
Jolliffe stooped and pulled a tuft of grass out from the gravel. “Lovely down there on a day like this.” He scanned the path for further unwanted intrusions. “I’m overdue a visit myself,” he added absently.
Tayte tried to catch Jolliffe’s eye, raising his brows expectantly, urging him to continue.
The reverend stood up again, still smiling. “I am sorry,” he said. He dropped the offending tuft onto the grass beside the path, brushing dust from his hands. “Down to business as it were.” He studied Tayte now with forced determination. “I’ve told Lady Fairborne all about you and what you’re up to here in our little part of Cornwall.”
Tayte would have liked it put better. He immediately felt as if he were up to no good.
“She was quite excited about the project.”
Tayte was waiting for the good news and he wished the reverend would hurry up and get to it.
“She’s very keen to see your work and expressed her interest in obtaining the finished result.” Jolliffe moved closer to Tayte and slowly whispered, “It would guarantee her full cooperation.”
Everyone has an angle, Tayte thought. He twisted his lower jaw, considering. He was sure his client would go off the rails at the idea of a total stranger having a copy of the chart he was paying for; even if they were technically family. But it was an interesting proposition. “I can’t promise anything,” Tayte said, but he wanted this interview. “We should be able to work something out.”
“Of course,” the reverend said. “I do understand.”
“So when will she see me?”
The reverend threw his hands out. “Right away!” he said, clearly very pleased with his accomplishment. “Lady Fairborne is at home this afternoon until three o’clock and can see you any time before then.”
Tayte was surprised at his luck and relieved to find someone so enthusiastic about his work. He was expecting some complication, like she couldn’t see him until next week. He checked his watch: ‘13:21’. There was enough time if he left immediately.
The reverend placed a hand on Tayte’s shoulder. “I was concerned that our many distractions would enchant you and keep you away too long,” he said. He led Tayte back towards the lych gate. “You’re to call at the side entrance in the north-east wing.” Jolliffe gestured with his hands as though drawing a schematic of the house and grounds. “You’ll have to go all the way around the headland to find the main gates first,” he added. “And be sure to ask for Lady Fairborne if she’s not there to greet you herself.”
Tayte took the reverend’s hand and firmly shook it. “Thanks again.” He turned to leave.
“Perhaps we’ll see you at one of our services?” Jolliffe said.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Tayte replied, but he doubted it.
Chapter Twelve
Amy Fallon was sitting alone on a red settee, staring into a cold inglenook fireplace. Like so much of their furniture, the settee was from the Victorian period, gathered over the years on weekends away or on specific antique-hunting trips when they were looking for something special. Each piece reminded her of Gabriel. She knew where they bought every item and every item linked to other memories, often of romantic breaks together that began with a customary pre-dinner bath, stimulated by champagne and the heady aromas of scented candles and fragrant oils.
The black lion on the heavy iron fire-back returned Amy’s stare from deep within the grate. It was early afternoon, still bright outside. She’d not long been back from the river and Martin had not long since left; a quick cup of tea to calm her nerves. Something stronger was suggested, but she knew she would find no answers at the bottom of a bottle - she’d already looked there.
As soon as Martin had left, she’d changed into her comfy clothes: a faded pair of jeans that were so old and torn they were beginning to look trendy again, and one of Gabriel’s old shirts: pale blue with a faint herringbone weave that had also seen better days. She was stroking her shirt sleeves and thinking about what Gabriel had said that last night they shared together. The conversation was often on her mind. There was something he wanted to show her, but it could wait…
“I’ll show you in the morning,” he’d said. “It’s late and we’ve an early start tomorrow.”
Amy remembered the fire being low in the grate. She was sitting where she was now, Gabriel beside her with an arm around her. She knew he was teasing her - he loved to tease. But this time she’d sensed an edge of seriousness in his tone.
“Show me now,” she’d said.
“In the morning … it’s no big deal.”
Amy recalled giving Gabriel a playful dig in the ribs. “So show me then.”
“I can’t - really.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a secret!”
Gabriel laughed then, and Amy remembered his strong hands grabbing her wrists and pulling her onto him. She remembered the mischief in his half-Irish eyes, letting her know that he would never show her until he was ready. When morning came, Gabriel went out early, leaving her at the cottage with a sleepy kiss on her forehead. She’d forgotten to ask what he’d wanted to show her and he had forgotten to say - or maybe he’d planned to show her later.
But later never came.
Apart from Amy’s bedroom, the sitting room was the only safe place in the house; the only place left to any peace since the decorators moved in at the start of the week. Two days of banging and scraping had done nothing for her nerves, but she was trying. A fresh look, someone had suggested. Clear out the old cobwebs - the ghosts. Though it tortured her, she still wanted the reminders around her; still needed them. She thought she might leave the sitting room alone - some part of the house still left to her memories.
The house was called Ferryman Cottage. It was constructed from flint and stone and located at Treath, a tiny hamlet of just a few cottages half a mile along the river from Helford Village on the south bank. Set back from the water, it had its own quay and mooring directly opposite Helford Passage. Secured to the mooring was a teak motor launch: their pride and joy. It was ideal for trips down the river when the tide was in, or to follow the coastline in search of a secret cove when the se
a was calm. The coastal path ran between the house and the river, which was often busy with walkers during the high season, but not to such an extent that it detracted from its charm.
A covenant existed tying the cottage to the Helford Ferry, which at one time ran from Treath. It ensured that whoever owned the business would have somewhere local to live. Neither could be sold without the other, so when Amy and Gabriel bought the business three years ago, they also bought Ferryman Cottage. The house retained most of its original features and, although smaller than they were used to, in many ways it was well suited to the quieter lives they sought - lives that had since proved to be anything but.
Amy might have burst into tears again were it not for the ten-pound hammer thumping into the wall on the other side of the fireplace. The whole house shook. The decorators were back at the wall again, knocking through into a side annexe that was used to store things that had no obvious place to go. It was proving a difficult task, but they were nearly done. It would give the room more space, but more importantly, the view from the window in the annexe offered a lovely second aspect along the river, back towards Helford and across to the inlet that ran up to Porth Navas.
The real reason she was having it knocked through was because Gabriel had wanted it. Gabriel would have taken that wall down the day they moved in, but there was enough to think about back then, when they had owned and operated the ferry service themselves. Now Amy had Martin to run things, and a string of hired assistants that seemed to change with the tide.
The house shook again and Amy winced. Beyond the wall to the left of the fireplace, she could hear the floorboards being worked on. The carpet was coming up and the boards beneath were to be repaired and treated. The constant scraping was getting to her now more than the banging and she wished she’d told the decorators to take the day off. She could deal with it better on any other day, but not today. She decided she had to get out of the house; take a walk into the village.
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