“Mr Ell-ee-ott,” she panted, her face the colour of smoked salmon, perspiration running off her chin.
“Primrose! What’s the matter?”
She was unable to speak. Instead, she bent forward from the waist (not an easy movement for a woman of such unusual weight distribution) and plunged her head between her knees. Will wondered if she would be able to straighten up again.
“Nothing wrong. Just getting a bit of exercise,” she gasped. “Letter arrived for you this morning. Thought I’d drop it off. This the boat?” In the battle of curiosity versus exhaustion, the former now gained the upper hand.
“Yes.”
“Mmm. Lot of work.”
“Yes.”
“Still. I’m sure she’ll look nice when she’s finished.” She held the letter aloft, having checked out the ladder and decided against a precarious ascent. “I didn’t know you were old enough to have been at Dunkirk,” she quipped, as Will came down the ladder and took the letter from her.
“Not quite.” He looked at the postmark and the frank of the Association of Dunkirk Little Ships.
“Is this boat one of them, then?” asked Primrose, her breathing almost back to normal.
“Yes.” Will felt guilty at not offering more information after her exertions, but suspected that Primrose already knew more than she was letting on.
“What a week you’ve had, Mr Elliott. We’ve all felt very sorry for you.” We? thought Will, wondering just how far round the cove his tale of woe had spread.
“Yes. It’s been a bit tricky,” he said.
“I can imagine.” Her complexion had now returned to normal. “But it’s so nice that Miss Finn has been such a good friend.”
“Sorry?” He was unnerved at Primrose’s conjecture.
“Miss Finn. I gather you’ve become quite friendly.”
Will was staggered at her candour. “Er…well, friendly, yes.”
“Lovely. Very nice for both of you.”
“Yes. Well. Thanks for bringing my letter.” He felt irritated at her intrusion and didn’t mind if she knew it.
Primrose realized she’d overstepped the mark, and seeing that he was not about to share the contents of the envelope with her she flapped her arms a couple of times and said, “Yes. Well. Must be off, back up the hill. The hard bit now.”
Will felt a pricking of conscience. “I didn’t know you jogged.”
“Oh, yes. Got to keep fit. Once a week. Vary the route. Always out for a good fifteen minutes. Gets the circulation going. Keeps me trim. Back home for supper. ‘Bye, then.” She lumbered away up the jetty.
Will took out his pocket knife and slit open the envelope. Out fell an assortment of papers. There was a membership form, some general information about the Association and a covering letter explaining that the enclosed document had been sent to them by Boy Jack’s previous owner in case they were interested in the boat’s history. They had retained photocopies but were sending him the original as the new owner of the boat. Will’s heart leapt. He unfolded the yellowing piece of paper and read:
To whom it may concern:
‘Boy Jack’ (originally ‘Graceful’)
Built 1931 Staniland & Company, Thorne, Yorkshire.
Length: 36ft.
Beam: 9ft 6in.
Displacement: 8 tons
Draft: 2ft 6in.
Engines: 2 x 30 h.p. Perkins M30
Hull: Pitch pine on oak.
The following history is what I have been able to piece together during the thirty years I have owned the boat. She was brought down from Yorkshire by a Thomas Cherry in 1937 and moored on the Thames at Oxford. At that time she was called ‘Graceful’. In the middle of May in 1940 she must have been moored further down the Thames as she was used in the evacuation of Dunkirk. She broke down twice on her first crossing but is credited with saving the lives of 246 men.
Her life immediately after the war is not well documented, but I found her in a poor state of repair on the Thames at Oxford in 1962 and decided to take her on. My wife and I sailed her down to Dartmouth that summer, where she was used very happily for summer holidays and weekend excursions. We lived in Totnes at the time. She became a regular cruiser up and down the river Dart and along the Devon coast.
I endeavoured to keep ‘Graceful’ in good repair, and to this end the hull was refurbished and new stringers put in place in 1967. I also replaced the deck planking. We then moved to Falmouth so that we could enjoy boating in Cornwall and live by the sea which is what we had both dreamed of. Sadly, in 1969 my beloved wife died while giving birth to our son. The boy himself died a week later.
I planned to sell the boat and move away, but she was the one thing that we had shared and I could not bring myself to part with her. For this reason I renamed her ‘Boy Jack’, after our son. I have continued to use her ever since, and more restoration work was carried out in the 1980s. Now, in my later years, I do not get out on her as often as I would like and my circumstances make the cost of repairs difficult.
I explain these facts in the hope that the person who next owns ‘Boy Jack’ will remember her history, and mine, and take good care of her. She saved the lives of many British soldiers during the war and gave me, and my family, many hours of great pleasure. She deserves to be looked after.
Yours sincerely,
Walter Etchingham
Will folded the piece of paper and put it back into the envelope. For the second time in a week he was in tears.
Fourteen
Hartland Point
Amy looked at the old station clock on the wall of the studio. It was ten past one. The morning had dragged by. A few customers had turned up. One had even shown a passing interest in one of the erotic sculptures and she hoped at last that it might pass out of her life. But no, the customer left with the familiar ‘I’ll have a think about it’, which meant that she’d never see him again.
She set up a canvas on her easel in one corner of the studio and made a start on a rich blue sky, spreading the azure acrylic paint with her palette knife, all the while wondering where Will was and what he was doing. Had she been too pushy? Perhaps she had frightened him off. And who could blame him? Here was a man who had not known female company for six years, who had sought the solitude of a lighthouse. What made her think she could snap him out of his introspection in a matter of a few days’ acquaintanceship. But it was more than that, wasn’t it?
She wiped clean the palette knife on a piece of rag, replaced the cap on the tube of paint and climbed the spiral staircase for her jacket. She came down, threw a purple woollen scarf around her neck, and pulled the blind over the door. She needed a walk. A twenty-minute tramp along the beach would be just the thing.
The salt tang in her nostrils filled her with renewed energy. The brisk breeze blew through her hair and made her scalp tingle as she waded down through the tussocky grass alongside the clifftop path towards the sand. She ambled along the waterline, looking down at the bubbles that erupted from the sand as the white waves retreated, stooping occasionally to pick up a razor shell or a whelk, and looking at the indentations in the sand that were instantly washed away by the next thin sheet of advancing tide.
She thought of him, and tried not to think of him, then threw back her head and breathed in deeply.
“Had enough shop-keeping for one day?”
The voice surprised her and she jumped. Hovis was walking towards her.
“Oh! It’s you!”
“You look as though you’ve just escaped from prison.”
“I have. In a way. Just needed some air.”
“Me too. What have you got?” He nodded towards Amy’s fistful of shells.
“Oh, just some razors and a whelk or two. And one large mussel.”
“I think that’s what Will needs.”
“Sorry?” She tried to look unconcerned.
“Large muscles. His boat looks bigger out of the water than it does in. I think he’s a bit daunted by all the work.”
>
She tried a smile. Hovis watched as she turned and looked out to sea. Then he said, gently, “Shall we go and see how he’s getting on?”
Amy looked at her watch, half wanting to make an excuse.
Hovis offered her a way out. “Oh, I forgot. You’ll be opening up again soon.”
Suddenly her way was clear to her. “No. I’m going out. But I’ve time to see how he’s doing. Will you walk with me?”
“Happy to.”
They strode back along the beach, where the receding tide had left the sand firm, and Hovis showed her his treasure trove – a rusted metal ring from a boat; a length of silvery driftwood and a dogfish’s egg, the black purse equipped with wispy handles at each corner.
They found Boy Jack sitting on the concrete hard, propped up like Noah’s Ark waiting for the flood, with wooden shores sticking out from the hull like the legs of a gigantic insect.
“I’ve brought a visitor,” Hovis yelled up at the deck, dwarfed by the massive hulk.
Will stuck his head over the side, his face smeared with white paint. “Hi. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Just wondered how you were getting on.” She leant on one of the shores.
“Don’t lean on that! I mean, be careful. I always get nervous when boats are propped up.”
“Sorry!” She looked crestfallen.
“So am I. I didn’t mean to snap. I just can’t believe that these things can ever stay upright when they’re out of the water.” He climbed down the ladder, grinning, and the uncomfortable moment passed.
“She looks huge.”
“I know. Frightening, isn’t it?”
Hovis made his excuses. “Must dash. Got to get some stuff from Primrose’s. See you later.” He executed a slow pirouette and shambled off.
Amy walked around Boy Jack and looked up past the propellers at her stern. “She looks like the Titanic from here.”
“Well, with any luck, when Harry’s done his job she won’t suffer the same fate.”
He took a piece of sandpaper from his pocket and began rubbing at a propeller blade.
“Have you got enough lifeboats?” she teased.
“I’m getting a raft.”
“Big enough for all the passengers?”
“It depends how many there are.” He looked at her steadily.
“How many are you thinking of taking?”
“Oh, just a couple.” He looked upwards past the towering topsides and a small black and white face peeped back at him over the rail.
“There’s him…”
“A cat?”
“That’s Spike. We’ve been together a couple of years now.”
“Just you and him, then?” She posed the question jokingly.
“Well, it all depends.”
“On what?”
“You do ask a lot of questions.”
“Only because I’m interested.”
He turned to face her. “I’m very glad you’re interested.” He bent down and kissed her forehead.
She looked at him steadily. “You’ve got paint on your nose.”
“I’ve got paint everywhere.”
“I was just wondering…You said you’d come round for supper.”
“I will when I’m asked.” His eyes danced.
“Well, I’m asking. Tonight, if you like. I’m shutting up shop this afternoon. There’s an arts and crafts exhibition in St Ives and I want to see if I can find some new stuff for the studio. I’ll be back around six. Come round at about eight?”
“Sounds fine to me. It’ll take me that long to get this paint off.”
“OK, then. Don’t get tangled up in your propeller. Oh, and don’t lean on those props. It always makes me nervous.” He started, aware that he was, indeed, leaning against one of the shores.
She laughed. “Take care!”
“And you.”
He watched her go, the purple scarf trailing behind her like a pennant.
♦
She returned just after six, happy but exhausted, with promises from four artists that they would call in during the week and bring some of their work. As she opened the door of the studio the first things that greeted her eye were Oliver’s sculptures in the middle of the floor.
“Enough!” she shouted, then walked to the storeroom at the back of the studio and wheeled out a sack barrow. She wrapped old blankets around each of the sculptures, eased them on to the barrow and trundled them into the store. Now she would not have to stare her past in the face every day.
She took a shower, then pulled on a pair of jeans and a baggy sweatshirt and began to prepare supper.
♦
It was only supper, he told himself. Nothing more. She had asked him for supper. There was no reason to feel so apprehensive.
He walked up the lane towards the studio. The blind was down. He tapped lightly and tried the handle but the door would not yield. He tapped again.
Footsteps approached and the door opened. They looked at one another, he leaning against the wall, a bottle of wine in his hand, she barefoot, her hair, fiery in the studio lights, tumbling over her shoulders.
“It’s cold out here, you know.”
“I’m sorry.” She came out of her daze. “Come in.”
They kissed, then Amy led the way up the spiral staircase to the living area.
“I’ve brought you a bottle. I think it’s chilled enough.”
She rummaged in the kitchen drawer and eventually found a corkscrew.
“Here, let me.” He took it from her, opened the bottle then handed it back to her. She poured the wine into two blue glasses, and handed him one.
“Cheers.” It seemed such an innocuous thing to say, devoid of real sentiment. Her eyes told him how she felt.
“Cheers,” he replied, and they sipped, all the while staring at one another. Will noticed the flickering muscle in her upper lip and the nervousness in her eyes.
He set his glass down on the table then took Amy’s glass and put that beside it. He folded his arms around her and she laid her head on his chest.
“I’m so glad you came.”
“And me.”
“I thought you wouldn’t.”
“So did I.”
She eased away from him and looked up into his eyes.
“But then I knew I had to.” He stared at the floor, discomfited by his own admission. “I knew I wanted to.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Good. There’s masses. I thought a boat-builder might have a good appetite.”
They dined by candlelight at the small round table, sharing the day’s news. Amy told Will about the artists who would bring their work over the next week – an ex-headmistress who made stunning New England patchworks, a potter who worked in vivid ceramics, another painter, and a Bohemian jeweller who had BO and probably fancied her. Will told her what he’d discovered about Boy Jack. Amy’s eyes shone, and she held his hand as he recounted the story of the old boat and her owner.
“How sad. But how lovely.”
“Why lovely?”
“Because you know now that she was meant for you.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so. He even had the same initials.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said in surprise.
They dawdled over lemon mousse, laughing and chattering like old friends. Will could not remember when he had felt so rested and happy. The meal finished, they rose and moved towards the sofa.
“Coffee?”
“I’m fine. It was lovely.” They kissed, longingly and tenderly as though they had been waiting for the moment when they could let go. Her tongue darted in and out of his mouth and he felt an intensity of passion that took his breath away. He broke from her momentarily, his heart pounding.
She looked at him anxiously, longingly, searching in his eyes for the love she knew must be there, then took his hand and gently led him towards the bed. He stood quite still, as though time had stopped
, then slowly began to undress her. He pulled off her sweatshirt and her amber hair tumbled over freckled shoulders. Her breasts were rounded and firm; he stroked them lightly with the back of his hand. She unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off and kissed his forearm. He began to kiss her body and she threw her head back with pleasure before they tore away each other’s remaining clothing and made love beneath the covers. The tension Will had lived with for so long slipped away, and that night he slept more soundly and peacefully than he had for years, with Amy curled up alongside him, and his arms cradling her. He felt as though he had come home.
♦
A scream awoke him. He sat upright with a jerk. It was a gull. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, but it subsided, and the inner calm returned. He lay back on the pillow and Amy stirred. He watched her surface, beaming from ear to ear, her eyes not yet open. He stroked her hair, breathing in her fragrance.
She laid her head on his shoulder and touched his arm. “You have lovely arms,” she murmured. “I’d like to paint them.”
He studied the look of contentment on her face with deep pleasure. He wanted to keep this moment going, to stop the clock and let it always be like this.
Amy opened her eyes. “Hallo.”
“Hallo.”
They said no more for several minutes, then he kissed her and they made love again. Eventually she slipped out from under the covers and made her way to the bathroom. He watched her go, her lithe body almost floating over the floor.
After a few moments he slid out of bed and followed her, into the bathroom where she was turning on the brass taps above the iron tub.
She poured essence into the steaming water, then stepped into it and looked at him with one eyebrow raised. He walked across the room and got in after her.
Later, over breakfast, they said little but smiled a lot. The thing that struck him most was the serenity. Until he remembered the fire, the break-in on his boat, and that it was no longer in the water. Spike would need feeding, his books had been lost and…Ellie.
“Hallo?” Amy said.
“Sorry. Just remembering.”
“Don’t.”
“No.” He smiled apologetically. “I’d better go. You have to paint. And I have to…paint.”
The Last Lighthouse Keeper Page 11
