A Good Catch

by Fern Britton

  ‘Stop it, Jan,’ she said into the silence. ‘Just stop it.’ She plugged in the old iron, turning on the radio for her daily infusion of The Archers as she waited for it to warm up.

  Jesse was still just a boy. Let him have his dreams; there was time enough to be a man.

  *

  Jesse left the cool of the narrow lane of terraced fisherman’s cottages, and was walking up the hill away from Trevay and towards St Peter’s, the fishermen’s church. The graveyard slumbered in the warm sun and delicate white cow parsley heads shuddered in the light breeze, making shadow patterns over the cushions of forget-me-nots growing beneath them. He always glanced at his grandfather’s grave as he passed. Today its granite headstone glittered like a smile. Jesse touched his brow and saluted his grandfather before carrying on up the hill towards the sheds.

  The sheds were a series of around thirty to forty home-built wooden structures, owned by the people of the town who had no garages attached to their houses, which, since most of the houses were built long before the motor car was invented, was the majority. The sheds had started as makeshift stables and boat-houses but now contained all the detritus of modern living. It was a kind of shanty town sited on a two-acre plot of flattened mud and sand. Opposite the sheds, some of which were now two storeys, stood a long line of boats of all kinds. Dinghies, clinker boats, fishing boats, rotting hulks, along with trailers of varying sizes on which the boats could be towed down the hill, through the town and down the harbour slipway into the water. At the entrance to the sheds was the second of only two public phone boxes in Trevay. The other box was down on the quay. Every resident knew the number of these boxes and regular calls were made between the two to give a shout to the lifeboat crew or call a man home for his tea.

  Jesse walked past the phone box, kicking up a little sandy dust as he did so. He looked over to his father’s shed, which had expanded over the years and was now a run of four sheds linked together. On the upper floor were the words Behenna Boat Yard est. 1936, painted in fading blue and white letters.

  He saw Mickey before Mickey saw him. His best friend since nursery school, Mickey Chandler was the person Jesse shared everything with. Mickey was standing outside his own family’s smaller shed, unlocked now with its doors wide open to the sun, and was polishing the chrome of his pride and joy: a two-year-old Honda moped, a present from his family and friends for his recent sixteenth birthday.

  Jesse lengthened his stride, taking the headphones from his ears and calling, ‘Hey.’ Mickey stood up and shielded his eyes with the hand holding the stockinet duster; Jesse could smell the metal cleaner on it.

  ‘Hey,’ he replied.

  Jesse was now close enough to give his best mate a punch on the arm, which was returned with equal force and affection.

  ‘I thought you were revising,’ Mickey said, returning to his polishing.

  ‘I thought you were too.’

  ‘Waste of fuckin’ time, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. Want a snout?’

  ‘Please.’

  Jesse pulled a crumpled packet of Player’s No. 6 out of his pocket and offered one to Mickey.

  ‘Ta.’

  ‘You got a light?’

  ‘No. Have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Both boys pondered on the dilemma of having cigarettes but no means of smoking them. Mickey laughed first. ‘You’re bloody useless, Behenna.’

  Jesse grabbed his friend in a headlock and they scuffled contentedly for several minutes.

  Eventually they stopped

  ‘Bike’s looking good,’ Jesse told him.

  ‘Got my test next week.’

  ‘Gonna pass?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can I come out with you?’

  ‘Sure. I’m gonna ask Loveday out when I’ve got me licence.’

  Jesse’s heart flipped at the sound of Loveday’s name. Mickey was in love with Loveday and had never made any secret of it. Jesse had never admitted to Mickey that the mention of her name, let alone the sight of her, was enough to shoot a flame of desire and longing coursing through his body.

  ‘Her arse is too big for the seat,’ he observed.

  Mickey smiled. ‘Yeah. And what an arse. Imagine having her arms around you, holding tight, pressing those big boobs against your shoulder blades.’

  Jesse could imagine all too clearly, but said only, ‘Fill your boots, boy.’

  3

  ‘How do I look in these?’ Loveday had struggled into a pair of lime-green leggings, her face flushed and perspiring.

  Greer, sitting neatly on the edge of Loveday’s unmade bed, wondered what to say. Should she tell her friend that she looked embarrassing? That the hideous leggings were pulling at the seams and clearly revealing the revolting cellulite clinging to her thighs. Could she tell her that she needed to lose a lot of weight and learn how to dress properly? Though on the plus side – and Greer did feel slightly guilty about this – Loveday did make Greer look great by comparison.

  ‘You look like Loveday Carter,’ she managed.

  Loveday turned back to her reflection in the mirror that hung off the back of her bedroom door. ‘I like the colour. They didn’t ’ave ’em in the next size, but I’m gonna lose a bit of weight before the summer comes.’ She turned sideways and looked at herself from right and left. ‘If I put on my orange T-shirt, that’ll cover me bum.’

  Greer looked down at her own slim legs in their perfectly fitting Pepe jeans. The orange T-shirt might cover Loveday’s bottom, but it wasn’t going to disguise the two rolls of fat wobbling between the bottom edge of her bra and the elastic waist of the leggings.

  ‘There. What d’ya think?’ Loveday asked a few moments later. Greer looked up.

  She wanted to say, ‘Loveday. You look ghastly. You couldn’t be wearing a less flattering outfit. Your breasts are too big, your stomach is enormous and your derrière huge.’

  Instead, she said, ‘It’s very you.’ She stood up and smoothed her hands over her own trim derrière, brushing off imaginary flecks. Loveday was now at her dressing-table mirror. The dressing table itself was strewn with several used cotton wool balls and a large amount of ancient make-up; a cold, half-drunk cup of tea and an empty Diet Coke tin. Hanging from a glass hand with curved upright fingers were strings of gaudy beads and a worn pair of knickers.

  Greer pulled the collar of her crisp white shirt up at the nape of her neck and checked that the cuffs of her sleeves were turned back as the models in her mother’s monthly Vogue magazine did. She wanted to get out and see Jesse. ‘Come on. The boys will be waiting for us.’

  Loveday took one last look in the mirror and smacked her matte red lips together. Recently she’d been copying Madonna’s make-up, even adding the beauty spot above her lip with an eye pencil. ‘I can’t find my black pencil so I’ve used the green one. I rather like it. What do you think?’ she said, turning to Greer. ‘It shows off me green eyes, don’t it?’

  Greer blew her cheeks out and thought for a moment. ‘I think you look … unique.’

  Loveday hugged her uptight friend. ‘You are so sweet. Unique? Really?’

  ‘Really.’ Greer extricated herself from the miasma of Giorgio Armani’s Beverly Hills rip-off scent, bought in Truro’s pannier market.

  ‘And what does that mean? Sounds posh,’ bounced back Loveday, reaching for her heavily fringed and studded, stone-washed denim jacket.

  ‘It means you are a one-off.’

  *

  Jesse was first to spot the girls walking up towards the sheds. Loveday’s marmalade hair with its wash-and-wear perm gleamed in the sunshine; her beautiful body was gently undulating towards him in skin-tight green leggings, her large breasts swinging to the rhythm of the fringes on her jacket. He thought often about those breasts. Sometimes, when she wore her white T-shirt, he could see the outline of her nipples. He turned his back on the girls, feigning disinterest, and called over to Mickey, who was checking hi
s quiff in the wing mirror of the Honda moped. ‘The girls are coming.’

  Mickey smiled in the mirror at his own cheeky face. ‘I’m going to give Loveday a night to remember.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? When’s that then?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Never. She won’t touch you with a barge pole.’

  ‘She won’t need to. I’ve got me own barge pole to touch her with.’ Mickey ducked swiftly out of reach of Jesse’s punch and together they locked the precious motorbike in its shed.

  ‘All right?’ Mickey raced to get ahead of Jesse and be first to walk by Loveday’s side.

  ‘Yeah.’ She smiled at him and, for him, the sun seemed suddenly to be shining extra bright. Then he frowned.

  ‘You’ve got something on your lip.’ He lifted a finger to wipe at the mark on her face. She grabbed his wrist before it got to her.

  ‘It’s me beauty spot. Like Madonna’s. It’s unique.’

  ‘Oh. Looks like you’ve drawn on yourself.’

  Loveday stopped and waited for Greer, who was a couple of steps behind with Jesse.

  ‘How does my beauty spot look?’

  Greer and Jesse both looked at the green blob on Loveday’s sweating lip.

  ‘Well, it’s smeared a bit,’ said Greer.

  ‘Oh shit. Badly?’

  ‘A bit.’

  Jesse looked through his pockets and found an old, dried-up tissue. ‘Shall I wipe it off for you?’ he offered.

  ‘Yes, please. Get it all off.’

  He lifted the tissue to Loveday’s mouth. ‘Spit.’

  She did so and, tenderly, he wiped all trace of the green pencil away. Standing so close to her, Jesse could sense the rise and fall of her chest, and smell the heady scent that emanated from her. Her dewy golden skin glistened in the sunlight and her emerald eyes were like those of an exotic cat. The combination was suddenly overwhelming.

  ‘There. All done.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Loveday gave her rescuer a hug, leaving him breathless on many counts.

  She turned to Greer. ‘Has it all gone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll try an indelible ink next time.’

  ‘Best not,’ murmured Greer.

  Mickey muscled in and grabbed Loveday’s arm. ‘Have you eaten your tea?’

  ‘Only a bit. Mum did shepherd’s pie earlier. But I could do with some chips.’

  ‘Come on then.’ And, taking her hand he ran down the hill, forcing Jesse and then Greer to run after them.

  *

  Edward Behenna had been in the Golden Hind since he and Spencer had finished on the boat. Edward was full of beer and the memory of the row with Jan was disappearing as fast as a sea mist on a warm morning. The beer had warmed his heart and his humour. ‘Spence, you’ll ’ave another before ’e go.’

  Spencer removed a battered tin of tobacco from the front of his canvas smock and nodded. ‘Aye.’

  ‘Good man, Spence. Good man.’ Edward lumbered heavily to his feet and clapped his friend on the back, dislodging the scanty twigs of tobacco from the near transparent cigarette paper that Spencer was balancing between thumb and grimy index finger. He hailed the landlord. ‘Same again, Pete.’

  Pete, a very tall man with a stomach straining against the buttons and belt of his shirt and trousers, bent down so that he could see through the forest of pint tankards hanging from hooks on a shelf above the bar. ‘Skinner’s?’ he asked, reaching for the empties Edward had placed on the damp counter.

  ‘Aye.’

  Without anyone taking much notice, the door of the pub opened and a slim man in his early forties entered. His quick, bright blue eyes skimmed the familiar faces and he nodded at those who acknowledged his arrival. His prey was at the bar, delving into a handful of change to pay for the two waiting pints. He walked lightly and quickly towards him. ‘I’ll get those, Pete, and a Scotch for me, please.’

  Edward turned to see who was buying his pint. ‘Bryn Clovelly, you’re a gentleman.’ He turned his eyes to where Spencer was sitting. ‘Spence, Mr Clovelly bought you a pint.’

  Spencer had rolled his cigarette; its smoking fragrance drifted towards the bar. ‘Thank ’ee, Mr Clovelly.’

  Bryn ignored him and spoke to Edward. ‘So, Edward, when are we going to do business?’

  Edward looked down at his feet, uncomfortably aware that Clovelly was completely sober.

  ‘Bryn, I’ve ’ad a drink. Me ’ead’s not straight for talking business.’

  Bryn pulled up an empty bar stool and indicated for Edward to do the same. ‘It’s not business as such, is it?’ He unhooked the casual blue jumper he had knotted round his shoulders and draped it on the back of the stool. ‘We’ve known each other a long time, haven’t we, Edward?’

  Edward rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin. ‘You’ve gone up in the world since we were nippers though, ain’t you, Bryn?’ Edward looked at Bryn’s clean hands. ‘Look at you. Smart clothes, smart way of talkin’, smart car outside. You’re different now, Bryn.’

  Bryn placed his right hand on his chest. ‘Not ’ere. Not in my ’eart. I can still talk as Cornish as you, boy, and don’t ’e forget it. There’s nothin’ wrong in doing well and earning a little cash, is there?’

  ‘No,’ Edward agreed reluctantly. He had given more thought to Bryn’s continued insistence that their businesses were stronger together than he wanted to let on, but it didn’t do to show your hand too early where Bryn was concerned. Besides, what Jan and Jesse had said also nagged at his thoughts. Now that Bryn was sitting here in front of him, in his flash clothes and with a conceited look on his face, Edward’s doubts had once more risen to the surface.

  ‘I don’t know whether I want more. I’m happy with the boats and passing them on to Jesse.’

  ‘Not Grant then?’

  ‘No. ’E’s happy in the Marines. Best place for him.’

  ‘Is he settling well?’

  ‘Think so. Better to get all that anger out of ’im in hard training than ’ere in Trevay.’

  Bryn placed his hand on Edward’s shoulder. He knew that Grant was a worry. A drinker with a short fuse and handy fists. ‘Maybe the discipline is just what he needs,’ he said.

  ‘Aye.’

  Bryn remained silent, watching as Edward took a long mouthful of beer. Then he asked, ‘What does Jan think?’

  ‘With women you’ve got to pick your moment.’

  ‘So you haven’t told her about the offer that I’ve put on the table?’ Bryn leant closer to Edward. ‘’Tis a good offer, Edward. You know that these EU quotas could be the death of the Cornish fishing industry. We need to diversify and open up our markets if we’re to survive. We’re better together – you’ll never get an offer like this one again. The future of Behenna and Clovelly will be settled.’

  ‘But you getting fifty-one per cent: you’d have the controlling interest then. You might leave me high and dry.’

  ‘Look, Edward,’ Bryn leant in closer. Edward could smell the scent of cigars on his beautifully laundered Pierre Cardin shirt. ‘I’m prepared to sell you a share in the fish market, if that would sweeten the deal. We’d both sit on the board of Behenna and Clovelly and each have a fair shout on how the business is managed.’

  Edward frowned and rubbed his chin. Bryn looked appraisingly at him.

  ‘When did you and Jan last have a holiday?’

  ‘What do we need an ’oliday for?’

  ‘You’ll need a holiday from all the hard work we’ll be putting in running the new business together. Imagine. You could go up country and see the sights of London. Catch a plane to Italy or Greece. Or maybe have a week in New York.’

  ‘Who’ll look after the boats while I’m away?’

  ‘Me. And you’ll look after the fish market and the refrigeration factory for me when I’m away with my missus.’

  Edward shook his head. He’d been thinking about Bryn’s ‘business’ plan since the idea had first been floated. It was all very well for B
ryn to talk about them joining forces but, as the months had gone by and Bryn had kept on about Jesse and Greer getting married, it felt more and more like Bryn was leading them all down a road that led in one direction, where there was no turning back. As a reality, he knew where his moral compass was pointing.

  ‘No, no. The boy has his own life to lead, and that’s with me at Behenna’s Boats. The fishing fleet was built up by my dad and I’m building it now for Jesse. ’Tis enough.’

  ‘And I’m building the fish market business for Greer. But when she’s married she won’t want to work. She needs a man to run it all …’

  Edward looked at Bryn sharply. ‘I’ve told you before. Jesse has to make his own decisions. I could no more make Jesse marry Greer than I could get Spencer over there to stick on a tutu and pirouette off Trevay harbour wall.’

  Bryn laughed and picked up his Scotch to take a sip. ‘I was going to say partner, not husband. Someone bright. Someone we can trust and – yes – Jesse would be ideal.’ He took another deeper draught of his whisky. ‘It ain’t a case of forcing anyone. My Greer’s going to grow up to be a fine wife and mother. She’s refined; a good catch. Anyone can see that – your Jesse just needs a bit of encouragement.’

  Bryn Clovelly reached into his pocket and took out a brown envelope and placed it on the table between them.

  ‘You’ve been blessed with two strapping boys, Edward. Greer is a daughter to make any man proud but … she’s not a man, with a man’s head for business. Imagine, Clovelly Fisheries and Behenna’s Boats becoming one big company. Your boats supply my market. We squeeze the opposition and supply the hotels and London restaurants at the best possible prices. Finally, when our rivals are no more, we call the shots and demand the best prices we can get whilst giving the best-quality fish and customer service. When you and I are retired, my Greer and your Jesse could run the business themselves. We will have created a really lasting legacy. The icing on the cake would be for them to marry and merge two great family businesses into one. A fairy-tale ending.’ Bryn swallowed the final mouthful of Scotch, pushed the envelope towards Edward and stood up, retrieving his jumper from the back of the stool. ‘Just think about it, Edward. A fairy tale. That’s all.’