It was here that Nathan and Daniel had restored the Moonbeam, a painstaking project that had taken them all winter. She’d been stored in the barn for years, and was in a sorry state. They spent six months sanding down the wood and re-varnishing it. Taking apart the engine and replacing the parts where necessary – nine times out of ten Daniel could fashion the necessary item himself, but sometimes they had to send off for something, incurring cost that Daniel moaned about, but Nathan wanted it all ship-shape.
The final task was for Daniel to paint on the name of the boat, which he did freehand in rich royal blue. They launched her that spring, the Moonbeam, standing on the riverbank and guiding her into the water, listening with pleasure as the engine started up, as sweet as a nut, laughing, the pair of them, as they drove her down the river for her maiden voyage, restored to her former glory. There was nothing, nothing more satisfying then seeing the fruits of your joint labour, after months spent tinkering and fettling, even if there had been moments of frustration when the engine wouldn’t start up, for no apparent reason, or another section of rotten wood had been discovered.
He’d got a booking on her this afternoon, an anniversary trip for a couple from up country. Things were winding down now autumn was setting in, but he’d had a fantastic summer. A couple of articles in Sunday magazines had resulted in more bookings than he could squeeze in sometimes, as he was restricted by the tide. People couldn’t resist the romance of a picnic on a boat and men, it seemed, liked the idea as much as women, so there were lots of surprise bookings. It was the perfect job for someone who liked messing about on the river, preferred being outside to inside, and was good with people, for Nathan was affable if not extrovert.
The next few months were going to be tough, though. He’d put money aside to see him through, but it was a long time until spring.
He finished his tea, pulled on a thick fleecy jumper over his T-shirt and pulled on his woollen hat. The puppies would supplement his income – he’d get a hundred quid each for them, probably. He picked up the sheaf of adverts he’d made:
4 adorable chocolate-brown Bitzer puppies
3 boys one girl
Ready soon. £100 each. Can be seen with Mum.
Reserve yours now.
‘See you, Grandad,’ he said, and headed out of the door.
Daniel Fisher watched after him. His face was inscrutable but his fists were clenched. No one took advantage of his grandson and got away with it. No one.
Sam loved arriving at the café early in the morning and setting it up for the day, putting on the first grind of fresh coffee beans, the oily scent filling the air. It was the best advert possible, luring in passers-by seduced by the aroma. He put on Radio 6 at full blast, losing himself in the music as he moved amongst the tables, folding the day’s newspapers into the rack, waiting for the first trickle of customers. In the height of summer the café would be crammed by this time, but autumn brought a gentler routine. Occasional regulars came in to read the Saturday papers over breakfast, then there might be a swell of locals around coffee time, a peak at lunchtime with any daytrippers, then a gentle downturn towards teatime. Daisy would be coming in at midday, to help with any lunchtime bustle. It was good for her to earn her own money and have some responsibility. And Jim would come in a bit later, to do the washing and drying. It pleased Sam, that he could get the children involved, and it had helped integrate them into the town.
Mind you, if he had thought this career move was going to be easier than being an A and E consultant, he was mistaken. Of course, the chances of someone dying on your watch were less – though he did live in fear of salmonella – but the hours and the stress weren’t any less, and customers could be as testing as patients at times. So he was looking forward to a lull in business and being able to take stock. To work out how he could make the café more enticing and draw in more custom. Wood-fired pizza? Breakfast burritos?
The door tinged, and Nathan walked in.
‘Blimey,’ said Sam. ‘You look rough.’
‘I’m hanging,’ said Nathan to Sam, who laughed at him.
‘No kidding. Bacon sandwich? Builder’s tea? Coffee?’
Nathan hesitated. ‘I’ve already had breakfast. I’ve just come to order a picnic for this afternoon.’
‘Well, I’m going to have a bacon sandwich, so you might as well.’
Sam liked Nathan. He’d been really useful to Sam during the renovation, telling him which local handymen to use and who to avoid. And now Sam supplied the picnics for Nathan’s river trips: little pies and pasties and cardboard boxes of exotic salads and plates of antipasti; gorgeous cakes and cheeses, all packed up in vintage hampers with striped linen napkins.
‘You’ve twisted my arm. And I’ll have a latte.’ Nathan sat down and tried to count up how many pints he’d had after Vanessa had left. He calculated that he still wasn’t safe to drive the Mercedes yet. It wasn’t worth the risk.
Sam flung some oak-cured bacon onto a griddle and ground up some coffee beans, grinning as Nathan winced at the noise. A few minutes later Sam brought their sandwiches and drinks over.
‘What’s going on? You look terrible.’
Nathan usually looked as if he’d stepped out of an advert for some rugged all-terrain vehicle, or a watch with seventeen different dials that would still work on the moon. He was what back in the day would have been called a hunk: all shoulders and five o’clock shadow and work-boots. But today his blonde hair was all over the place and his eyes were bloodshot.
Nathan poured a stream of sugar into his cup. ‘I’m in trouble,’ he said. ‘Deep trouble.’
‘Good work,’ said Sam.
‘Not really,’ said Nathan. ‘I got hammered and left the work motor at the pub last night.’
‘The Merc? Shit.’
‘Malcolm is going to kill me. ’
‘I imagine so.’
‘And …’ Nathan put his head in his hands. ‘I can’t even say the next bit. It’s too awful.’
‘You can’t say that and not tell me.’ Sam had a salacious desire for gossip that he’d caught from the nurses in A and E. It had kept them going during the late shifts in hospital. Now, it was one of the pleasures of living in a small town. People came in and told him stuff. He was like some sort of priest. But like a priest, he never repeated what he was told. He could keep a secret.
He picked up the remote for the sound system. ‘Spill,’ he said. ‘Or the Ramones go on full blast.’
Nathan looked up with a wry smile
‘I kissed the widow. After the funeral yesterday. The actual widow.’ He groaned and put his head in his arms. Speaking it out loud brought home just how inappropriate he had been.
Sam digested Nathan’s confession.
‘You mean Vanessa Knight?’ Sam’s eyes were wide with delighted outrage.
‘Mmm hmm.’
Sam knew Vanessa. She bought a lot of deli stuff from him when her husband came down for the weekend. He didn’t know her well; she was quite self-contained, but charming. Her husband less so. Not actually horrible, but one of those men who knew what they wanted and didn’t much care how they got it. The kind who looked through staff.
‘When you say kiss, you don’t just mean a peck on the cheek, do you?’
‘No.’ Nathan shook his head.
‘She must be …’ Sam was doing calculations in his head. ‘Almost my age. Forty odd.’
‘Yep.’
‘That would be like me kissing …’ Sam shook his head as he estimated. ‘Nope. I don’t want to think about it. How? I mean – how?’
‘She didn’t want to go back to the funeral tea. We went to the Neptune. We had a few drinks and … you know how it goes.’
‘Wow!’ said Sam, impressed. ‘Respect! Although actually – maybe not that respectful. On second thoughts.’
‘No, I know.’
‘Well, at least you’re not going to have her husband after you.’ Sam snickered.
Nathan looked at him.
‘Sorry. It’s not funny, I know.’
‘Do you think I should go and apologise?’
‘Good God, no.’
‘Do you think she’ll think I took advantage of her?’
‘No. I shouldn’t think so. It was pretty mutual, wasn’t it?’
Nathan thought back. ‘Yes. Yes! Totally. It was really intense.’ He remembered the passion; her hands on his skin; her mouth on his; her body pressed against him – there had been nothing lukewarm about it. ‘But then she ran off while I went to get more drinks.’
‘She was probably embarrassed. She might have been having a bit of a mad moment. Grief does weird things to people. They don’t always behave as they should.’ He grinned. ‘Look, you took her mind off things. Just forget it.’
Nathan took a bite out of his bacon sandwich.
‘I’m not sure if I can.’ He gave Sam a meaningful look.
‘You’ve fallen for her.’
‘It was pretty amazing.’ He swallowed. ‘She was amazing.’
‘Nate. Mate. I think you might just have been a rebound snog. Sorry if that sounds harsh. Just chalk it up. Move on.’ Nathan wiped away the crumbs from his mouth. Sam took away his plate. ‘I know you’re not going to listen to me. But I don’t want to see you get hurt.’
Sam thought a lot of Nathan. He was a good bloke. But he wasn’t very worldly wise, for all his good looks and the way he had women falling at his feet.
Nathan drained his cup. ‘I’ve got to go and see Malcolm anyway, before I do anything.’
‘I’ll get your picnic sorted. It’ll be ready about midday. In the meantime, keep your head down. In a few days’ time it’ll all blow over and you’ll have forgotten about her. You can look back and laugh. ’
Nathan put his cup down and stood up, digging in his pocket for a tenner. Today was going to be a long one, what with his hangover.
Sam waved his money away.
‘It’s on me, mate.’
‘Don’t be daft. You’ll go bust if you start going down that road. First rule of surviving in Pennfleet: no mates’ rates.’
Sam took the tenner.
‘Oh, and can I stick one of these up?’ Nathan handed him a piece of A4 paper.
Sam looked at it. ‘Of course. Though I better not let Daisy see this. I’m being pestered to death for a dog.’
‘Man’s best friend,’ said Nathan. ‘I’ll do you one for fifty.’
‘I thought you said no mates’ rates?’
Nathan just grinned and walked out of the door.
Sam watched after him then went and stuck the sign up on the notice board. It was next to an advert for Turn Back Time, the festival being held on the quay to mark the day the clocks went back. Live music, a hog roast – Sam was supplying the food and hot buttered cider – and fireworks at midnight.
He smiled at the thought. He loved living in Pennfleet. He really did.
He stood back and looked at Nathan’s advert. There was a photo of the bundle of puppies, unbearably cute. Would it be mad? He thought it might be a good investment. Something to hold his little family together. The puppy could come with him to the café – he allowed dogs; he would be cutting his potential custom by half if he didn’t. Everyone seemed to have a dog these days.
A dog had been a non-starter in London, with the two of them working full time. But now …
And, he thought, it would be something to keep him company when the kids left. The empty nest wasn’t so very far away. And much as he didn’t like to think about it, maybe a dog would help fill the hole …
Back at the house, Daisy and Jim were sitting at the island in the kitchen in their pyjamas, staring at Jim’s iPad.
‘Right,’ said Jim. ‘I’ve set up an email address. And opened a profile for him. I looked through millions of sites and this seemed to be the best. Not too many saddoes or desperate cases. So.’ He paused for a moment. ‘What do we write? We need a profile name, for a start.’
‘Are you really sure this is a good idea?’ asked Daisy. ‘Is it even legal?’
‘What – like he’s going to sue us? Dad just needs a nudge. He doesn’t have to marry any of them.’
‘OK,’ said Daisy, still not sure but swept along by her younger brother’s enthusiasm for the project. ‘How about Telegram Sam? From that T-Rex song he likes?’
‘Perfect.’ Jim typed it in, then went through the next few questions. ‘Height – five foot ten. Build – medium. Hair …’
‘None,’ laughed Daisy. ‘Well, shaved. I guess.’
‘Eyes – grey. Status – widower? Or should we just put single?’
Daisy made a face as she considered. ‘Single dad? Widower might freak them out.’
Jim nodded. ‘ Children – two living with, fourteen and sixteen. OK, now the big one. Wants …? There’s a suggested list here. What do you think?’ He looked at his sister for assistance. ‘“Fun” just sounds dodgy.’
Daisy shrugged. ‘“Let’s see what happens”?’
Jim nodded. ‘We can always change it later. OK – now we need to describe him in more detail. “I was an A and E consultant and now I run a café/deli by the sea.”’
‘“I’m a great cook. Great singer. But a terrible dancer.”’ Daisy giggled. ‘“I do a great rendition of ‘Moves Like Jagger’. In my underpants.”’
‘I don’t think we’ll mention that.’
‘Likes photography. Fishing. Inventing cocktails.’
‘Scandi crime thrillers. Joni Mitchell.’
‘Mexican. He does the best Mexican.’
‘Dr Who. He loves Dr Who.’
‘Actually, I don’t think he does. I think he pretends to because you do.’
Jim frowned. ‘But I pretend to still like it because he wants to watch it.’
It used to be a ritual, their Dr Who sessions. Sam would make nachos with homemade salsa and melted cheese, and the three of them would snuggle up on the big sofa, even Daisy. It was times like that they felt as if Louise was still there with them, because they were a family and it was her spirit bonding them.
‘Well – put “I love watching Dr Who with my kids.”’
‘That might scare them off.’
Daisy screwed up her face.
‘Pigs. He loves pigs.’ They always got him something pig-related for his birthday. Piggy banks, pig aprons, pig garden ornaments, pig slippers, even piglet fairy lights.
‘Do you think that’s a selling point?’ Jim looked at what they had done. ‘He’s not coming over very well on paper so far.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. At least he seems real. We’re not bigging him up. We don’t want to attract the wrong sort of women.’
‘I suppose so. He just doesn’t seem … special. And he is.’
‘Cuddly. Kind. Funny?’
‘Can you say those things about yourself?’
The two of them stared at their dad’s profile for a minute. It was hard, summing someone up, when the things that were special about them weren’t really definable.
In the end, Jim sighed.
‘Let’s just put this up and see what happens. We can tweak it as we go along.’
‘OK …’
Jim put the finishing touches to the profile, and added a photo they agreed on – Sam in front of the deli, smiling proudly on opening day.
‘Right – now I’m going to need your debit card. It’s sixty pounds to join for three months.’
‘What? You mean I’ve got to pay?’
‘We don’t get access to the profiles otherwise. And he won’t get any “likes” if he doesn’t subscribe. And no one will be able to message him.’
‘Rip off,’ said Daisy, but she went and got her purse. She had quite a lot of money saved from working over the summer.
She crossed her fingers as Jim entered the details and uploaded the profile.
‘OK. Now we just have to wait. It’s Saturday, so there’ll be hordes of single women sitting with their laptops looking for the man of the
ir dreams.’
‘How do you even think this stuff?’
Daisy was always intrigued by the workings of her brother’s mind. She looked up at the picture of her mum. Louise would be cheering them on, she was certain. Whether they’d find someone as lovely as Mum for their dad was another question, but they’d give it a go.
‘I better get to work,’ she said.
‘Don’t say anything to Dad,’ Jim warned her.
‘Well duuuh.’ She grabbed her hoodie and put it on. ‘See you later. Text me if anyone messages him.’
11
At ten o’clock Pennfleet House was still dead to the world, in a post-funeral slump. The only sign of life was Frank Cooper, the marmalade cat, who sat in the middle of the island in the kitchen looking round in consternation – and no little indignation – that no one had been to refill his bowl of milk. Around him were scattered empty glasses and bottles and ashtrays bearing the nubs of Cohiba cigars. The drinkers and smokers had at least managed to bring their detritus through to the kitchen, but they were the kind of people who didn’t expect to do any more than that. They were all used to having someone pick up after them.
The back door opened and Mary Mac bustled in, slipping off her fleece jacket (she was starting to need that in the mornings now). She ruffled Frank Cooper’s head roughly.
‘Off there now, or you’ll have those glasses over.’
She scooped him off the island and deposited him on the floor, then began to run a sink full of hot soapy water. Mary always did things properly – she wasn’t going to shove the glassware in the dishwasher. It would all be washed by hand, rinsed and dried with a proper linen glass cloth.
She filled the kettle, too. She needed a cup of tea. She’d had a bad night’s sleep, waking at four and worrying, worrying, worrying. Frank Cooper was not quite enough to give her a distraction or consolation.
High Tide Page 10
