Black Waters (Strong Winds Series Book 5)

by Julia Jones

  The tiny moon vanished again behind the clouds. Total blackout.

  Xanthe kept the dinghy balanced and struggled to think what she should do. She should not go rushing on, full sail, into darkness. At the very least she should take the mainsail down and run with jib alone until she was certain where she was.

  The main came down without a rustle as if it was fresh, white Egyptian cotton. When she’d put it up, it had been terylene, slightly yellow and crackling with age. If Fritha was young again perhaps Xanthe had lost her bearings in time as well as place?

  There was a creak of warps and spars, men’s low voices, the possible glimmer of a bow wave? A larger, heavier boat was closing rapidly from astern.

  Xanthe shone her torch on the bright triangle of Fritha’s clean white jib. She gybed the dinghy and shouted.

  The black shape passed only metres away as if she was invisible. She was a gaffer with a long bowsprit and all sails set. She was confident and fast and she wasn’t showing any lights.

  Xanthe upped her own mainsail and followed in her wake. The Igraine was leading her home, she was sure of it. No matter what Gareth had said.

  The moon came out, the All Clear sounded and the lights of the building site blazed across the water. Xanthe hauled her wind and headed for the Nass. There was the familiar twinkle of western Meresig and the line of channel buoys helping her back into the Flinthammock Flete.

  Only Fritha seemed old and somehow despondent.

  “This was left here for yer.” Gareth was holding an ivory envelope with a complex emblem of intertwined swords. He looked tired. It was one in the morning.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to wait up.”

  “Reckoned you’d have had trouble getting outa the Flete on that tide.”

  “Yeah, I did. But it wasn’t that which made me late. I think I might have gone to sleep or something.”

  “Yer back now.”

  “Yeah,” she said again. Part of her longed to tell Gareth about the darkness and the silence and the change to Fritha. Most of her was aching to go to bed. She took the envelope.

  “Seaxes – that’s for Saxons,” he added when he noticed her staring at the logo. “It’ll be an invitation from Dominic’s old man.”

  “Dominic’s…?”

  “Father. Property developer from across the river. If it’s yours, he wants it. Land, boats, the drippings from your nose. Mostly we don’t mention the relationship.”

  “His father?” she repeated. “But now you’re going to tell me that they don’t get on.”

  “They don’t.”

  “Why am I not surprised about that?” She thought of the earnest, monkish Dominic with his Rules and his Project and his terrible anxieties, then compared him with the self-satisfied wannabe Viking.

  “And Commander Gold’s been here?”

  “Here when I arrived. Iris had been complaining that she couldn’t work the TV that he gave her. Dominic was long gone. He says she needs a full-time carer. Got one arriving as soon as you leave, he says.”

  “They’re related – Dominic’s dad and Iris?”

  “Though not exactly as you might expect.”

  Her brain couldn’t deal with this answer: her body was begging to go to bed.

  “Do you have you to get up early?” she asked Gareth.

  “Ain’t planning on going ter bed just yet. I need to get my quota so I either dredge now with the tide or I’ll have to hand pick in the morning. Rock oysters. Not natives. Reckon I’ll go over t’other side for ’em. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Then I’m double sorry I stayed out so late.”

  “It wasn’t a problem. I needed ter think.”

  She didn’t ask what he needed to think about.

  “Thanks again for Fritha.”

  “Get on arright?”

  “Yeah.” It was too late to talk about the darkness. Or the change in the feel of the dinghy. Or that new way of running her mainsheet. Or anything at all. She was way too tired and Gareth had oysters to pick.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Challenge

  Saturday June 1, lw 0745 hw 1402 lw 2002 hw 0222

  She left opening the envelope until next morning. Anything from the Commander of the Saxon Shore was likely to be bad news – unless he’d relented and was offering her access for her project research. Since the night that he’d tried to steal Fritha, she’d have struggled even to accept that from him.

  This was a formal invitation:

  The Commander of the Saxon Shore

  And the Directors of Saxon Holdings Challenge

  Miss Xanthe Ribiero

  To appear in a Charity Sailing Match

  On Monday June 3rd, Dunkirk Day

  In the presence of the Hundreth

  RSVP

  “I don’t want to do it,” she told Martha, once she’d explained.

  “Of course you don’t. It’s a publicity stunt.”

  “Like everything he does,” added Dominic.

  He looked exhausted. He must have been up even later than she had, guarding his beloved Godwyn against a possible hijack by the man Xanthe now knew was his father.

  She’d seen those powerful tugs and cranes. She didn’t think Dominic’s worry was so stupid. The narrow creek was his best defence, but on a high tide – and if they didn’t much mind what damage they caused…She even felt sorry for him.

  “What is this…Hundreth?” asked Jonjo.

  “It’s like a society for people with money,” Martha answered. “Or power. Especially the people who control planning around here. Saxon spends thousands schmoozing them to wave their construction projects through. We stopped them when they tried to take over the saltings – the birders were great – but once they bought the power station it was different. There was only us and the peaceniks beside the chapel. I personally treasure them but all they want is to be left alone to chant into the sunrise and that. They don’t exactly do lobbying and politics.”

  Xanthe had gone up into the Godwyn office to ask advice. She hadn’t needed all this local information. Jonjo seemed a bit switched off as well. He probably didn’t exactly do peaceniks.

  Martha had her hands cupped around her mug of tea. Dominic was staring out of the window, strained and vigilant.

  “Arthur Gold put forward this scheme of an immense war-games adventure park. The Hundreth could see serious money pouring into the area and Saxon PR keeps telling them that it’s the patriotic thing to do. They offer annual steadfastness awards and big lunches with lots to drink and feel-good entertainment – like this sailing match idea. He used to fund Godwyn,” Martha added. “Until Dom couldn’t take his money any more.”

  “I’m ashamed I ever touched a penny. I thought he was trying to make amends.”

  “Amends?” Xanthe queried.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s…in the past. We don’t get on.”

  That old phrase.

  “So no-one’s gonna mind if I say no? I’ve realised why Saxon’s been ringing such bells with me. They sponsor a racer called Madrigal Shryke. She was the reason I got thrown off the training camp.”

  She owed them more honesty than that. “That’s not true – I was the reason I got thrown off. If Madrigal’s sponsors are promoting a sailing match there has to be a possibility that she could be involved. I know I’m being a wuss but…I don’t much want to meet her. There was even nearly an injunction.”

  “I’d say!” Xanthe could hear that Martha had got the picture. “Sir Hubert Shryke is Chairman of the Saxon board. He’s Arthur Gold’s senior partner and a member of the Hundreth. He’s completely certain to be there.”

  “Is thet where those photos are coming from?” Jonjo asked, sounding interested again.

  Larfaminnit.com had hosted a new album that morning – a video sequence of Xanthe
pulling Fritha down the Flete. The editing was brilliant. It was totally hilarious. YouTube viewers were loving it. Jonjo had asked his bosses to get it taken down but they couldn’t see any reason why they should do so as none of the protected children were involved.

  “The Flete was completely deserted last night – unless they’d fitted up the shelduck to take photos. My friend Anna has identified the sharers of the first batch but she can’t put a name to the photographer. So now she’s working on discovering the camera type. It’s not a phone or anything; it’s something high-tech. Long-distance surveillance, she thinks.”

  She’d found another text from Maggi when she finally remembered to switch on her mobile. Anna’d tracked the initial posting to one of Madrigal’s thousands of friends-of-friends. The Twitter images had been posted via a temporary secretary in a PR firm. Big money had then been spent boosting the posts on both platforms on behalf of a client who claimed commercial anonymity. Madrigal hadn’t liked or shared any of the photos – she was about the only person who hadn’t.

  “It’s completely unconnected with the children.” Jonjo sounded relieved. “They’re just victims of your fall-out with this girl.”

  “Yeah, think so. I need to take them sailing now if you’re comfortable that they’re not getting snatched or anything. I want to take them all the way to the sea while the weather’s still so calm. But I ought to post that RSVP. They can’t be expecting me to come or they’d have given more notice.”

  “Martha,” said Jonjo. “Are you okay for duty today? I could use a recce across the river and delivering Xanthe’s message could be exactly the front I need. I’d take the second RIB.”

  “Carry the war into the Enemy’s camp,” said Dominic, looking energised and fierce. “Tell him that we won’t be pushed about to suit his greed and self-aggrandisement. Proclaim our Defiance!”

  Xanthe wondered whether she mightn’t do better to buy a stamp. “I don’t want to be in their sailing match but I don’t totally want to be rude. I’m going to go back to racing.”

  Jonjo nodded and Dominic went silent again.

  “There was another thing,” Xanthe added. “I’ve been using Gareth’s Firefly dinghy and she could do with some TLC. Would it be okay if I brought her up the creek and asked the kids to help me haul her out and work on her? It would only be if they wanted to.”

  “You’d be working on the dinghy in front of the lightship?” said Dominic. “Yes, it’s a weak point. We could all get out there together. Be seen to be busy.”

  She held back from mentioning that it was Fritha and her crew she was thinking about. Not Godwyn’s defences.

  Dominic carried on anyway. “I can certainly permit that. Bring her up as early as you like. We’ll leave the Project dinghies in the Flete. The tide’s getting later each day and, starting next week, I’d like you to focus on the youngsters getting their stage one certificates. They’re missing out on education – this could give them something to show.”

  “So you’re happy for them to work with me on Fritha later today? If they agree.”

  “I’ll help Martha supervise while Jonjo takes the RIB across with your reply. My aunt’s carer is settling in and I don’t have any more outside visitors to worry about just now.”

  Which surely means that Godwyn’s more vulnerable, Xanthe thought, but she kept that thought to herself.

  It hadn’t taken long to clear out of her Rebow Cottage bedroom and say goodbye to Mrs Farran.

  “You’ll be coming again, won’t you?” asked the old lady. “I could carry on helping with your homework. I don’t think you’ve done very much. Your mother won’t be pleased.”

  Xanthe was never going to risk another interview with Iris Farran but she couldn’t help admitting that the old lady had a point. She hadn’t done much work on her essay. She hadn’t actually done any…

  “Thanks,” she said. “I expect I’ll see you at the inquest on Tuesday.”

  “Inquest?”

  “For your husband. The one who died.”

  Maggi would have told her that was unkind. But Xanthe couldn’t make herself feel all that sorry for Mrs Farran. Also she had to decide before Tuesday what she should do about that walking stick – and maybe also the sampler? She should definitely talk to Jonjo when he came back from his recce.

  Kieran and David loved the idea of working on Fritha once sailing was over for the day. They each chose an area of the Firefly’s varnished hull and settled painstakingly, methodically, to taking off the surface layer as evenly as Xanthe managed to explain to them. Nelson worked in wild bursts. Kelly-Jane was uncertain and Siri took no notice at all. She’d sailed beautifully once again. She seemed to have completely natural balance and an instinctive ability to read wind-shifts that Xanthe recognised and admired.

  “Try these,” said Martha, returning from the sports equipment store with a couple of old-fashioned kites.

  The kids were getting tanned, Xanthe noticed. It was a good thing that Kelly-Jane had been mothering them with high-factor sun-cream as no-one, not even Siri, had got burned. They’d been here for a week and, outwardly, they were looking better.

  “You’re a brilliant team, did you know that? Carry on like this and we’ll be able to get a coat of varnish on while there’s still plenty of heat in the sun. Then we’ll walk across to the chandlery and I’m going buy us all ice creams. Except Fritha. She’s getting proper new sheets and halyards. She’s a racing dinghy, not a museum piece.”

  “Are you rich?” asked Kieran.

  “She must be if she’s done all those competitions, dumb-ass.”

  “Did you win loadsa prizes, teacher-lady?”

  Xanthe looked at Martha for help.

  “When we told the students you were coming, we said a bit about what you’d achieved,” she explained. “We thought they’d like to know who was going to be teaching them.”

  Xanthe swallowed and did her best. “You don’t exactly get cash, you get points and, if you’re hoping to get a place in team GBR, you want the selectors to notice how you did. You might also be looking out for sponsors. When I wrecked my first boat, I got my sister to video me in the local regatta and I used that to persuade the dock company to buy me a new one.”

  Spray II…would be gone by now.

  “You’re saying that you already have to have a boat and be winning things before anyone will help you get a better one.” Kelly-Jane commented. “That’s okay for me cos I wouldn’t want to. But Siz might.”

  “I w-would l-like you to t-tell us about all the r-races you’ve w-won.”

  That was David.

  “Yeah, well, best get back to work now.”

  Xanthe made out she was really involved in getting Fritha’s forefoot silky smooth and this somehow made her unable to talk. Mainly she was sick with shame. She’d had so much and she’d chucked it all away.

  They were sitting on Godwyn’s aft deck that evening playing cards when they heard the rifle shots – two clear, sharp, cracks from across the river. The birds heard them too. They flew up from the marsh, honking and wheeling, parents and youngsters in panicky skeins. Then subsided again into wary silence.

  Maybe they should have been used to distant noises? In the short week she’d been living in Flinthammock Xanthe had come to expect sirens and flashing lights from the construction site at least once or twice a day. She’d asked Dominic what he’d meant by his comment about his father’s safety record.

  “He pushes his workers as if they were robots – or slaves. You’d think he was hosting the Olympics, not building a hotel.”

  “That’s what it is – a hotel?”

  “On the megalomaniac scale. No thought of appropriateness to the area.”

  “Or the pollution involved,” said Martha. “Gareth’s expecting he’ll lose all his young oysters. He’ll be back to where he was when Dad died.


  “We should have scuttled my father, not the smack.”

  “No violence, Dom.”

  Then they had remembered that Xanthe was there.

  “Don’t mind us,” said Martha. “Family stuff. Probably sounds worse than it is.”

  Xanthe wasn’t sure that was possible.

  A text from Maggi plopped into the quiet evening after the birds had settled back onto the marsh. She felt her crew watching as she read it. Had to twist away from them when she realised what it said.

  Cannot believe u are doing this. Wimp or what? Parents gutted. Your chance to vindicate says dad. Mum and college p all accepted invite. Tutor too. Griselda ok. Spray promised. What is wrong with u?

  There was a follow up:

  Have u seen fb?

  How could she have known that they’d have asked her family and her tutor and her college principal? And Griselda, for crissake! And Spray!

  She got up, not very steady, and pushed back her chair.

  “I need to go find Dominic,” she said to Martha.

  The kids were looking sick. There must have been so many sudden calls, so many bad atmospheres, so many conversations from which they were excluded.

  Okay, maybe she could do this differently.

  “You can read these texts,” she said, passing her mobile to Kelly-Jane. “And share them. They’re from my sister and she’s called Maggi. You’ll find she’s not very happy with me. I have to speak to Dominic and check Facebook but I’m gonna to need a team meeting when I get back. I’m relying on you to manage it. And, okay, David, you’ll get the story of my racing career but you might not necessarily like it.”

  Martha looked shocked and ready to protest. Xanthe wasn’t stopping to listen to her. It felt as if she’d been manoeuvred into upsetting everyone in the world that she respected – her parents, her teachers, Griselda. Her crew were the last people who might have respected her. So at least she owed them honesty. And if she had to take decisions, she was going to consult them. She might have talked to Gareth if he’d been there but he wasn’t. Nor was Jonjo.

  Facebook was awash with photos of her and Nelson joshing about; her and the other kids flying kites, eating ices. Anyone would think that Xanthe was having so much fun that she couldn’t be bothered to take the time to join the Dunkirk commemoration.