Turning the Tide

by Christine Stovell

  ‘You’re the one who’s barmy,’ said Harry, snatching her hand back and sticking it firmly in the pocket of her work dungarees. ‘Who are you trying to kid? Can’t you see this town is dying on its feet?’

  ‘I just gave it the kiss of life,’ Matthew retorted. ‘They’ll be swarming round like flies when the word gets out. Won’t be able to find seaside homes fast enough. Luckily for them, and you, my regeneration company will be able to provide just what they’re looking for.’

  ‘For two or three weekends of the year, maybe, but how will the town survive the rest of the time?’ Harry hesitated. ‘Run that past me again. What was that bit about me?’

  He gave her a patient smile and produced his trump card. ‘Look at all the wasted land you’ve got. Can’t you see what you’re sitting on here? You’ve kept the boat yard going, all credit to you – but it’s hardly a mega-money game, is it?’

  Harry could see where he was going. ‘Oh no,’ she said firmly. ‘Hold it right there. I’m not parting with this place for anyone.’

  ‘No one’s suggesting that you should,’ he told her. ‘It’s very picturesque in its own way. Just the sort of thing people want to look at from their balconies. Stops the place feeling like a housing estate. No, the boat yard stays. But the rest of the land isn’t doing anything, is it? And if, say, you wanted to see it doing some good, what could be better than a discreet development of exclusive apartments? Include a few moorings in the package and it would be really tempting. Just think what it would do for the boat yard’s business!’

  A flock of gulls wheeling above his head added to Harry’s disorientation. Now she was imagining things; surely the harmless drifter she’d met by the creek wasn’t seriously proposing to build houses all over her land? ‘Do you mean to say,’ she said, when she managed to speak, ‘that you’d be prepared to sacrifice all this? That you would ruin what you told me was a perfect setting, for the sake of a get-rich-quick scheme?’

  ‘Harry, credit me with a little intelligence; we’re not talking Tenerife here,’ he replied. ‘You seem to have formed a rather negative impression of what I’m trying to do. Think environmentally sensitive, with building materials to blend into the landscape – something to attract professional people who will appreciate the qualities of the area. As I said, a discreet development.’

  He really believed what he was saying and, judging from the tone of his voice and the self-assured smile that didn’t reach his eyes, Harry guessed that this was where they discussed terms. She shook her head.

  ‘There’s no such thing.’

  The smile faded a little. ‘Aren’t you being a bit selfish? What you’re saying is that you’re more worried about keeping this lot to yourself than promoting the town’s well-being.’ He shrugged. ‘Ask yourself which option would benefit most people and I don’t think there’s a contest, is there?’

  She smiled back at him as pleasantly as she could, just to prove how little he scared her. ‘This is a deprived community – not a desperate one. Dumping a holiday village along this fragile, beautiful stretch of water and putting it at greater risk is not what local opinion would call a benefit. You might not like what I’m saying, but if you’re any kind of property developer you’ll listen to me. Today or tomorrow or at the end of the week when you slide into your nice shiny Saab convertible and head back to London, if you’ve got any sense at all, you’ll realise that this town requires long-term investment and real jobs. And I’m willing to bet you won’t be in such a hurry then to throw bad money after good.’

  He gave no indication that he’d heard a word she’d said, turning his attention instead to the creek and a suggestion of breeze just lifting the water. Eventually, he seemed to remember she was there.

  ‘You don’t know me yet, Harry, but you will,’ he began quietly. ‘I’m very successful at what I do. You, on the other hand, have good reason to worry.’

  Harry braced herself and waited to see what nonsense he was going to come up with.

  ‘You’re not getting new customers, are you? And those you have got aren’t getting any younger. Keeping a boat on a swinging mooring is lovely whilst you’ve still got the energy. But your customers aren’t like that, are they? Half of them are going to find that they’re too old to do the things they used to take for granted. And a trip in the dinghy just to get out to the mooring is one of them. Assuming, that is, they’ve got the strength to pull themselves onto the boat when they get there.’

  By now his eyes were resting on hers and Harry was struggling against the onset of panic. How easily he’d tapped into her deepest fears for the future and made them seem real … She took a long, steadying breath. It wasn’t true. She wouldn’t let that happen.

  ‘People are saying that your boat owners are all heading for the marina. Now you’re a brave girl and you’ve worked hard, but it doesn’t take a genius to see you’re heading for trouble. Have a think about what I’ve said, Harry, and you’ll be glad I came along.

  ‘One more thing, Harry,’ he added, whilst she fought back another hot wave of fear. ‘We’ll have plenty of time to make each other’s acquaintance because I’m not going back to London, not for the foreseeable future. I live here now, took six months’ rental on a little place the other day.’ The dimple in his cheek flickered briefly. ‘I’ll be in touch soon.’

  She was still standing there, staring at his back, when he turned and looked over his shoulder.

  ‘And Harry,’ he called. ‘It’s a thirty-year-old Volvo.’

  Shiny new Saab or Swedish Brick; it didn’t make much difference to Harry. Both came from a place where the winters were long and invasion and pillage had once been national sports. It fitted.

  Chapter Two

  Standing in front of the battered shell from which his pearl of a restaurant would soon emerge, Matthew was frowning, but not at the cracked panes of glass or the sagging roof. Harry Watling was clever enough not to jump at his initial proposal, but sooner or later he’d find a way to change her mind.

  If only Harry had been a solid, straightforward bloke, as he’d expected. The last thing he needed was another difficult woman in his life. Not that Gina would ever put her hand up to that; she was far too elusive. She’d always been at her most docile after sex; provided, of course, he approached her whilst she was satiated and adoring. But, even if they both walked away from their joke of a relationship tomorrow, seducing Harry Watling wouldn’t be an option. There were her hands for a start; they were small and square with blunt-cut nails. Certainly not the kind of hands he could ever imagine unbuttoning his shirt. In fact, bunched up into little fists, they were just the right size to blacken a man’s eye. So no, he definitely wasn’t about to climb under Harry Watling’s duvet. He’d leave that dubious pleasure to braver men. Men who liked to test their survival skills in frozen wastelands or who hunted crocodiles for a living.

  Quite a surprise, thought Matthew, rubbing his hand over his stubble, finding out that Harry Watling wasn’t some thick-set bloke, after all. Funny little girl, like a grey-eyed pixie with attitude, especially when she squatted warily next to him on the bank, short dark hair all ruffled by the wind. For a moment he considered what it would be like to watch her large, expressive mouth spread slowly into a smile. Not that it was something he was ever likely to see. Besides, he liked tall, sexy women, not tough little tomboys; but Harry did have something he found deeply attractive. The dimple flickered across his cheek. She was well endowed with land. Now all he had to do was persuade her to part with it.

  Letting himself into the clubhouse, and ignoring the sound of rasping claws as something scurried away, Matthew lowered himself onto the split red vinyl seat of the nearest bar stool. Before him an old bar towel gathered dust and, in addition to a handful of dead flies, a Red Barrel ice bucket still held a pair of tongs. Running his fingers round the cloudy rim of a VAT 69 whisky glass, he stared into a flecked mirror at the debris behind him. Wondering if he was adding more dirt than he was taking off
, Matthew wiped his hands on the bar towel and got up to have a better look round. Once the tired furniture had been removed, he thought, and all the rubbish, there wasn’t anything here that his own well-paid and super-efficient team of specialists couldn’t handle. Matthew frowned as he pulled open a drawer to find a pile of paperwork forgotten by the Spitmarsh Yacht Club. At some point he’d have to make time to return that, too.

  The swirls of plaster on the walls, fake beams, grimy nylon carpet tiles and a dash of 1970s pine cladding made the place seem far worse than it was. But at the far end of the long room the windows opened onto the creek, giving spectacular views of water and sky. Huge anvil-shaped thunderclouds loomed above him, blocking out the sun and chasing the soft blues and greens to grey, and the first breaths of a chilly wind stirred up a few choppy waves. The marshes themselves, it seemed, were turning a cold face to him. A secret, inaccessible landscape with a rare, raw beauty. And that was why Matthew knew his instinct had been sound. In an age where everyone longed to escape, what could be better than this truly unspoilt location? First, the restaurant to tempt them in. Then the holiday homes to hook them. Over at Watling’s a handful of masts, like pikestaffs, did their best to put up a show of defence around the boat yard. Matthew smiled to himself. One way or another he was going to win. Harry Watling wasn’t such a big problem. Everyone had a weak spot. It was just a question of finding it.

  ‘Brought you a cup of tea,’ said George, offering her a mug labelled Bovril. ‘Thought you looked as if you could do with some cheering up.’ Nestled in the grimy folds of his coat was a circular tartan tin. George fished it out grudgingly. ‘Biscuit?’ he ground out, with obvious difficulty.

  Normally Harry would have raised a smile at his plight; she must be looking every bit as downcast as she felt for George to go that far. The only sign of the internal battle raging within him was a slight shake of his fingers as he held out the precious hoard for her perusal.

  ‘Er, let me see …’

  She could feel George watching her, waiting in agony to see which jewel in his collection was about to disappear. A rich dark Bourbon, a handful of plump custard creams and several Happy Faces twinkled up at her. Harry waved a finger over them.

  ‘Got any fig rolls, George?’

  ‘’Fraid not,’ he replied, slamming the lid back on and whisking the tin back into the depths of his coat. ‘Can’t abide them, Miss Harriet. As you well know.’

  Harry smiled to herself but, with his biscuits out of harm’s way, George had regained his composure.

  ‘So what are you going to do, Miss Harriet?’

  ‘About what?’

  George nodded out to where a scattering of boats bobbed carelessly in a shaft of sunlight glazing the slatey sea. ‘New customers.’

  ‘Oh, you heard, did you?’ Trust George not to have missed anything. Harry tried to close her mind to the cold whisper of doubt Matthew had started. It was true that many of her customers were retired couples sailing only as long as time and health permitted. Had she really rebuilt the business just to watch it wither away?

  ‘Short of running a water-taxi service or rustling up breaded scampi and chips every time they come down to use the boat, there’s nothing I can do. I can’t turn back the clock and make them any younger.’ Harry forced a mouthful of scalding tea over the lump that had mysteriously appeared in her throat.

  ‘There’s no stopping time, that’s true. Wouldn’t be proper either; it’s the natural order for the old ’uns to make room for the young ’uns.’

  ‘It might be the natural order,’ she croaked, throwing him a sideways glance and debating whether to ask for one of his Happy Faces – which would be guaranteed to wipe the rather too serene look off his happy face. ‘But where are we going to find young people in Little Spitmarsh who can afford to sail?’

  George gave a distinctly false-sounding cough. Harry looked into his red, weather-beaten face and followed his watery gaze past the yard, past the lapping water, past the line of masts to the dilapidated building collapsing on the opposite bank. He turned and cocked a bushy, nicotine-yellow eyebrow at her.

  ‘So they were having a little tussle, you know, as they do, and then I noticed things had gone a bit quiet and when I went to look you’ll never guess what?’

  The Flowerpot Men was the slowest florist in town, but no one protested since it was also the only florist in town.

  ‘No?’ Harry offered weakly, trying not to let her eyes stray to the clock behind Trevor’s head. For a man who looked like the strong silent type, Trevor could go on talking for hours. Having ended the previous day blowing all chances of having a crack at George’s biscuit tin for the foreseeable future, Harry was mindful that starting the day leaving George to face the bottom of a forty-foot boat by himself would certainly put the foul back into anti-fouling.

  The trouble was that Matthew’s predictions for the boat yard had left her with such a horrible empty feeling, it would take more than a biscuit to cheer her up. A bacon butty breakfast, she’d decided, would help set her up for the day and justify a quick stroll into town. Whilst she was there, she’d pop in to ask Frankie and Trevor to look out for all the brand new four-wheel drives and BMW convertibles that, according to George, Matthew Corrigan’s restaurant would attract.

  ‘Kirstie was giving Phil a piggyback!’ Trevor hissed at her. ‘I thought they were too young for all that.’

  In London, The Flowerpot Men would probably have been called Wild Orchids and fitted out in brushed steel and blond wood or such like, but Little Spitmarsh wasn’t the place for such flamboyance. Fortunately, the air of neglect that pervaded the outside of the shop was not reflected inside. Whilst the decor could never be described as trendy, there was a good range of flowers and plants to choose from and the proprietors were always anxious to make sure their customers went away happy – even if they were talked to death in the process.

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to sit down and have a little chat with them, won’t we?’ said Frankie, winking at Harry as he came in from the back of the shop carrying an armful of hot-pink tulips protruding from cellophane sheaths.

  It was a bit early in the day, thought Harry, to deal with sexual miscreants, especially when the couple involved were Jack Russell terriers. Besides, she had matters of her own to attend to, albeit none of them involving illicit humping.

  ‘Can’t you just get one of them done?’ she suggested, in an impatient attempt to divert the conversation and amuse them with her news.

  There was a collective sharp intake of breath. Even Phil and Kirstie looked up from the basket where they had been curled up together, presumably having a post-coital nap, to turn accusing eyes on her. Frankie, weaving his small, honed and subtly tanned frame through the gap at the end of the counter, dumped the tulips in a bucket and laughed. ‘Well you needn’t think that Phil’s taking all the blame. Why should he have to suffer? She’s the one egging him on. Not just him, either, by the way she keeps slipping out when she thinks no one’s looking.’

  ‘I wonder where she’s got that from,’ muttered Trevor, with a touch of bitterness.

  ‘How about this for an idea?’ Harry said, nipping a potential scrap in the bud and silently marvelling at Frankie’s air of injured innocence. ‘What do you think of someone who opens a new restaurant here, installs some low lighting and a high-class chef and claims he’s going to have wealthy townies buying up properties left, right and centre?’

  Frankie rocked back on his heels. ‘Since when did Little Spitmarsh acquire a patron saint?’

  Obviously she hadn’t made herself clear. ‘Frankie, the old yacht clubhouse has been sold and the guy who’s bought it, Matthew Corrigan, reckons he’s going to reopen it as an upmarket restaurant.’

  Trevor clapped his hands down on the counter, frightening the dogs. ‘Excellent! It’s about time there was a decent place to eat here.’

  ‘Oh, Trevor! Do you mean to say you don’t enjoy those flaccid baguettes they have the nerve to
serve at The Admiral?’ Frankie clucked. ‘Other towns may have gastropubs, but we’re the only ones lucky enough to have a gastroenteritis pub.’

  Was she the only person capable of seeing past the end of her nose? Trying to make first George and now Frankie and Trevor recognise the dangers of Matthew’s scheme was a bit like warning children not to accept sweets from strangers.

  ‘Look, it’s not just that; he’s also approached me about buying my land to build houses. The man’s ruthless; luckily, he’ll soon find out that he can’t just march into Little Spitmarsh and expect everyone to roll over.’

  Just then the doorbell jangled for a second time. Phil cocked his head expectantly, his stump of a tail switching into first-gear wag, whilst Kirstie flipped over onto her back and poked a coquettish tongue out of the side of her mouth.

  ‘Glory, glory, hallelujah!’ Frankie drawled softly.

  ‘Harry,’ said Matthew. ‘Just the person I was hoping to see.’

  How dare he make it sound as if he knew what she had on underneath her dungarees?

  Frankie pulled himself together. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend, Harry?’

  Matthew grinned, extending his hand. ‘I’m Matthew Corrigan.’

  Since Trevor had gone back to gawping at Matthew, he didn’t seem to notice Frankie’s reluctance to let go of his hand. Pity, thought Harry; an outbreak of bickering might be just the thing to break the spell Matthew was casting.

  Then Frankie opened his mouth. ‘If you’re here to order flowers I guarantee that at The Flowerpot Men we aim to offer superb arrangements and unparalleled personal service,’ she was aghast to hear him say. ‘We’ll send any flowers you like wherever you like, but you’ll also be needing someone to take care of the flowers when you open your new restaurant, won’t you?’

  Any satisfaction Harry felt about the flash of irritation Matthew sent in her direction was completely extinguished by her horror at Frankie’s audacious sales pitch. Hadn’t he listened to a word she’d said?