‘You don’t look very happy, what’s the matter?’
‘I’m fine!’ Harry lied. After another tense morning trying to negotiate more time to pay her bills and cheaper prices from her suppliers, she had walked into town to clear her head. The fact that there was nothing in the deal for the suppliers considerably reduced her bargaining power. For a little while she’d even considered sobbing down the phone, but since she’d always been proud to run with the big boys it was an underhand tactic and certainly not one her dad would have respected.
Still, there was no point in depressing Trevor, who was prone to being a bit morose himself. Since he had to put up with Frankie, that was understandable. As much as she liked Frankie, who could be both charming and bitchily amusing, no one would ever describe him as a rock of support. But at least she only had to worry about Frankie’s business propositions; unlike Trevor, who had to live with him.
‘You know, Harry, it’s never too early to think about a little Botox here and there,’ he beamed at her. ‘It’ll just freshen you up a bit and stop you looking quite so down in the mouth.’
Smiling through gritted teeth, Harry thought it best to change the subject. Kirstie was cradled in Trevor’s arms, looking like the cat who’d got the cream or whatever it was that spoilt dogs got. ‘What’s up with Madam? Is she too grand to walk anywhere?’ Now that she looked closer at Kirstie, the lack of exercise was definitely showing. ‘Gosh, Trev, you are going to have to be careful about doggy obesity. She’s getting positively porky!’
Two sets of accusing eyes turned on her. That’s for the Botox dig, Harry thought, her face a picture of innocence.
‘Well!’ Trevor confided, clearly so desperate to tell her something that he was prepared to overlook any slight to his pride and joy. ‘I’ve only just come out of the vet’s and I really should wait to tell Frankie, but all I’ll say is that it’s not fat.’
‘Congratulations!’ Harry said uncertainly. ‘When’s the happy event?’
‘Not a word,’ said Trevor, raising a finger to his mouth. ‘My lips are sealed.’ He looked at her closely. ‘I know you’d prefer us not to have accepted the contract to do the flowers for Matthew Corrigan’s restaurant, Harry, but business is business. I’m not sure how happy I am about the whole thing either. I mean, we’ve lived very quietly here. But Frankie needs this. He’s desperate for a new challenge and I don’t think I can hold him back. It wouldn’t be good for us.’
Harry eyed Kirstie who smirked at her. ‘One way or another Frankie’s going to have his hands full. So, you didn’t get round to taking Phil for his little operation, then?’
‘Oh, we did, poor thing, and he was quite grumpy about it –’
Harry watched as Trevor stopped tickling Kirstie’s ears. He looked at Kirstie who looked back, innocently. ‘Oh!’ he said, looking shocked. ‘Who’s the daddy?’
But when Harry arrived back at the yard, she soon stopped smiling. George had dragged a couple of old deckchairs from his shed, and he and Matthew were sitting in the sun drinking tea, like an old married couple in front of a beach hut watching the world go by.
‘Come and join us,’ Matthew invited, waving a biscuit from George’s tin which was perched on a box between them. Judging from its depleted condition, he’d enjoyed unrestricted access.
‘You may have plans to turn this place into a holiday camp, Matthew, but unfortunately for you I’m still in charge here,’ Harry said, folding her arms.
Matthew and George looked up at her resentfully, like two small boys who had just had the remote control snatched away during the big match. Neither of them seemed keen to get on with what they were supposed to be doing. George made a show of mutiny by raising his mug and taking a conspicuously leisurely sip.
‘If you’ve finished the pontoons, George, I’d be grateful if you could clean the shelves in the stores. Some of those tins are so dusty I’m in danger of painting more dirt on than I’ve taken off.’ She ignored the huffing and puffing, the ponderous wiping of his lips and the exaggerated effort it took to get off his backside. She was just thinking what a good job she’d made of exerting her authority, when George turned to her.
‘Message from Ted Butler.’
‘Yes?’ Harry said, waiting to hear that Ted, one of her long-term owners, had discovered his wallet at last.
‘’E’s packing up. Says ’e can’t afford it no more. Wants the boat out the water as soon as yer like, so he can put it on the market.’
Bum! Ted might not have been one of her most prompt payers, but he was one of her regulars. Harry watched George shuffle off and wished he’d waited until Matthew was out of the way before dropping that particular titbit into the conversation.
‘And don’t ’old yer breath, but there’s a couple of fools looking over Lapwing,’ he added as he sloped off.
Lapwing was, or at least had been, beautiful. Her elderly owner, Ian, had been too busy caring for his sick wife to spare much time for the boat; and, since Lapwing was on the point of needing major remedial work, Ian had reluctantly decided to let her go. Harry only hoped that the couple being shown over the boat by Ian’s son, David, hadn’t heard George’s parting shot.
‘Give the poor old sod a break,’ said Matthew, as if he’d been reading her thoughts. ‘He works hard enough for you. He was telling me how he was torpedoed twice in the war – he’s lucky to be alive.’
Very lucky, Harry privately agreed – and, depending on what other tales he’d been spinning, even luckier if he managed to survive another day. ‘Oh, George has plenty of stories, he’ll talk all day if you let him – and he gets a decent salary for the privilege.’ Because Matthew was still seated in the deckchair Harry, for once, had a height advantage. She raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Something you wanted?’
Matthew looked up at her and she couldn’t help noticing that his hazel eyes were flecked with green in the light.
‘What’s going to happen to George if you keep losing your regular customers? He’s never going to get another job at his age, is he?’
Matthew also, she remembered, had a wonderful habit of reminding her where his real interest lay. Just in case she got too comfortable. ‘Oh dear! Is there no place for George in your plans? No niche job to keep him occupied? I know – perhaps you can set him up in one of your luxury apartments, I’m sure the other residents will love him!’
She leaned over him to press the point home. ‘Nice try, Matthew, but this is my business and George is my employee, so I’d be very grateful if you would just butt out and let me get on with it.’
Leaving him sprawled in the deckchair, she shot over to Lapwing. The prospective buyers were, she guessed, in their early forties; she with wavy, chin-length brown hair, his grey and slightly receding. They looked fit and well with, from what Harry could see, a full set of working knees and hips apiece to equip them for a good few years’ sailing; and, judging by their expensive casuals, enough spare money to afford it. In short, they looked like just the kind of owners she was looking for. Since David could be a bit limp, Harry had no hesitation in muscling in.
‘Have you come far?’ she asked, once David had got the introductions out of the way.
The woman pulled a face. ‘Surrey. It was a bit of a trek on the motorway.’
‘But worth it when you got here, I hope,’ Harry beamed, crossing her fingers that she sounded convincing. ‘It’s very peaceful. Just the place to recharge your batteries.’
They seemed to like what they were hearing; their faces brightened as they visualised tranquil weekends pottering round the backwaters.
‘And Lapwing’s got so much character,’ she added for good measure.
Oops. That had raised a concern. ‘She is lovely,’ agreed the man, ‘but we were just saying to David here, she does need a lot of work and, frankly, after a three-hour drive the last thing I’d want to do is get my hands dirty.’
Lazy beast, thought Harry. Perfect. ‘Oh, quite,’ she agreed. ‘But you could always c
onsider having the work done here. Watling’s has a long-standing reputation for offering a complete service whether you’re ashore or afloat. I’d be more than happy to give you a quote for all or some of the work, and you’ll certainly find our rates are a lot more reasonable than on the south coast. And, of course, the sooner you get the work done, the sooner you’ll be out on the water. There are some really lovely places to explore.’
‘And a brilliant new restaurant opening this summer,’ said a voice beside her. Despite her best effort with a look that would have felled most people, Matthew was still standing.
Large as life – and how she wished she could say twice as ugly; but his particular brand of beauty, all that tousled hair and fallen-angel charm, still gave her a jolt every time. If bystanders were caught by the sparks flying between them, one look at their body language would prove that the electricity wasn’t generated by sexual chemistry. Certainly not on his part, anyway.
‘Why don’t we just leave these people to concentrate on what they came all this way to see?’ she said, trying to sound pleasant. She turned to the couple. ‘You carry on looking at Lapwing and, if you decide to go ahead and want a quote, just let me know.’
‘And if you’d like to come to the opening night at Samphire, let me know,’ Matthew smiled, handing them a card.
What a chancer! Samphire indeed! The place was barely out of the ground and it already had a name. He didn’t miss a trick, did he? Harry ignored him and stomped off to do some sanding and take her anger and embarrassment out on nineteen layers of old paint clogging up a hull. After several minutes she became aware that someone was watching her; she hoped for the sake of her future liberty that it was George.
No, it was Matthew, still looking lean and lovely; but armed, she must never forget, with a ruthless business mind. He mouthed something at her and she guessed it probably wasn’t ‘Darling, you look so attractive like that.’
‘What?’ she snarled, putting down her sander before it attracted unflattering comparisons with the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and snatching off her ear defenders. To make absolutely sure he could hear her, she also pulled her mask down round her neck. ‘Look, what do you want? Because I’m busy.’
It wasn’t an invitation to start up a conversation, but Matthew seemed to take it as one.
‘Harry, will you stop cutting off your nose to spite your face and listen to me a minute?’ he told her, in that low, sure voice. ‘There’s a lot at stake for both of us here. Why don’t you wait until the restaurant’s up and running before you make a judgement?’
Harry wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, then realised that she’d probably smeared herself in blue paint dust. Didn’t the ancient Britons use blue dye to scare off the Romans? Harry sighed. It hadn’t worked for them and it didn’t look as if it was going to work for her either; Matthew was still determined to persuade her that she was going to like what he was doing.
‘And in the meantime I’m supposed to ignore all the disruption during the refurbishment, am I? All the banging and crashing, the white vans coming and going and the builders’ radios blasting out across Campion’s Creek where there used to be perfect peace?’ she said, conveniently ignoring all the banging and crashing she created at the boat yard. ‘I like living here because it’s so quiet and I’m not surrounded by people. I was never going to be thrilled to bits at the prospect of having a busy eating place right on my doorstep with Hoorays braying and slamming car doors into the small hours. It’ll disturb the wildlife and it won’t do much for me; with the kind of hours I work, it’s important for me to get some rest when I can.’
‘Yes, you’re always on the go,’ Matthew said, stepping closer. ‘In fact, you never keep still; caulking decks, trimming sails, stripping paint. No wonder there’s so little of you.’
‘That’s the nature of my work, and there’s plenty of it. So if you’ve seen enough for one day, perhaps you’d let me get on with it?’ She untangled her goggles from the face mask hanging round her neck and hoped he would take this a sign to leave; they were always going to disagree about the restaurant, so there was no point in prolonging the conversation.
Matthew didn’t take the hint. ‘I’ve checked up on your rates, and if you keep offering those prices you’ll always be busy – but where’s it going to get you? I like the way you pitched your service to that couple, but you’ve got to be realistic. You’re running yourself into the ground trying to make a living and George isn’t getting any younger.’
George? Why did he keep going on about George? Oh, so George had been blabbing, had he? Well, she’d deal with him later. In the meantime she had Mr Caring-and-Concerned to contend with. Matthew, still standing too close, was doing such a good job of maintaining his air of sincerity that Harry went along with it for a moment. She even imagined what it would be like to lean against his solid chest and let him hold her in his arms whilst he promised to take care of her. She was almost beginning to like the thought when Matthew ruined it by speaking.
‘You told me once that you kept the boat yard going in memory of your father,’ he said softly. ‘Would he be happy to see you like this, Harry? Do you think he’d want to see you working yourself to a shadow, your brow always furrowed with worry?’
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ she said, pulling up her goggles. ‘You come sniffing round, poking your nose in where you’re not wanted and then have the audacity to tell me what my father would have wanted. Well, since you’re such an expert on my father you’ll know what he always said: “Keep fighting, Harry, especially when you’re in a corner. Come out fighting or go down.” And I can tell you, I’ve no intention of going down.’
Matthew looked at her sadly. ‘That was a hell of a legacy to leave a little girl. No wonder you’re still taking on the whole world.’
Harry was glad she’d donned her goggles; her anger could so easily spill over into tears. ‘Free psychoanalysis, too,’ she nodded. ‘However did we manage without you?’
Matthew raised his hands. ‘All right, I’m done. One day even you’ll be tired of feeling your back against the wall, but it won’t stop me giving you a fair price when you finally come to your senses and realise that you’re sitting on an asset which could make your life so much easier.’
‘Listen,’ said Harry. ‘Just so you understand, Watling’s never was and never will be one of your cut-and-thrust operations. We’re not here today, gone tomorrow looking for a fast buck, we’re in it for the long haul. Your property makeovers are about a quick win, but we take pride in a steady pace, hard work and bringing some continuity to this community. The rewards we reap here are worth more than money.’
‘That sounds very fine,’ said Matthew, stepping towards her, obliging her to move back. ‘But fine words don’t pay the bills and some airy-fairy talk about rewards won’t feed you. We both know that you’ve got problems, Harry, and sooner or later you’re going to have to address them.’
She shook her head. ‘Or what, Matthew? Or you’ll step in and buy the lot? You’re not worried about us. Let’s not forget that it would suit you if George and I did go to the wall, that’s why you want me to believe there’s something wrong. Well, I don’t scare easily. I’ll still be here when you’ve forgotten that Watling’s ever existed.’
Harry replaced her ear defenders and started up the sander. When she turned round again, Matthew had gone. She waited a couple of minutes, then went out to make sure he wasn’t pumping George for further information.
He was sauntering along the creek; but, instead of going straight to the old yacht club, he detoured to the Moults’ houseboat. She shrugged and resumed her work. What he did with Lola Moult was up to him.
Chapter Seven
Pulling her tee shirt down as she went, Harry pushed the duvet away, got out of bed, opened the glass doors and stepped outside. Once upon a time, the first light fingering the little boats would have restored her peace of mind; but what if she was being short-sighted about the best direction for
the boat yard? What if she was wrong?
The previous evening she’d even tried phoning her mother – in the forlorn hope that, if she told her about the pressure she was under, Maeve might come up with a few homespun words of comfort. Well, there was supposed to be a first for everything, wasn’t there? When Maeve had taken flight with Don, the man who became her second husband, she couldn’t have chosen a worse time. Harry had paid in blood, sweat and tears trying to convince the maritime world that Watling’s was still a vital business and hadn’t died with its founder. What kind of parent did that to their child?
Maeve sighed down the phone. ‘It sounds as if you’re badly in need of a holiday. Why don’t you come and stay with us for a while?’
‘I can’t just leave the boat yard to go out to France at the drop of a hat. You know that.’
It wasn’t that Harry minded her mother, now running a holiday lettings agency, grabbing what she called a chance for happiness. Although that did seem to imply that happiness had been thin on the ground, which was clearly not the case. Nor did she have anything particularly against Don; she barely knew him and, when she tried to remember him, she could only summon up a colourless, rather ordinary man who was reliable rather than exciting. Quite why Maeve had been so keen to marry him and leave everything behind was beyond her, especially when Don didn’t have half her father’s vigour or a quarter of his personality.
‘Can’t or won’t?’ Maeve said, sounding irritated. ‘Harry, you weren’t exactly a child when I left. You were twenty-one, you’d finished your education. You could have come and lived with Don and me at any time, but you’ve hunkered down and flatly refused to leave even for a holiday.’
Turning the Tide Page 6
