by M. L. Welsh
‘No, of course not,’ said Miranda, permitting herself a little smirk.
‘So are your family ruling the roost yet?’ asked Verity, remembering Miranda’s strange comments from the tactics session.
Her diminutive enemy stared archly at her. ‘Soon,’ she replied.
‘I don’t suppose your family were tremendously wealthy,’ said Verity airily, to see if this would get more out of her. It worked.
‘We wanted for nothing,’ said the little girl sharply. ‘Mother says there would have been an endless supply of beautiful dresses and jewels for her. Blake parties may not have gone on for weeks like the ones at the Manor, but they were the epitome of luxury.’
Verity wondered why Miranda made such particular reference to Wellow’s landmark house? Verity had always assumed it was deserted. Certainly she’d never seen anyone entering or leaving.
‘And of course we commanded respect then. Real respect,’ Miranda continued, deadheading a lone flower with vicious efficiency.
Miranda turned to leave. It occurred to Verity that she was going somewhere special. She was decked out in a burgundy velvet dress, with matching coat and shiny black patent shoes.
‘Visiting someone nice?’ she asked.
‘Visiting someone lucrative,’ Miranda replied scathingly. She paused to stare disdainfully at Verity. ‘The Gallants were a proud family once,’ she said. ‘Not the kind of people who would have associated with Twogoods or Tempests.’
Chapter Ten
It was Saturday morning at last: the half-term break was nearly over. Another caller rang at the door. Grandmother bustled into the hall, motioning Mrs Gallant to sit down. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, dear.’
Verity tried to remind herself that however unpleasant Grandmother was to her, she certainly seemed keen to help Mother.
This time Verity didn’t even bother asking if it was for her. It never was. Putting on her coat, she prepared to leave for the library. But as she turned the corner of the street, she heard a shout of ‘Verity,’ and was unceremoniously accosted by a breathless Henry. He’d obviously been running.
She swivelled round, astonished and delighted.
‘If you’re still angry, you could at least explain why,’ he said urgently. ‘And if you are still angry, I don’t understand why you called for me …?’
Verity was thrilled. ‘I’m not. I thought you were—’
‘So why did you pretend you weren’t in all week?’ he demanded.
Verity was confused. ‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘I’ve been to the library a lot … trying to avoid Grandmother.’
‘Well, I called just now and she said you weren’t in … but you must have been, because here you are,’ said Henry.
‘She said what?’ Verity couldn’t believe it. Grandmother had walked right past her.
‘Yeah,’ said Henry. ‘Then she smirked,’ he added indignantly.
Instantly Verity knew he was telling the truth. She nodded glumly. ‘She does that.’
‘So she knew you were in and just kept telling me to go away?’ Henry was outraged. ‘She’s horrible.’
Verity nodded again. Then she remembered what she needed to say. ‘Henry, I’m so sorry I shouted at you after the sailing match. It was inexcusable. And I didn’t even mean it: I was just upset because everyone was laughing at me.’
Henry looked at her like she was an idiot. ‘I know,’ he said. Verity was taken aback. ‘I’ve got six brothers,’ he reminded her. ‘I have some experience of arguments. And I know how vile Miranda Blake can be. Then, with your grandmother making life tough for you too … I know why you were upset.’
Verity looked at him. ‘I won’t do it again,’ she promised.
‘Too right you won’t,’ said Henry cheerfully. ‘I’m sure a week without my company has helped you to see the error of your ways.’
Verity grinned.
He looked at her intently. ‘It’s not your fault, you know. Sometimes people – grandmothers – aren’t very nice.’
Verity looked dismayed. ‘I’ve really tried to get on with her and it doesn’t work. It’s just …’
‘What?’
She shrugged. ‘Even my own grandmother doesn’t like me,’ she said quietly.
‘I like you,’ Henry told her.
‘I really missed you this week,’ said Verity, smiling.
‘Me too,’ said Henry enthusiastically. ‘Percy and Will helped me look around town to see if we could spot you, but no luck. We had all sorts of plans. Still,’ he added philosophically, ‘we know now.’
Verity nodded. ‘I won’t let her do it again.’
‘So what you doing today?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘I’ve got the dinghy,’ said Henry. ‘Would you like to go sailing?’
Verity’s stomach turned over. ‘I think I’ve messed up enough on boats for the moment,’ she said.
Henry frowned. ‘You’d really never crewed before the race?’
‘Never.’
He shook his head in astonishment. ‘Your parents are a funny lot,’ he said. ‘Don’t talk about your family. Never taught you to sail.’
Verity looked a little sad.
Henry realized he was doing his usual trick. ‘Well, it must be true,’ he said, changing tack. ‘It must be in your blood, because you were a natural.’
‘But Judy Makepiece was really angry with me,’ Verity countered.
‘Moody Makepiece is terrified of capsizing.’ Henry grinned. ‘School legend has it she wet her knickers last time she went overboard. She must nearly have had another accident when you gybed the boat like that.’
‘Really?’ Verity giggled in spite of herself. ‘I thought Miranda was just being mean.’
‘Yeah, but if you hadn’t, you’d probably have capsized anyway, and lost the race to boot.’
‘Oh,’ said Verity.
‘How did you know what to do?’ Henry asked.
‘I didn’t. It just sort of happened … it felt right.’
‘Hm,’ he said, quietly impressed. ‘Well. Let’s see if the famous Gallant instinct rears its head again today.’
Verity smiled.
‘The library …’ muttered Henry as they continued down the road together. ‘No wonder we couldn’t find you.’
Verity and Henry headed towards the shingle beach on the western side of Wellow harbour. It was the one she’d aimed for during the race. It looked very different when you approached by foot, Verity thought, remembering how tiny the fishermen’s huts had seemed from the water.
‘One of Dad’s friends lets us keep our dinghy behind his hut,’ Henry explained as they followed a narrow footpath between the wooden shacks. As they emerged beside one that was built into the cliff, Verity caught a gust of fresh sea air and smiled nervously. This was bringing back mixed memories of the sailing match.
Stopping beside one of the huts, Henry pulled at a particularly smelly piece of tarpaulin to reveal a small wooden dinghy, mast lowered. He looked down at Verity’s feet and nipped into the hut. Verity could hear him scrabbling about, throwing things to one side. After a couple of minutes he emerged, bearing a pair of deck shoes. They were old and faded, but looked just like the ones all the other girls had.
‘They’re a bit shabby,’ he said, ‘but that’s often considered to be a good thing in sailing. Sort of makes you look like you’ve been doing it for a while.’ He grinned. ‘And they’re lighter than your other ones.’
Verity couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I think there are marble statues that weigh less than those shoes.’
‘How did your parents find such an old-fashioned pair?’
Verity pulled a face. ‘My grandmother spotted them in Joliffe’s.’
Henry shook his head. ‘She really doesn’t like you, does she?’
For once, Verity found it quite funny. ‘No,’ she giggled, ‘I don’t think she does …
‘I suppose it must be quite expensive to moor at the harbour instead of here,�
�� she said sympathetically as Henry started putting up the mast then rummaging around in the hold for a smaller sail, which he attached at the front.
Henry looked at her quizzically. ‘You can’t lease a mooring in Wellow: they’re handed down from generation to generation. We just don’t have one.’ Apparently ready now, he began pushing the dinghy down the steep shingle beach to the shore.
‘But it sounds like the Twogoods have been in Wellow a long time?’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Henry, taking off his shoes and socks and rolling up his trousers. ‘Our mooring was taken away from us.’
‘Taken away? Why?’
‘When we left the Gentry,’ he said, looking at her as if she were being a bit stupid.
‘They took your mooring away?’
‘They took everything.’
Henry bustled into action. ‘OK. If you jump in, I can push off. We’re facing head to wind at the moment. So we need to pull the nose round a bit.’
‘Right,’ said Verity. Had he been listening when she explained she’d never sailed before the match?
Apparently he had. He slapped the front of the dinghy authoritatively. ‘This is the nose,’ he said. ‘Or bow, if you prefer.’ He pointed up to the largest sail. ‘This is the mainsail … and that’s the jib,’ he continued, pointing to the small sail at the front.
Verity nodded. It was sounding familiar. She must have absorbed more than she thought.
‘This is the mast. And the horizontal bar attached to it is the boom – the thing that hit you in the chest … I thought you weren’t paying attention.’ Henry grinned. ‘Didn’t realize you had no idea it would be heading your way.’
Verity smiled. She could laugh about it now.
Henry passed her a rope. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is called a jib sheet – all the ropes that control the sails in relation to the wind are sheets in fact – and your job is to unfasten it and re-fasten it in these things here called cleats, just like you did in the match. We have to tack to get out of the bay because the wind is blowing in to the shore. Then it’s a nice easy journey up the coast and back again.’
Verity nodded. She could tack. She’d done that in the match.
‘Hop in,’ said Henry, ‘and we’ll get going.’
‘You’re really getting the hang of this.’ Henry sounded slightly surprised. The breeze was good and they were going at a brisk pace, but Verity was fine.
‘It’s brilliant fun,’ she replied as they both leaned out of the boat to stop her heeling. She couldn’t believe how at home she felt again. It hadn’t been a one-off. The air was fresh and sharp, the green waves glistened and the sky was a vivid shade of blue. She breathed in deeply and smiled.
‘There’s Soul Bay,’ said Henry, pointing back to land.
‘Miranda Blake mentioned that the other day,’ said Verity. ‘She said it’s near Tempest Bay.’
Henry nodded. ‘Tempest is the next one round: a bit far for us to go today. Soul Bay was the Gentry’s favourite place for outrunning the Preventative Men,’ he added, nodding to the shore with his head.
‘Really?’ Verity’s ears pricked up instantly.
‘Yeah. There’s just one route through the ledge to the shore, and only they knew it. So they’d head here if they were being chased and the Preventative Men wouldn’t be able to follow.’
‘Why not?’ asked Verity, betraying her lack of sailing knowledge.
‘Because most of the water is too shallow and rocky to sail over,’ explained Henry. ‘Any boat would be ripped to shreds. Apparently the Preventative Men would be stuck out here just watching the Gentry unloading their goods. Nothing they could do.’
Verity was intrigued. ‘Why not wait on the shore for them?’
‘Private land,’ said Henry. ‘Had to ask permission – and by the time they got there it was too late. Plus they never really got the hang of the tunnels.’
‘I found out more about Rafe Gallant,’ Verity told him. Somehow it didn’t feel quite right to say Grandfather. ‘In the library,’ she added, feeling quite proactive.
‘Did you?’ Henry grinned. ‘That’s a particularly Verity way of going about things.’
She ignored him. ‘One of the books said he has a daughter … I have an aunt I’ve never met.’
Henry looked at her and chewed his lip. ‘Was her name Ruby?’ he asked.
Verity looked up eagerly. ‘Yes. Do you know her?’
Henry looked uncomfortable. ‘She died in a sailing accident when she was twelve. It’s quite famous. I’m surprised it wasn’t mentioned too. Your father was just a baby at the time. I think it hit your grandfather quite badly.’
Verity was silent. Poor Father. She wondered if he could remember losing her.
‘Best if we anchor off here,’ said Henry, changing the subject as he let some wind out of the sails and drew the dinghy to a halt. ‘It’s not worth going in: this is a lee shore.’
Verity looked at him questioningly.
‘The wind blows in to the land,’ he explained, ‘so it’s difficult to get back out again. That’s what made the wreckers so successful: once a ship had been lured onto the rocks she had no way of returning to safe sea.’
‘Does this boat have a name?’ Verity asked as Henry lowered the little folding anchor.
He smiled. ‘Yeah, Poor Honesty.’
‘That’s pretty,’ said Verity.
‘Mm,’ he agreed. ‘It was a dig at the Gentry. After we left, they put the squeeze on us financially. Maybe they thought we’d back down. But my grandda wouldn’t budge: “Better poor honesty than rich deceit,” he said. So when we lost the family boat, that’s what he named our dinghy.’
‘Did your dad tell you that I called round?’ asked Verity, taking the proffered sandwich.
‘Yeah, of course.’ Henry rearranged the cheese and salad in his for optimum distribution. ‘Did you think he wouldn’t?’
‘He didn’t seem very pleased about it, no,’ she admitted.
‘Well, he’d been on nights. There’s a lot of work on since the Storm arrived. You woke him up,’ said Henry.
Verity nodded thoughtfully. ‘It wasn’t because I’m a Gallant then?’ she asked, taking a stab in the dark. Bull’s-eye. Henry looked embarrassed.
‘The Twogoods had a pretty hard time from some of the Gentry when they left,’ he explained, ‘so he’s not very keen on thoroughbred Gentry families.’
Verity smiled. ‘That’s quite funny, isn’t it? Being disapproved of as Gentry, when I don’t actually know anything about them?’
‘Dad’s just a bit too much of a Twogood, that’s all,’ said Henry. ‘They take history very seriously.’
‘Henry,’ said Verity, staring out to sea, ‘there’s something peculiar going on, I just know it.’
He frowned at her.
‘The Storm has returned to Wellow, and her captain gave me that red book. Grandmother – whom my parents had never talked about before – arrived at the same time. And my parents deliberately kept it a secret that my grandfather, my father’s own father, was Rafe Gallant, leader of the Gentry.’ Verity looked at him searchingly.
‘Don’t you think it’s just coincidence?’ he sighed quietly. Why did people always invest the Gentry with mysterious properties? Couldn’t they see it was just superstition and hocus-pocus?
Verity watched him with frustration. She could tell this wasn’t getting through. ‘There are other things as well; little things. There’s a boy – Jeb Tempest – and I’m sure he’s following me. He seems to know Grandmother too. Alice has disappeared. And Father is acting really strangely.’
‘There’s nothing mysterious going on,’ Henry reassured her. ‘I don’t know why your parents don’t like to talk about Rafe Gallant, or the Gentry. Maybe they think it’s best left in the past. And Alice told us she was going away for a bit. The Gentry were just a group of smugglers who no longer trade. The Storm is just a ship … and you met her captain. That’s all.’
In the
Twogood world view there was a rational explanation for everything: that was their particular religion.
‘Why did he give me the book? You know, it talks a lot about the Mistress of the Storm?’
‘Well, there you are then,’ Henry said patiently. ‘It was a book of mythology about his ship. Perfectly natural for him to take an interest in it.’
‘But why give it to me?’ Verity repeated.
Henry paused for a second to think. ‘You asked him for the book. Remember? You told him he wasn’t supposed to take books from the library without signing for them. Maybe he thought you were the library police.’
Verity was disappointed. He was being obstinately sceptical. ‘The strange boy?’ she asked. ‘How does he know Grandmother?’
‘Seems to know her,’ Henry corrected. ‘And anyway, you don’t know the Tempests: they’re a peculiar lot. Apart from Isaac.’
‘Grandmother arriving on the same night as the Storm?’ Verity demanded.
‘OK, so it’s a coincidence,’ conceded Henry, ‘but that’s all it can be.’
‘There’s something really quite frightening about her,’ Verity persisted. ‘When she loses her temper, she looks completely different, like a skeleton almost. It’s terrifying. And you can feel her anger. I don’t understand how she could possibly have been married to Rafe Gallant.’
‘Verity,’ said Henry, not unsympathetically, ‘your grandmother is just a nasty old woman who likes picking on people. And your dad is probably worried about having an extra mouth to feed. It’s entirely understandable to want a special explanation, but there’s nothing weird going on.’
‘No, Grandmother is odd – I don’t care what you think. There’s something strange about her. She’s not normal.’ Verity thrust her hand into her pocket, wondering if she should show Henry the strange wooden ball.
‘You don’t like her, that’s all,’ he insisted bossily.
Verity gave up. ‘No, I don’t,’ she conceded. ‘But she is peculiar.’
Back at Wellow, the pair dragged the dinghy up the beach. Verity looked across the horizon to the famous silhouette of the Spyglass Inn.
