Entrance to the Harbour

by Peters, Sue

  Entrance to the Harbour by Sue Peters

  Jo had come to the tiny Cornish fishing village of St. Mendoc to find peace—but instead she found Dan Penderick. Circumstances threw her constantly into his company, and she soon found herself increasingly drawn to him, caught up in a whirlwind of emotion, without power or will to free herself. But Dan stood calmly in the eye of the storm, remaining aloof and as indifferent to her as he seemed to be to anything except his boat. For Dan was a man of the sea, whose love for his boat would always come before his love for any woman—and what reason did Jo have for supposing he loved her anyway?

  Printed in Great Britain

  Books you will enjoy by SUE PETERS

  SUNFLOWER SUMMER

  Nan loved country life, and she understood country people and their ways—so she didn’t at all appreciate the newcomer, Dr. Keir Raven, with this sophisticated, critical London outlook, Until Marcia Lisle began to pursue him relentlessly, and Nan was forced to re-assess the way she felt about him .

  LURE OF THE FALCON

  After their initial antagonism, Wyn Warwick and Russell Tylar had come to a much better understanding and Wyn’s future looked bright. But she had not reckoned with the spoilt, ruthless Diane de Courcy, who had always got everything she wanted in life—and was not going to accept the fact that another girl might get Russell!

  PORTRAIT OF PARADISE

  Mallets, her grandfather’s lovely old manor house, had been left, as it should be, to Katie’s brother—but he had asked her to go there and get things sorted out for him before he took possession. But Ross Heseltine, it appeared, had already been put in charge of Mallets—and Ross was going to give her more problems to cope with than the house did!

  LAIRD OF DOORN

  Far from disliking Duncan Blair the moment she met him, Sue felt an immediate feeling of friendship and warmth developing between them—and who knew how far it might have gone, had the jealous Fiona Redman not set about making all the mischief in her power …

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual

  known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  First published 1978

  This edition 1978

  © Sue Peters 1978

  For copyright reasons, this book may not be issued on loan or otherwise except in its original soft cover.

  ISBN 0 263 72694 0

  CHAPTER ONE

  `CAN’T we go back home, Jo?’

  `This is home, from now on, Chris.’

  It did not look much like it. Jo Wallace pulled the collar of her scarlet poplin mac closer about her ears, and wondered why she had bothered to tie a scarf over her hair. Both were irretrievably soaked. And the grey stone cottage confronting them, with its slate roof shining with rain, offered no immediate prospect of warmth to dry out. She shivered.

  `It looks sort of—cold, doesn’t it?’ Spaniel brown eyes turned up towards hers in mute appeal, and the faint tremor in the young voice, instantly stifled, rallied her own failing courage as nothing else could have done.

  `It’ll be all right as soon as we get a fire going,’ she answered him brightly, trying to convince herself as much as the boy. The cottage not only looked cold, it looked inhospitable. Hostile, almost. I’m getting over-imaginative, she scolded herself, and impulsively reached down for her brother’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s get inside out of this rain. Where did I put the key?’ The brief human contact added a further boost to her determination, and she pushed open the rickety garden gate that led up a weed-strewn path to the front door, fumbling in her bag while trying hard not to wish that their inheritance had been one of the cottages that flanked the steep cobbled street of St Mendoc. The little houses in the village stood cheek by jowl, jostling one another for space, and without the amenity of a garden such as this one boasted, but at least they were a part of the bustling fishing community, and did not stand lonely and

  aloof as the one that confronted them did, clinging limpet-like to the cliff edge that made a peremptory boundary to the wild garden.

  `It’s dark inside.’ Chris stood on tiptoe and rubbed his finger against the bottom pane of the window, making a small squeaking sound in the mist-shrouded silence.

  `That’s because of the mist. It’ll be bright enough as soon as the sun comes out, I expect. This rain won’t last,’ she told him, with more hope than confidence. ‘It’s a good job we’re not rich,’ she added ruefully. ‘We’ll have no need to lock the door when we go out. I can hardly turn this thing.’ She brought both hands to bear on the large, old-fashioned key. It yielded to the extra pressure reluctantly, with a grating sound that made her make a mental note to acquire some oil as soon as possible. ‘Welcome ho—’ The screech of the door hinges stopped her in mid-sentence, and she and her brother looked at one another in silence. The hinges needed an application of lubricant as badly as the lock, and their banshee groan added to the unwelcoming appearance of the cottage itself, enhanced by an icy draught of air from the tiny living room inside that smelled musty from damp and long disuse.

  `I don’t want to stay here, Jo. I don’t like it.’ The beginnings of mutiny showed in the thin pale face below her shoulder, and Jo hardened her heart, trying not to see his limp as her brother turned towards her, his features so like her own, with his brown eyes topped by soft brown wavy hair, that they might have been looking in a mirror. His face was tight with the tension she had learned to dread, and had hoped would go away for good when they came to St Mendoc.

  `Dad and Mother wouldn’t have bought the place as a holiday cottage if they didn’t like it. And thought we’d like it too.’ Deliberately she spoke of her parents as she would have done if they had still been alive. ‘And you don’t like it

  because you’ve always been used to brown stone buildings,’ she pointed out practically. ‘The grey granite tends to look cold, but we’ll soon change all that. A lick of bright paint …’

  Still talking, she stepped through the door, relying on Chris to follow her automatically. The sound of his uneven footsteps on the bare board floor told her she had guessed correctly. Now, where’s the fuel kept, I wonder? I think Mother said there was some in a bunker by the scullery door. Look around,’ she bade the boy briskly, ‘the sooner we find it the sooner we’ll get a fire going in that grate.’ She regarded the old-fashioned hearth in a corner of the sparsely furnished living room with some misgivings, and hoped the chimney did not need sweeping. ‘I want a cup of tea,’ she declared thirstily, ‘and something to eat. And then we’ll have to see about getting the blankets and sheets aired.’ Her heart contracted as she spoke, but she had her back turned towards Chris, and he could not see her face. The cottage was fully equipped. Their parents had brought everything down for the holiday they never had. The holiday on which Jo was to have joined them a week later, and for which they had set out in the car gaily enough with Chris, on the journey that ended with an accident that left Jo and her brother orphaned, and the ten-year-old boy fighting a battle to walk again.

  With indomitable courage, and the resilience of childhood, he won, but of the two Jo had the harder battle. To her fell the task of removing the family belongings from the Don’s House, the cosy, brown stone lodge traditionally occupied by the Professor of History at the ancient seat of learning that had been
her father’s natural home. His gentle, scholarly presence pervaded every room, and eventually, her task completed, Jo found she was glad to leave. Even glad to turn her back on the familiar town filled with bicycle-riding students who wove dangerously in and out

  of the traffic in the narrow streets, with flying gowns and cheerful banter, and welcomed Jo to all their functions with happy camaraderie. Melvin resented their easy friendliness, but then Melvin was jealous of anyone who occupied Jo’s attention.

  `This looks like a fuel bunker.’ Chris forgot his trepidation in the interest of exploring, and signalled his sister triumphantly. Since losing their parents, Jo had felt glad she was fifteen years older than her brother. At least it gave him someone he could turn to, someone close. Melvin had been close—or she thought he had. Resolutely she thrust the thought of Melvin from her mind.

  `Here’s a pile of sticks.’ She poked about inside the bunker and drew out a handful of chopped wood. ‘Where did you put that newspaper we bought to read on the train?’ The sticks felt damp, but if the chimney drew well the paper would soon make them catch. She reached over her head automatically and felt along the shelf, and her fingers encountered the box of matches she sought. For all his scholarly ways, Professor Wallace paid scrupulous attention to detail, and it was no surprise to Jo to find he had left a box of matches ready. She struck one. Fortunately these had not gone damp as well, which suggested that the soaking weather streaming against the window panes was of fairly recent origin.

  `It’s a good job we brought the food with us,’ Chris grinned, his spirits restored by the bright flame that set the sticks cracking merrily, and transformed the room into something approaching home. ‘The man at the station said he might not be able to bring the rest of our luggage until tomorrow.’

  `We can manage until then,’ Jo made light of their difficulties. ‘Go and find some plates while I unpack the sandwiches.’ She gave the boy something to do, it was better than letting him brood. ‘I saw a cupboard in the

  scullery as we came through, there’s bound to be some crockery there somewhere.’ Laura Wallace had been as thorough as her husband, and there would be utensils available, Jo knew. Chris returned, as she expected him to, with a handful of crocks balanced precariously as he held them up to inspect the pattern.

  `They’re the odd ones from the kitchen at home.’ His voice was wistful, and his sister turned on him with unusual severity.

  `You’ll have to start calling St Mendoc “home” now, Chris. As soon as the weather lifts, we’ll go and explore.’ She softened her tone with a promise, and grabbed the kettle as it started to whistle. ‘Thank goodness the fire’s burned up.’ The small room was already beginning to grow warm, and she followed her brother’s example and divested herself of her mac. It made a bright splash of colour, hung on a hook behind the door, lending a touch of gaiety to the rather sombre brown of the strictly functional furniture. She would get a couple of comfortable easy chairs as soon as they were settled, she promised herself. Some bright, chintzy curtains and cushions, and the place would look quite different. There were no curtains to the windows now. They were not strictly necessary, since their nearest neighbour was the harbourmaster’s house, half a mile away at the foot of the cliff, but pretty curtains would look nice. There was enough money to make the cottage homely. Professors of History were not generally wealthy people, and her father had been no exception; the money that was left would nearly all be swallowed up to provide Chris with a decent education. It would not be fair to take him from his prep school now, when he was showing so much promise, and his headmaster had such high hopes for his future. But she was determined to provide him with a home, to which he could return in the holidays and find her there. A sense of stability was of as much importance as education, and he

  had lost, in a brutal fashion, the security he had always known until now. Maybe she could find a job locally, enough to bring her in a small income to make things easier. Even, during the season, take in holidaymakers. They could let one room … Her eyes grew dreamy, making plans, keeping her mind on the future, because it hurt too much to think about the recent past. Even her mac reminded her. Melvin had helped her to choose it.

  `Red suits you.’ He had put his hands on her shoulders, coming up behind her as she tried on the mac in the shop, and gazing possessively at her reflected figure in the mirror, his eyes meeting hers with that special smile in them that was meant only for her.

  Jo had preferred the blue mac she tried on next, but because Melvin liked the red one, she had bought it. It had always been like that with Melvin, she realised now, looking back. She had not noticed it at the time. Like her engagement ring, with the large, rather ornate setting to the stone which she suspected was really more than Melvin could afford, but he liked to boast, to show her off as belonging to him, with the same possessive jealousy that made him resent the friendly advances of her father’s students. Chris had not liked her engagement ring very much, either, she remembered.

  `Have you lost it?’ he asked her, the first time she visited him in hospital, without it being on her finger.

  `No.’ She hesitated, then decided on the truth. ‘I’ve given it back to Melvin.’

  `Have you changed your mind about marrying him?’ Academically, Chris took after his father, and his keen mind made him a shrewd observer for his years.

  `Yes. I find I don’t like him so much as I thought I did.’ It was better that Chris did not know the real reason, he had enough problems to face without adding to them.

  `I’ve got the chance of a manager’s job in New Zealand,’

  Melvin told her jubilantly. ‘It’s expected the manager will be married, there’s a lot of entertaining, apparently.’ Melvin loved sophisticated parties, so long as he was the centre of attraction. ‘If we got married right away we could go out there together.’ It was too soon after her parents’ death for her to want to think of getting married, but he was persistent, and so excited about his promotion that Jo forgave him for being insensitive.

  `It’ll be good for Chris to have a settled home again,’ she capitulated, thrusting her own feelings aside. ‘The change of scenery might help him to forget the accident.’

  `Chris isn’t included in my plans,’ Melvin rounded on her roughly. ‘I don’t intend to take on anyone else’s kid,’ he told her bluntly. ‘I don’t intend to take on kids of our own, so you might as well get used to the idea.’

  She supposed they should have talked about it before they got engaged, but it had not occurred to her. Marriage meant a home—and children. At least, it did to her. She had taken it for granted that it did to Melvin, too. Sadly, after much thought, she gave him back his ring.

  `We shall end up by hurting one another. It’s better this way.’

  He blustered and shouted, as was his habit when he could not get his own way, but when Jo remained quietly determined he flung away in a huff and she did not see him again before she left. Her left hand felt lopsided without his ring, but her heart felt curiously free.

  `I think it’s stopped raining ‘ His appetite appeased, Chris limped to the window and looked out. The mist’s lifted, too. Look, Jo,’ he raised his voice excitedly, ‘you can see the sea past the end of the garden !’

  `Don’t go near the cliff edge.’ Jo checked his eager move towards the door. ‘It doesn’t look too safe,’ she warned dubiously. ‘Stay this side of the fence.’ A shaky-looking structure of wire and posts bisected the overgrown patch,

  several feet away from the actual edge of the cliff, but Jo knew the solid-looking area of turf on the other side might well be only a thin overhang, and the last thing she felt she could face was another accident now.

  `You said we could explore,’ Chris reminded her hopefully. ‘The sun’s started to come out.’ He raised his face to the thin gleam of sunshine that grew stronger even as he spoke. It was too early in the year to hold much warmth, the earth still lay in that hinterland of winter that Jo knew could turn almost overn
ight to primrose-decked lanes and mild air, and make a paradise of the bleak cliff with its single tree bent almost double by the searing winds, and still leafless. The sight depressed her. She missed the woods of her home county, and fearful that her own low spirits should affect her brother, she grabbed her wet mac and slipped it on, glad for once of its brazen brightness.

  `We’ll leave the washing up until we come back. Put your mac on too, the wind will help dry it out.’

  `Are you going to take this?’ Laughter creased the boy’s face as he held out the large door key, and she smiled.

  `I’m not facing that struggle again,’ she declared. ‘I’ll slip my purse in my pocket, just in case.’ She could not imagine anyone breaking into the cottage set in such a lonely spot, but until her father’s solicitor had completed the arrangements for transferring their small capital, to the bank at Arlmouth, the nearest town—St Mendoc did not boast a bank of its own—she dared not be careless with the cash she had brought with them. ‘I’ll bank the fire up before we go.’ A warm room would be more welcoming to return to towards evening, she did not want to repeat their chilly entrance into the cottage of a few hours ago. ‘Is there something we can put some coal in, ready for tonight? I don’t want to have to fumble about in the dark after tea.’

  `I saw a big cardboard box in the scullery.’ Chris disappeared through the door and returned with a long, flat box.

  `It’s a fish box.’ Jo sniffed cautiously. ‘It doesn’t smell as if it’s been used,’ she discovered thankfully.

  `It’s got a picture of a bird on it, the same as those we saw stacked at the station.’ Chris turned it round interestedly, and Jo recognised the graceful print of a tern emblazoned on the side.

  `It’s a tern—a sea swallow,’ she explained. `D’you remember watching them on the Fame Islands, when we went there two years ago?’ The familiar forked tail that gave the sea bird its nickname brought back to her ears the clamour of the breeding ledges, a noise that would soon echo about the grey cottage they had inherited. A brief week or two and the terns would arrive to contest the available nesting sites with the resident birds, doubtless to be followed by the other summer visitors, the human holidaymakers and artists who would temporarily double the population, and add an air of carnival and a welcome extra income to the village community who otherwise relied on the sea for their livelihood.