A Gathering Storm (15 page)

‘I’m Lucy. No, I’m staying for a few days. Are you at the Mermaid, too?’

‘I was just eating there. They do good comfort food.’ He studied her for a moment then said, ‘This might sound a bit forward, but would you like to come out in the boat with me?’

‘Me? Now?’

‘Why not? I’ve got some spare kit.’

‘Oh, I don’t sail. You wouldn’t want a novice, would you?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You can swim, can’t you?’

‘Yes, though I hope I wouldn’t need to. Really, though?’ The idea was growing on her.

He looked her up and down, as though gauging her size, then stepped down into the boat and opened a locker. He brought out a pile of oilskin tops and trousers. She looked at them in dismay and said, ‘Will I need all those?’

‘It’s very blustery out there.’

‘I won’t fall in,’ she replied.

‘Fine,’ he said in a mild tone, but his expression was set, ‘though take it from me, you’ll be glad of them in this wind. You can use the cabin to change in.’

‘I’ll change at the hotel,’ she said, just to be stubborn.

‘As you like.’ His eyes were merry now.

She took the armful of clothing and walked away, aware that he was amused by her. Quite why she was doing this, she didn’t know. Her wretched impulsive nature again. Her mother had warned her about not getting in strangers’ cars, but did boats count, too?

She was ready in ten minutes and returned to Anthony feeling self-conscious. ‘I look like a penguin,’ she told him, splaying her feet, and he laughed. Her sleeves were too long and she had to roll up the legs of the trousers above her canvas shoes. He couldn’t resist a grin, but seeing this made her chin go up.

‘Here, you’ll need this,’ he said, as he passed her a buoyancy aid. It looked like a padded waistcoat.

‘Is this right?’ she said, pulling it on.

‘Zip it up and the belt goes . . .’ he said, standing close to make an adjustment, ‘like this.’

Everything went wrong from the moment she stepped into the vessel. ‘Sit down, no, over here, you’re rocking the boat,’ he commanded. She moved, wobbled and clutched at a wooden pole, which swung free, nearly knocking her over. ‘Ouch,’ she cried.

‘Are you all right? Now, mind the boom or it’ll get you again.’

He gave her a rope that was tied to the sail and she sat down. ‘The boom,’ she repeated. There was a whole new language here. He started up the engine and they motored out between the arms of the harbour in a cloud of fumes. A cold wind struck immediately and Lucy gasped. They set off for the centre of the bay.

‘Right,’ Anthony cried. ‘If you take the tiller, I’ll get the sails up.’

‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said.

‘Just hold this. If you want to go right move it this way – left, that way. Straight to go straight. Keep her into the wind. You’ll pick it up easy.’

They swapped places. She pulled and pushed the tiller arm and the wind blew them in little circles. ‘Hold it still, will you?’ he said.

‘I can’t,’ she replied.

‘Try, or we’ll end up in the drink.’

Eventually she got the hang of it and Anthony got the sails up and turned off the motor. He thrust the end of a rope at her and said, ‘Right, grab this and change places. Now.’ They did a stupid dance, trying to pass one another.

‘Don’t let the boom go,’ he shouted and she pulled on the rope, panicking as the strength of the wind filled the sails. The boat whipped along, the rope sawing at the skin on her fingers. ‘There’s some gloves in that locker,’ he said, but she couldn’t move to get them and now the boat was tearing towards rocks.

‘Ready about,’ Anthony shouted. ‘Pull the rope hard.’ She did, and the sail flapped in the wind. ‘Now. Duck! Watch the . . . oh hell.’

The swinging boom this time hit her on the side of the head as the boat wheeled round. She cried out with the pain. ‘Keep hold of the rope,’ he cried. ‘Haul it in!
Haul it in
!’

‘I can’t. Everything hurts. Stop shouting at me.’

‘Here, take the tiller. Hold it steady.’ He reached for the rope and pulled the sail tight, then hitched the rope round a convenient cleat and returned to take the tiller.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Untie that rope and hold in that sail for dear life. When I say “ready about”, hold it firm, I’ll move the tiller and the bow will swing round. Then watch out for the boom which will move across the boat. And that’s the moment you tighten the rope and hold on for dear life. Got it?’

‘Yes,’ she said, crossly, rubbing her face on her sleeve. ‘Just stop shouting at me.’

‘I’m not shouting, I’m giving instructions.’

‘You could at least say please.’

He looked at her in astonishment, then his expression turned to a comic urgency as he cried, ‘Ready about. For God’s sake,
do it
!’

‘
Please
,’ she shouted back, but ducked under the boom just in time and hauled on the rope.

‘
Please
and bloody thank you,’ he said, and she sat up straight and smiled.

‘You are something else,’ he said finally.

She was starting to enjoy it now, the excitement of the wind and the spray dashing her face, the flight of the craft skimming through the blue-green water. She was freezing, but getting to the stage of numbness where it was starting to feel warm. She closed her eyes and was relaxing a little when he shouted, ‘Ready about, again. Please.’ And she pulled the rope and got the sail across just in time.

They were right out to sea now, far from land and she didn’t like to think of the fathoms of water beneath. It was an act of faith, this, being on a boat, working with the weather and the capriciousness of the sea. No wonder sailors were a superstitious lot. What else did they have but the signs of the sky and the water and the hints the gods gave them? She looked back the way they’d come. St Florian was a scar of white and grey on the flank of the land.

It was on their way back that the disaster happened. They were nearing the harbour and Anthony ordered her to swap places again and hold the tiller while he reeled in the sails. He was just coming to reclaim his seat and Lucy stood up to swap over, but she let go of the tiller too early. A great gust of wind blew the boat round and she wobbled, screaming. She grabbed the nearest object, which happened to be him; he stumbled, roared and fell over the side.

‘Help, what do I do?’ she shrieked at the empty water. After a long, long moment he surfaced, gasping, still holding tightly to the rope, and clutched the side of the boat.

‘Sit down!’ he spluttered. ‘No, over there. Now lean out that way.’ With a supreme effort he managed to haul himself back in. He didn’t stop to recover, but seized the tiller and brought the boat under control. His eyes were steel and she was afraid to say anything. They entered the harbour and slipped quietly into their mooring.

She waited until he’d tied up before saying meekly, ‘Anthony, I’m terribly, terribly sorry. It was my first time. I didn’t know what to do. I should have listened to you.’

She was relieved to see a slow smile spread like a flame across his frozen face. His eyes sparkled and he started to laugh.

‘What?’ she said. ‘What? Tell me!’ Then she started to laugh, and soon they were both helpless with laughter.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please. Oh, wait till I tell the boys that.’

‘What boys?’ she asked, but he was still laughing.

Finally he said, ‘Go on, you go and get changed. I’ll finish up here.’

She climbed up onto the jetty. ‘Thank you,’ she called down. ‘Buy you a drink in the bar later?’

‘I’m staying in a borrowed house till Sunday,’ he said an hour later, taking a draught of the local bitter. They were sitting opposite one another at a wooden table in front of the hotel, the evening being mild. ‘It was my friend’s boat, really, but it doesn’t get used much now. I thought you did very well, by the way.’

Lucy almost choked on her lager in surprise. ‘Don’t be daft. I was a disaster.’

‘No, really, for a first-timer. You kept your head.’

‘And tipped the skipper in. Surely they used to make you walk the plank for that.’

He smiled in that way she liked, which illuminated his face. He was a little older than her, she thought, but not by so much. His tanned skin and short, sun-bleached reddish hair signalled long hours spent outdoors. She sat, chin in hand, watching him roll a cigarette and light it with slow, capable movements. She wanted to ask him about himself, but she sensed a barrier.

‘So you’re on holiday?’ was the question she settled on.

‘That’s about it.’ He stared past her, out to sea. Finally his eyes met hers. ‘I’m an Army officer. Just finishing home leave after a long stint in Afghanistan. Reporting for duty again Monday.’

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘You’re frowning. What are you thinking?’

‘Just that it sounds a bit more important than TV film production.’

‘That’s what you do?’

‘Yes.’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘Historical drama at the moment. With the odd documentary thrown in.’

‘Which is the kind of programme I enjoy watching when off-duty. Therefore vital to the world.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yes.’

She hesitated for a moment then said, ‘Have you had an awful time?’

Again, that far-off look out to sea. After a moment he nodded. He took a long drink of his beer. ‘It’s good to be home, to sit on an April evening by the sea.’ His eyes crinkled. ‘Hey, what about you? Holiday?’

‘Not really – well, sort of. I mean, I don’t have to be back at work till Monday either, but this trip was a bit unplanned. I’m trying to solve a family mystery.’

‘That sounds interesting. A skeleton in the cupboard?’

‘Possibly, yes. My granny’s family used to live here. In Carlyon Manor up the road.’

His face betrayed surprise. ‘That burnt-out place? I walked past it the other day.’

‘The man at the museum said it happened a long time ago.’

‘Oh, I’ve met him.’

‘He’s been very kind. Fixed me up to see an old lady who turns out to be my great-aunt by marriage.’

‘And she’s got a story to tell?’

‘A fascinating one. I’m on the trail of a great-uncle who disappeared in the Second World War. My father was obsessed with the mystery, and I’m trying to find out why. She’s still telling me about it all.’

‘What did your great-uncle do in the war?’

‘I don’t know exactly. Something to do with Special Operations.’

He nodded slowly. ‘I’ve read up a bit about that. Would I have heard of him?’

‘I’ve no idea. His name was Rafe Ashton.’

‘Rafe Ashton. No, it doesn’t ring any bells.’

‘His official file was empty.’

‘Was it now? Cover-up by our people, do you suppose?’

‘It looks like it.’

‘Let me know if you want me to sift around. See if I can find anything through my channels.’

‘I will,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She brought out her purse.

‘It’s definitely my round next,’ he said.

‘No, I’ll buy,’ she replied, ‘but it’s not that. I was looking for this.’ She handed him one of her business cards.

‘Lucy Cardwell,’ he read aloud. ‘Blue Arch Studio. That’s you?’

‘Yes, that’s my mobile number. And my email.’

He pulled his wallet out of his jacket and stowed the card away safely then gave her his contact details.

‘Well, Lucy Cardwell,’ he said, ‘it’s definitely my round. And I’ll bring out the menu – unless you’ve got other plans.’

Later, in her hotel room, she checked her phone and found another message from Will. He was beginning to sound impatient and she knew she couldn’t pretend any longer. It wasn’t fair on either of them. She called his number, and when he answered they had one of those stumbling conversations at the end of which both parties were in agreement that things weren’t working. It was, they decided, best that they return to being friends.

After switching off her phone again, Lucy was surprised to feel not sadness but a soaring relief. She lay down on her bed and thought of the time she’d spent with Anthony, their laughter when they’d regained the safety of the quay – and she smiled.

Today, Tuesday, a large flat cardboard box had joined the photograph albums on Beatrice’s table. Beatrice coaxed off the lid, lifted several layers of tissue paper and shook out a gorgeous dress of silver slashed with midnight blue, onto which was sewn a small train of a pewter-coloured gauzy material.

‘It’s the dress from your photograph. How wonderful,’ Lucy said, stroking the soft garment. ‘To think it’s survived so long.’

‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Beatrice said. ‘My mother made it. The rows we had over the fittings! I was so cross and fidgety, having to stand still with pins sticking in me, that she lost her temper one day and threw it into the dustbin. That shocked me. I had to creep out and rescue it and apologize.’

‘Was it made for a special occasion?’

‘The Wincantons threw a party at Carlyon Manor two days before Christmas 1938. It was, I’m sure, Oenone Wincanton’s idea. She felt, no doubt, that her chicks were starting to fly the nest, and wanted to mark the fact. I think she also felt sorry for me. My life had come to a temporary halt, you see. I was still weak and thin, and I had a slight limp from my illness. And I was going away to school, not somewhere marvellous abroad or having a season. The party was like a consolation prize, my only chance at coming out. Rafe was invited and a whole host of young people from local families. Even Michael Wincanton graced us with his presence. After all, there were appearances to keep up, no matter how stormy their marriage was in private.’

As an honorary member of the family and because Angelina begged her to help her dress, Beatrice arrived at Carlyon early, driven by her father in his borrowed car, her dress wrapped in tissue in a box on her lap, her mother’s only good jewellery tucked safely in a vanity case on the back seat.

Brown, who admitted her, said, ‘Thank God you’re here, miss. Maybe you’ll put some sense into that young lady. I don’t know what they’ve been teaching her in France, but it certainly ain’t good manners. Find your own way up, miss, would you, or Cook’ll have me guts for gaiters.’ And she fled through the green baize door.