The Little Kiosk By The Sea: A Perfect Summer Beach Read
Jennifer Bohnet
‘A heartwarming summer read.’ Sunday ExpressThe wonderful seaside story from Jennifer Bohnet, perfect for fans of Fern Britton and Veronica Henry!Time’s running out to save the little kiosk by the sea…Sabine knows that if she doesn’t come up with a plan to save her little kiosk soon, it might be too late. If only her best friend Owen would stop distracting her with marriage proposals!Harriet is returning to Dartmouth for the first time in thirty years, haunted by the scandal that drove her away and shocked by an inheritance that could change everything.Rachel never expected to find love again after her world was shattered a year ago. But it seems as if the sleepy seaside town has different ideas…One thing’s for sure, it’s a summer they will never forget!Praise for Jennifer Bohnet‘A heartwarming summer read.’ Sunday Express‘An absolute delight from start to finish.’ Nudge Books‘A thoroughly charming, captivating read’ Reviewed the Book‘A wonderful escape, overflowing with secrets. I couldn’t have loved this more.’ Becca’s Books‘Simply wonderful, I enjoyed every moment.’ Welsh Annie‘The perfect book to read on a lovely sunny day.’ Whispering Stories Book Blog
One summer they’ll never forget….
Meet Sabine, desperately fighting to save her little kiosk from closure whilst turning down her friend Owen’s proposals, time and time again.
Cue Harriet, returning to Dartmouth after thirty years, haunted by the scandal that drove her away and shocked by a legacy that threatens her relationship with her journalist daughter.
Enter Rachel, the mysterious newcomer who has an unexpected chemistry with a local widower, and who sets in motion a chain of events she could never have predicted…
One thing’s for sure, as the autumn tide turns, there’ll be more than one secret laid bare!
The Little Kiosk by the Sea
Jennifer Bohnet
Copyright (#ulink_09012b60-8020-5027-a66f-5081847237a8)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015
Copyright © Jennifer Bohnet 2015
Jennifer Bohnet asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474038065
Version date: 2018-07-23
JENNIFER BOHNET
is originally from the West Country but now lives in the wilds of rural Brittany, France. She’s still not sure how she ended up there! The saying ‘life is what happens while you’re deciding what to do …’ is certainly true in her case. She’s always written alongside having various jobs: playgroup leader, bookseller, landlady, restauranteur, farmer’s wife, secretary – the list is endless but does provide a rich vein of inspiration for her stories.
For three years she wrote a newspaper column in The South Hams Group of Newspapers (Devon) where she took a wry look at family life. Since living in France it is her fiction that has taken off with hundreds of short stories and several serials published internationally. If you like stories set down on the French Riviera, Antibes, Cannes and Monaco, then take a look at Follow Your Star and Rendezvous in Cannes. Her other books, too, have passing references to the South of France.
Allergic to housework and gardening, she rarely does either, but she does like cooking and entertaining and wandering around vide greniers (the French equivalent of flea markets) looking for a bargain or two. Her children currently live in fear of her turning into an ageing hippy and moving to Totnes, Devon.
To find out more about Jennifer visit her website: jenniferbohnet.com (http://jenniferbohnet.com) or chat to her on Twitter: @jenniewriter (https://twitter.com/@jenniewriter)
This one is for my daughter Emily and my son Nicholas – my very own Dartmothians!
Thanks to Charlotte Mursell and the team at HQ Digital – couldn’t have done it without you. A big thank-you must also go to the online forum of HQ Digital authors for their friendship and support. No names, no pack drill, but you know who you are! Thank you.
Contents
Cover (#ucb5fb267-84bd-5a0f-bec1-a2fa267e2391)
Blurb (#ua441e5a9-c74c-51f7-a733-a47eeb2d2f0c)
Title Page (#ud88d3389-427b-5e6b-9af6-432d9a25f294)
Copyright (#u985247c1-d47d-5b7a-be6f-273589246f28)
Author Bio (#u98921bf0-d0ca-56d8-a316-f2f2e875345a)
Acknowledgement (#u1c35a495-a748-5500-bf1c-4a0394a43e8c)
Dedication (#u244d60f7-c4f9-52f5-ae5d-e62403815028)
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Epilogue
Excerpt (#u18cc6ced-7100-53b3-b2cd-649660ed41cf)
Endpages (#ufbd01c30-4b26-5483-9965-acf7343462f7)
About the Publisher (#uc8d97ba4-a99b-5747-95d8-357710d56367)
EARLY SEASON
PROLOGUE (#u903213fe-0af9-5dec-a6d5-d14c07ef90d0)
For as long as anyone could remember, the kiosk on the quay had been part of the town’s summer street furniture. A focal point for the locals as much as the holidaymakers. Every 1
March, the wooden hexagonal hut re-appeared without fuss or fanfare on its designated place on the embankment between the taxi rank and the yacht club, its wooden struts and panels gleaming with freshly applied paint. Red, white, blue and yellow – all bright summer colours which, come October, would have been bleached and faded away by the summer weather. The jet-black orb on the top of the domed roof was a favourite with the gulls, who perched there serenely surveying the scene before swooping down and stealing ice creams and pasties from unwary holidaymakers.
As well as its annual paint make-over, the kiosk had occasionally been refurbished inside. These days it boasted an electric connection for the necessary computer, a kettle, mugs, a round tin that was never empty of biscuits and a small electric heater to keep the occupant warm in early and late season when the wind off the river blew straight in through the half-open stable door.
There was a small shelf unit for holding tickets and the cash box, a cupboard for locking things in, space to the left of the door for the outside advertising boards to come in overnight and three foldaway canvas director chairs for sitting outside in the sun with friends when business was slow.
The whole atmosphere of the town changed as the locals welcomed the re-appearance of the hut which signalled the imminent arrival of the holidaymakers, the second home owners and the day-trippers. Maybe this would be the year fortunes would be made. If not fortunes, at least enough money to see the families through winter without getting deep into overdrafts. The last thing anyone wanted – or needed – was another wet season.
This summer though, 1
March came and went with no sign of the kiosk. All winter rumours had rumbled around town about its demise and locals feared the worst: the council had never liked it and wanted it gone – not true, the mayor said. Health and Safety had condemned it as an unfit workplace – but nobody would give details of the problem. The rent for the summer season had doubled and Owen Hutchinson, owner of the pleasure boats he operated through the kiosk, had refused to pay. A fact he denied.
Then, two weeks before Easter, without any warning, the re-painted kiosk appeared in its usual place. Collectively, the town heaved a sigh of relief. Panic over. Time to enjoy the summer.
CHAPTER ONE (#u903213fe-0af9-5dec-a6d5-d14c07ef90d0)
SABINE
‘Two tickets for the afternoon river trip? No problem,’ Sabine said, smiling at the young woman standing in front of the kiosk. ‘Here you go. We cast off at 2.30 today, so make sure you’re back here at least fifteen minutes before.’
‘Definitely. We’ll be here. It won’t be rough, will it?’ the girl asked as she handed over the ticket money. ‘I’m not a very good sailor. We’re down on holiday and my boy f… my husband loves boats so I thought I’d treat him.’ She looked along the embankment. ‘He’s wandered off to look at some old steam engine or something.’
‘The river will be as smooth as the proverbial baby’s bottom this afternoon,’ Sabine promised.
‘Great. I’d hate to spoil things by being sea sick.’
‘On honeymoon, are we?’ Sabine said, looking at the shiny ring on the girl’s left hand.
The girl flushed. ‘How’d you guess?’
‘Oh something to do with the way you forgot to call him your husband? You obviously haven’t had time to get used to saying it yet.’
‘Two days,’ the girl confided. She leant in. ‘We eloped.’
‘Very brave of you,’ Sabine said, smiling.
The girl shrugged. ‘Necessity rather than bravery,’ she said. ‘See you this afternoon.’
Sabine watched her walk away and join her new husband, who greeted her with a lingering kiss. ‘May married life be kind to you,’ she muttered before turning her attention back to sorting the kiosk out for the season.
Two weeks late arriving on the quay meant there’d barely been time to set up things before the first river trip of the season. Not that there was a lot to do really, but Sabine liked to have everything to hand. Ticket books, cash tin, receipt book, tide table book, chalk, mugs, foldaway chairs, kettle, bottles of water, coffee and biscuits. That just left finding space for the first four paintings of the season.
A couple of years ago, she’d discovered the tourists liked her pencil sketches of the town and the river. One quiet afternoon she’d sat in one of the canvas director’s chairs outside the kiosk and idly started to sketch the river and its boats. She’d wanted a small picture to hang in her newly decorated bathroom, with its blue and white nautical theme. A tourist collecting tickets for a boat trip had seen it and asked to buy it when finished – provided she’d sign it for him.
That initial sale had thrown her into a panic. She’d no idea what to charge for an unframed original picture. It wasn’t as if she was famous or anything – or likely to be. In the end she suggested a sum and the tourist had shaken his head at her – before giving her double what she had asked and saying, ‘You really don’t know how talented you are, do you?’
Sabine had taken the money thoughtfully. Yes, she did know she had a talent. Years ago she’d been all set to go to art college but instead had to give up her place and stay at home to help look after her mother. Something that she’d done willingly.
By the time she was free to pursue a career, the time to go to art college had passed and marriage and family life had eventually taken over. If she drew anything in the following years it was simply because she fancied doing it.
After that first, unexpected sale, she’d started to do a couple of drawings a week, surprised by how quickly they sold. These days she spent winter painting and drawing views of the town and the river, ready for summer. By the end of the season she rarely had any left. Her secret ‘just for fun’ bank account grew substantially every summer.
The one she hung now on the folded-back stable door was a firm favourite with the tourists. A pen and ink drawing of the old Butterwalk with its columns and hanging baskets, it sold well every season.
Once she was satisfied the picture was hanging straight, she stood with her back to the kiosk looking across the river and along the embankment, breathing deeply and thinking about the future. Was this really going to be the last season she’d be working in the kiosk? If the council carried out their threat at the end of summer, forcing Owen and the other boat owners to use an un-imaginative refurbished office on the other side of the road, it would be. No way could she bear the thought of working indoors all summer long. Still Owen and the Robertsons were on the case, demanding a public meeting before a decision was taken and getting up a petition.
A flash of red coming towards her caught her eye. She laughed and shook her head. Johnnie, her twin brother. The old Breton red beret sitting jauntily on his head and the folder of papers he was carrying told her instantly this morning he was on the ‘Save the Kiosk’ warpath. Five minutes later he was greeting her with his customary cheek kisses. They might have been born in the town, but their French father had ensured they knew all about their French ancestry and learnt the language. For years now, they’d spoken only French to each other in private.
‘Ça va?’
‘Oui. Et toi?’
Johnnie LeRoy nodded.
‘Haven’t seen that for a few years,’ she said, looking at the beret. ‘Thought we’d thrown it out when Papa died.’
‘Never,’ Johnnie said, shaking his head. ‘Family heirloom. Sign of the workers’ solidarity this is.’
Sabine smiled. She doubted that any of the locals would realise the significance of the red beret.
‘Got a few signatures already,’ Johnnie said opening the folder and handing her a poster with the words, ‘SAVE THE KIOSK’ emblazoned in red across the top. ‘Need you to pin this up and to put the petition somewhere people can sign it.’
‘You don’t think the powers-that-be are serious about getting rid of the kiosk?’
Johnnie shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Telling them we want it kept won’t do any harm though. Embankment wouldn’t be the same without the kiosk.’
‘True. Fancy a coffee?’ Sabine asked, reaching for the kettle.
Johnnie shook his head. ‘Not this morning, thanks. I want to drop a poster off at the yacht club and then I’m planning on giving Annie and her bottom a good going-over.’
Sabine smiled at the scandalised expression on a passing tourist’s face. Johnnie grinned at her before whispering, ‘Gets them every time!’ Annie, named after his late wife, was Johnnie’s thirty-two-foot sailing yacht moored out on one of the pontoons in the river.
‘Have fun. See you tonight for supper,’ she said, turning her attention to a couple looking at the times of river trips for the week and began to talk them into taking the afternoon trip. Gift of the gab, Owen called her sales technique. Said it was the main reason he employed her to run the kiosk. That and the fact he was in love with her. She’d lost count of the number of times he’d asked her to marry him since Dave died. Said he was going to keep asking her until she said yes.
It had become something of a joke between them now. Only last week he’d asked her again and she’d said her usual ‘No’, adding jokingly, ‘I think you’d better stop asking me, Owen. Otherwise one of these days I might be tempted to say yes and then you’ll be saddled with me.’
‘If that means there is a possibility of you saying yes one day, I intend to keep on asking,’ Owen had replied seriously. ‘I’ve always loved you. Dave was my best mate but I could have killed him when you married him and not me.’
Sabine sighed. ‘Owen, I love you to bits but not in that way. You deserve more than a one-sided marriage.’
‘If you were the one side, I’d take it happily,’ Owen said.
Sorrowfully Sabine shook her head at him before reaching up and giving him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Sorry, Owen.’ She knew she hurt him every time she refused his offer, but love had to be a two-way thing for a marriage to work, didn’t it? She’d been a single woman for so long she could barely remember what it had been like being in a relationship, let alone being married.
When Dave had died, it had been a devastated Owen who’d tried to step into his shoes and be there whenever Peter had needed a father figure, insisting that was what godfathers were for. Two years ago he’d made sure Peter had a job ready and waiting for him when he’d finished his engineering course at college. At the time she’d questioned Owen as to whether it was a genuine job at the time or one he created.
‘Of course it’s genuine,’ he’d said. ‘I need a boat engineer. Happy for it to be Peter. Besides,’ he added with a grin. ‘A bit of nepotism never did any harm!’ It was Peter’s second season this year and he’d told Sabine he loved it. Couldn’t imagine doing anything else – living anywhere else.
She did wish sometimes that Peter had been a bit more adventurous – left home and seen a bit of the world before settling down in town. He’d done a couple of yacht deliveries with Johnnie but hadn’t wanted to do more. Took after his father in that respect. Dave had never wanted to live anywhere else or even take holidays abroad. Whereas she had always longed to see the world. The one opportunity to do that had sadly come at the wrong time of her life.
She glanced at a tourist studying the sailing timetable.
‘Can I book a ticket for this afternoon’s trip?’ he asked, his accent marking him as American.
‘Of course.’
‘Great little town you’ve got here,’ he said, as Sabine took his money and handed him a ticket.
‘Your first visit?’
‘Yeah, hoping to unearth some relatives,’ he said with a grin. ‘Grandmother was a GI bride way back in ’44. She kind of lost touch with folks here when she left. Family name was Holdsworth. Don’t suppose it’s yours? Know anyone of that name?’
Sabine laughed. ‘Well-connected ancestors you’ve got with that name, that’s for sure. No, it’s not mine. And as this isn’t small-town America, I don’t know everyone, but I don’t think there are any Holdsworths currently living in town.’
‘You mean there’s no longer a Govenor Holdsworth in charge out at the castle? I was hoping for an invite to stay there.’
‘You wouldn’t be very comfortable if you did – Windsor Castle it’s not.’
‘Shame. Good job I booked into The Royal for a week or two then. See you later.’
By the time Sabine helped Owen and Peter to cast off that afternoon, the boat was three quarters full and she watched it depart, pleased the first of the season’s sailings was so full.
As the Queen of the River began to make its way upstream, Sabine started to close up the kiosk. Life for the next few months would be ruled by the tide table and the need to open the kiosk every day to take advance bookings. Today, though, it was early enough in the season, with few people around, she could close up and go home for an hour or two before the boat returned and she had to be on hand to help the passengers disembark.
A chilly March breeze was blowing off the river and Sabine was glad of her fleece as she made for her cottage halfway up Crowthers Hill, one of the old roads leading out of town into the back country.
The house in Above Town she and Dave had bought together as a newly married couple had been too full of memories for both her and Peter to stay there happily without Dave. Far better to have a new start in a different house – one that she and Peter could build into a home, so twelve years ago she’d bought the cottage when Dave’s insurance money had eventually turned up.
Johnnie and Annie helped with getting the place habitable – it had been empty for two years and took weeks of hard work from the three of them to make it habitable – and she and Peter had lived there ever since.
Johnnie alone was responsible for the attic conversion three years ago. Sabine had watched in despair as her lovely, kind, compassionate brother all but followed his wife into an early grave. Finding him, bottle in hand, wandering around town at two o’clock one afternoon barely able to stand, she threatened him with dire consequences if he didn’t stop.
‘Did you see me doing this when I lost Dave? No. It’s hard but you’ve just got to get on with it.’
‘You had Peter,’ he’d muttered. ‘Perhaps if we’d had a child I’d have something to live for.’
‘You think it was easier because I had a child? Dream on. It was harder. A constant reminder of what I’d lost. He needed to grieve too. You’ve still got a lot of life to live so don’t give me that bullshit about not having anything to live for. I’m still here loving you and so is Peter.’
Shouting and yelling at him to get a grip hadn’t made any difference so, in the end, Sabine had taken action the only way she knew – she gave Johnnie something practical to do. Not daring to think about him drinking when he was away on a trip, she cancelled all his yachting work for six months. Then she bullied him into doing her attic conversion, insisting he moved in with her while he did it. That way she could monitor his alcohol, keep an eye on him and feed him regular meals.
Nine hard months it took, but at the end he’d hammered and sawn his way out of his grief and Sabine had a studio in the attic with a view of the river. More important, Johnnie was on his way back to living life. These days he lived mostly on board his boat despite still owning the cottage he and Annie had bought tucked away in the old part of town.
Lack of exercise over winter meant she was panting by the time she pushed her key into the front-door lock. Still, the summer routine of walking into town and being on her feet for most of the day would soon have her fit again.
After organising supper for her and Johnnie – Peter was out with his girlfriend tonight – she made a mug of coffee and went upstairs to her studio. Her favourite place in the house.
Pressing a button on the CD player, Sabine sank down onto the settee and let the relaxing sounds of her favourite Miles Davis recording wash over her. Missy, her old tabby cat, immediately left the comfort of her basket in the alcove and sprang onto her lap.
A light and airy room courtesy of the dormer window she’d fought hard to get planning permission for, the room was exactly as she’d dreamed. A comfy two-seater settee with creamy loose covers over it and its feather-filled cushions, a bookcase down one wall holding her collection of art and teach yourself books, a wooden cabinet whose drawers and shelves held her paints, paper and other arty stuff as well as a combined radio and cd player. A small cane coffee table standing on a scarlet scatter rug on the wooden floorboards, polished and varnished to the nth degree by Johnnie, added a splash of colour to the room. An easel with her latest painting on it stood to one side of the dormer window and a few framed family photos were pinned to the ceiling beam that ran the width of the house. A small wood-burner on the side wall kept the room cosy in winter. Stacks of finished paintings were lined up wherever there was wall space.
Tristan at Churchside Gallery had offered to hang half a dozen or so of her paintings in a local artists’ exhibition he was planning for May. For the last few months she’d been working on getting enough to sell over the season and to have some different ones to offer Tristan. It would be the first time her work had ever been hung in a proper gallery. Tristan had asked her to do some larger paintings of the river, ‘romanticise the scene’, he’d said. ‘People can’t get enough of pictures like that. An old boat or two is good – go for a nostalgic feel.’
Sabine had enjoyed painting the larger scenes and, as she’d grown more confident, she’d painted a couple of bright abstract ones, not knowing how Tristan would receive them. If he didn’t want them, she’d give one to Johnnie and one to Owen.
Absently, Sabine stroked Missy. Normally in March she was full of energy and looking forward to the season. This year though, all the talk of the kiosk closing had un-settled her. Making her question what the future might hold. And, if she were honest, made her feel old. Which was ridiculous. She still had plenty of years ahead of her. It was just a question of deciding how she was going to live them.
After all, her life so far had failed to be anything spectacular so that was unlikely to change. The one chance she’d had to change things had come at a wrong moment in her life. Now it was too late. The opportunity gone for ever. Owen, at least, had never given up on her. Owen, apart from Johnnie, was the one person Sabine knew she could call in any emergency and know he’d be there for her. He would have made a wonderful father, she knew, from seeing him with Peter – she’d even deprived him of that. Had never married anyone else. If only he’d met someone else, the pressure would have been off her, but no. Owen had proved steadfast in his love for her. Sabine remembered with gratitude Owen ‘being there’ for her and Peter through the years. He was a good man, still quite fit in his individual rugged way.
Sometimes, in the studio late at night when she felt lonely and vulnerable, she fantasised about accepting his proposal. Mrs Sabine Hutchinson had a good ring to it, but resolutely she always pushed the thought away. It wouldn’t be fair to Owen.
Back down on the quay an hour later, she waited as the Queen of the River, with Peter at the helm, gently draw up alongside the pontoon.
Owen followed the last of the passengers up the pontoon gangway, leaving Peter and the other crew member to take the boat out to its mooring in the middle of the river.
‘You got time for a quick drink?’ he asked. ‘Something we need to talk about.’
‘Sounds serious,’ Sabine said, her heart sinking. The beginning of the summer was not a good time for Owen to need to talk. ‘Why not talk here?’
Owen shrugged. ‘Rather sit in the pub in comfort. Besides, this way I get to enjoy your company for longer.’
‘Have to be a quick one, Johnnie’s coming for supper.’
‘Won’t take long what I’ve got to say,’ Owen said. ‘Ready?’
Ten minutes later, with a glass of chardonnay in front of her and a pint of beer in Owen’s hand, Sabine looked at him. ‘Well, what’s this all about, Owen?’
‘Will you marry me, Sabine?’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’
‘In that case, it’s just two things. Peter and Hutchinson River Trips is the first.’
Sabine took a sip of her wine and waited. Was he regretting offering Peter a job and wanted out?
‘I’ve been talking to the solicitor about Peter inheriting the business.’
It took a few seconds for his words to sink in.
‘You want Peter to have the business? You’re not ill, are you? You don’t look ill but…’
‘No I’m not ill,’ Owen said.
‘Thank god for that.’
‘I just want to get things sorted and Peter’s like the son I’ve never had to me.’
‘Does Peter know about this?’
‘Not yet. I wanted to make sure you didn’t have any objections. Accuse me of forcing him to stay put before he’s seen the world.’
‘He’s a real home bird,’ Sabine said. ‘I can’t see him ever leaving for a life somewhere else. Besides, he loves his life on the river. But what about your dad’s relatives? Surely there’s a cousin or two out Stokenham way who have a claim to the family business?’
Owen shook his head. ‘No. So what do you think? Good thing or not?’
‘I think it’s an incredibly generous action on your part, Owen,’ Sabine said. ‘But I hope he doesn’t get to inherit too soon.’
‘So do I, darling, so do I.’ Owen laughed before taking a swig of his beer. ‘Right, I’ll get on to Trevor Bagshawe to do the necessary. Once that’s done, we’ll tell Peter, OK?’
Sabine nodded. ‘You said there were two things – what’s the second?’
‘I’ve been talking to your Johnnie about all the places he’s been. The sights he’s seen. I’ve decided I’ve missed a lot so…’
‘You’re going to become a yacht deliverer?’
‘No, of course not. At the end of the season I’m off touring Europe for six months.’ Owen looked at her, a serious look on his face.
‘Want to come with me? No strings. Just two old friends having an adventure together before it’s too late.’
CHAPTER TWO (#u903213fe-0af9-5dec-a6d5-d14c07ef90d0)
HARRIET
Harriet drew up outside The Captain’s Berth with a sigh of relief. She’d made it. The longest drive she’d done on her own for years was finished. All four hours of it.
To say she’d been nervous when she set off this morning on her marathon journey was an understatement. She’d been close to tears and to forgetting the whole idea. She didn’t have to put herself through the ordeal. She could wait for Frank to return from his unexpected meeting and travel down together like they’d planned. It was only by giving herself a severe talking-to, telling herself to stop being pathetic, that she was a grown woman for goodness sake, that she managed to get in the car. The first thirty miles had tested her willpower to keep going, but once she’d negotiated the traffic-filled motorway junction lanes outside Bristol, she relaxed. Familiar, long-forgotten landmarks began to mark the passage of miles and as she drove down the final miles to the Higher Ferry she smiled, glad she’d decided to come the scenic coastal route rather than inland.
Harriet fumbled for her keys and handbag before getting out of the car and making for the turquoise front door and raising the highly polished brass knocker.
‘Hi. I’m Harriet Lewis. I’ve a room booked,’ she said to the young woman who opened the door.
‘Welcome to The Captain’s Berth. I’m Angie. Let me help you with your luggage.’
Gratefully Harriet handed Angie the larger of the two cases before following her into the house and up the stairs.
‘I’ve given you Room Two. It’s the only double at the front with a view of the river. I hope you find it comfortable,’ Angie said. ‘Your husband?’
‘Will be joining me later in the week,’ Harriet said. ‘Unexpected business trip.’
The room, light and airy, looked delightful to Harriet, its cream walls and carpeting a perfect foil for the vibrant floral bed linen and matching curtains. The bed, heaped with cushions, looked inviting and she couldn’t wait to collapse onto it for a restorative nap.
‘Tea and scones in ten minutes in the kitchen?’ Angie said. ‘Or would you prefer a tray up here?’
‘Could I have a tray up here, please,’ Harriet said, smiling at Angie whom she guessed was in her late twenties to early thirties – about the same age as Ellie her daughter. ‘I’m shattered after my long drive.’ She didn’t feel up to being sociable, answering any questions, one of which she knew would be along the lines of, ‘First-time visitor to the town?’
‘No problem. You’ve got tea-making facilities up here,’ Angie said, pointing to the tray on the bedside table. ‘I’ll bring you some scones up.’
As Angie closed the door behind her, Harriet crossed to the window. The stretch of embankment and river visible to her encompassed the mouth of the river with its twin castles. Still early in the year, there was little activity on the water. The occasional sailing dinghy enjoying the breeze, a fishing trawler returning to harbour, men working on boats moored on the marina pontoons across the river. The few people strolling along the embankment disappeared from view as the road curved fractionally towards the lower ferry and rooftops blocked the view.
A discreet knock on the door as Angie returned with a tray laden with scones, jam and clotted cream. ‘Enjoy. I’ll see you later.’
Harriet switched the kettle on before starting to unpack. She hadn’t brought a vast amount of clothes with her and the contents of the larger suitcase were hanging in the wardrobe before the kettle boiled. Unpacking the smaller weekend case could wait. Ten minutes later, sitting on the bentwood chair thoughtfully placed by a small table and enjoying her cream tea, Harriet tried to marshal her thoughts and plans into some sort of order.
She’d have a shower and then go for a walk, get some fresh air into her lungs.
The hot water hammering on her body as she stood under the powerful deluge of shower water, eyes closed, was therapeutic. Five minutes later, she stepped out, her tiredness banished. She’d resolved too, to stop thinking about Oscar and the past. Wrapping herself in the large, ultra-soft bath towel she took off the heated towel rail, Harriet picked up her phone.
She’d give Frank a quick text. If he was out of his meeting she knew he’d phone her back straight away.
Two minutes later, her phone beeped. ‘You all right?’ Frank asked.
‘So far,’ Harriet said. ‘I haven’t been out yet though.’
‘I’ll be there in two of days. You could stay in the B&B until I get there if you want. Read a good book.’
‘No, it will be fine. I’ll be fine,’ Harriet said. ‘Have you heard from Ellie? I was thinking about ringing her.’
‘Got a text to say she was busy at work, that’s all. Don’t worry, we’ll talk to her together. Give her my love if you speak.’
‘Will do. See you soon.’ Harriet switched her phone over to messages and saw Ellie had sent her a text, as well, saying she was okay. Harriet sighed. Hopefully Frank was right, saying that Ellie would be fine when they talked to her. If only she hadn’t had this dreadful sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach ever since she’d opened the letter last month. She should have struck through the address on the envelope, marked it ‘Not Known at this address - Return to Sender’ and put it straight back in the post. Definitely not opened it.
The wording in the brief paragraph from a firm of solicitors had been innocuous in the extreme. Just a request for Harriet Lewis, formerly of Dartmouth, South Devon, to visit their offices in the town as soon as possible. And no, they weren’t prepared to discuss the matter over the phone. When she showed the letter to Frank he immediately said they’d go down together, find out what it was all about, sort it and come home again.
‘Whatever it is, darling, after all this time I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.’
Harriet had looked at him and tried to force herself to look at things dispassionately, re-reading again and again the brief letter, trying to work out if there was a hidden message in it anywhere. Her gut instinct was telling her that the letter was about to kickstart something nasty in her life. And tomorrow was the day she’d find out.
After pulling on her favourite jeans and a sweatshirt, Harriet grabbed her handbag and phone and went downstairs. Angie was playing with a Jack Russell in the conservatory attached to the kitchen.
‘Oh he’s gorgeous,’ Harriet said, stopping down to stroke him. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Solo,’ Angie said. ‘He likes to welcome all my guests. Are you off out?’
Harriet nodded. ‘Thought I’d take a stroll round town.’
‘Don’t get lost!’ Angie said. ‘If you do, any local will point you in the right direction if you mention my name.’
‘Thanks. I’ll see you later.’ No need to tell Angie there was very little likelihood of her getting lost. The town’s ancient streets had once been a familiar backdrop to her life. If asked, she could have drawn a map.
Late afternoon and the bustle of the town was winding down for the day as Harriet began exploring. Stepping out from The Captain’s Berth, with the river on her right, Harriet walked down towards the town. She hesitated by the steep flight of steps that led down to the fort situated at the end of the town’s ancient quay before walking on. She’d go that route another day. Right now she wanted to wander around the town itself. Acclimatise herself to being here. Take in the changes that were sure to have happened. Re-acquaint herself where things were within the town.
Wandering along the narrow old streets, many with medieval buildings still in use, Harriet realised while the town had retained its ancient layout, which was still second nature to her, there were subtle differences. Narrow streets were now either one way or pedestrianised, shops with modernised windows, selling touristy souvenirs. She certainly had no difficulty in finding her way to several places she remembered with nostalgia. Her old primary school was still there but converted into flats. The old cinema had gone though, replaced with a modern complex complete with a new library alongside.
She spent time window shopping in the boutiques in the converted Old Palladium Mews before skirting around the church, climbing a well-worn flight of steps and finding herself at the junction of the steep hill that led eventually out of town to join the coast road and, to the left, the narrow road that wound its way behind the houses on the main town road. No way was she going to walk in that direction today, it was too soon, best left for another day. Harriet turned and made her way down to the quay where, judging by the smell wafting around and accompanying loudly squawking seagulls, the local fishing boats were unloading their day’s catch of crabs and mackerel.
Watching the plastic crates being swung onto the quayside before being loaded into the pick-up truck ready for delivery to various local restaurants, Harriet looked curiously at the fishermen on board one of the boats. One was about her own age, the other younger. Was the older man a part of her past? An old school friend, maybe? A long-forgotten memory of a secret crush trickled into her mind. Gus was the son of a fisherman. But Gus, as a teenager, had vowed no way was he following in the fishy footsteps of his father and grandfather. There had to be more to life, he maintained, and he intended to explore its full potential.
The younger of the fishermen smiled at Harriet as he caught her watching them. Harriet smiled back before moving away and wandering in the direction of the inner harbour. Passing the brightly painted closed ticket kiosk, Harriet smiled, remembering the summer she and her best friend Beeny had hung around there for hours longing to be noticed by the Rod Stewart lookalike employed to sell trips up the river to the tourists.
Another teenage memory from a long-ago summer flitted into her mind as she saw a tourist boat slowly making its way back down river. An illicit June evening trip up river, creeping on board with Beeny without buying a ticket, hoping bad-tempered Mitch Hutchinson wouldn’t notice them and have them thrown off. Beeny French-kissed Owen, his son, for his silence when he found them and realised they hadn’t paid. Funny how it was only Beeny he’d wanted to kiss. She hadn’t cared, though. The only person she was interested in kissing in those days was Gus. Not that she had, of course. She’d been invisible to him.
Harriet glanced at a blackboard nailed to the side of the kiosk with neat chalk-writing advertising the times of the next trips up the river, gold lettering at the top proclaimed: ‘Hutchinson River Trips. Established 1931.’ Was Owen running the family business now? Did Beeny still live in town? Funny how the old kiosk was kick-starting so many memories. Turning, she crossed the road and walked towards the Royal Avenue Gardens.
Standing by the inner harbour, its muddy waters crammed with boats small enough to pass under the embankment bridge to reach the river, her stomach rumbled and she realised she was ravenous, Angie’s delicious scones not enough to make up for her missed lunch. She glanced behind her at The Royal Hotel. Time for more nostalgia. Turning, she crossed the road and made her way into the hotel foyer, automatically turning right for the bar and restaurant.
After ordering a steak salad, Harriet took her glass of wine over to a window table and settled down to wait for her meal. Looking around, she could see the place had been extensively modernised since the last time she’d been there, but had somehow managed to retain most of its atmosphere from the eighteenth-century days when it had been a busy coaching inn.
‘Enjoy your meal,’ the waitress said, smiling at her. As she heard the Birmingham accent, Harriet smiled back. An incomer. Not a possible old friend from a past life. Good. She wasn’t ready to meet any of those yet.
Glancing around at the other people in the restaurant, an elderly couple, a family of six with an adorable toddler, a group of locals having a drink at the end of the working day, Harriet pushed her self-conscious feelings of being conspicuously alone away. She’d always hated dining alone. At least it wasn’t a permanent state of affairs. Frank would be joining her in two days. Tomorrow she would buy a book to read as she ate. Tonight she’d people watch and make plans for tomorrow and the meeting with Trevor Bagshawe, solicitor, to which she and Frank had planned to go together but now she was having to face alone.
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