Kitabı oku: «A Good Catch», sayfa 4
5
The summer they left school was a good one. The sun shone, the sea remained calm and the beaches were inviting. The holiday-makers came down in their droves, so there was plenty of work for the school-leavers, waiting tables or taking money in dusty beach-side car parks.
Jesse worked on his father’s flagship, The Lobster Pot. Being a Behenna and heir to the business made no difference: he was not given an easy ride. He had to learn the business from the bottom up.
Like most Cornish trawlers, The Lobster Pot had five crew members. Edward was the skipper, the toothless Spencer was his mate. In charge of the engines was the mechanic, Josh, a Kiwi of about 35 who’d landed in Cornwall as a student, years earlier, and never gone home. The cook was Hamish, a Scotsman with a surprisingly good palate, and the two deckhands were Jesse and another young school-leaver, Aaron.
The boat went out for up to seven days at a time, with two and a half days back on dry land before going to sea once more. It was a steep learning curve for Jesse, who’d not been allowed to join his father on these trips before, but he had the sea in his soul. Not only did he enjoy the work, he enjoyed the money that was divvied up at the end of each trip.
Once a catch was landed and sold at market, the money was used to pay for the diesel, food and other essentials, then the largest share of what was left over went to the owner – in this case Edward. The rest was split between the crew. The skipper Edward (again), Spencer, Josh, Hamish and then the deckies Jesse and Aaron.
It was not just a good summer for the visitors, the fish seemed to like it too; they were swimming in their droves to the Cornish fishing grounds.
The Lobster Pot would glide out of Trevay harbour with most of the Behenna fleet behind her, ready to make their fortunes. For Jesse, released from the classroom and still weighing up life’s possibilities, these were halcyon days. He found he was loving life at sea: the sound of the engine chugging below his feet, the cry of the gulls performing stall turns above him, and the instinct he was starting to develop from his father as they sat poring over the charts, determining where the next good catch might be waiting for them.
On one particular warm August night, Edward and Jesse were in their usual seats in the galley, having had a supper of poached cod and bacon with new potatoes coated in bacon fat. Edward was drinking a large mug of powerfully strong tea.
‘I’m reckoning we aim for Tring Fallows. Word is they’m the best fishing grounds just now.’ He tapped the chart, then leant back to stretch tension out of his lower back.
Jesse remained hunched over the charts, studying the distance between where they were now and where they were going. ‘How long will it take to get there?’
‘Should be there in about four hours.’
Jesse glanced at the time. ‘I’m on watch at midnight.’
‘I recommend you get some shuteye now then,’ his father said.
Jesse heaved himself a little off the leatherette bench seat and craned his head to see out of the starboard porthole. ‘Our Mermaid is still with us. She coming to Tring Fallows too?’
‘Aye. We’ll need both of us to haul the buggers in. This’ll be a good catch if we get it right.’
The ship’s radio came to life and the familiar voice of Alfie Chandler, Mickey’s dad, spoke.
‘Lobster Pot, Lobster Pot, Lobster Pot. This is Mermaid. Over.’
Edward unhooked the small receiver/mouthpiece from the radio set and put his thumb on the talk button.
‘Mermaid. This is Lobster Pot. Wass on? Over.’
‘Mermaid, Lobster Pot. We still headin’ for Tring Fallows? Over.’
‘Lobster Pot, Mermaid. Can you switch to channel nine? Over.’
Edward waited a minute for Alfie to swap to a channel that they could use just between themselves.
‘Lobster Pot, Mermaid. Over.’
‘Yeah, Alfie. Tring Fallows it is.’
Jesse, desperate to talk to his mate Mickey, held his hand out to his father, opening and closing his fingers in the universal code for ‘hand it over.’ Edward kept talking. ‘Is your Mickey there, Alf? Only ’is mate wants to ’ave a word.’
‘I’ll get ’im.’ They heard Alfie shout for his son as Edward passed the mouthpiece to Jesse.
Mickey’s voice came over the airwaves. ‘’Ello?’
‘Mickey, ’tis Jesse. You sleepin’ before we get to the fishin’ ground, or no?’
‘Gonna have a snout up top then I’m going to grab some zeds. You?’
‘Same. Give us a minute and I’ll be out too.’
Edward reached forward and snatched the radio from Jesse. ‘That’s enough. It ain’t for you two to make your social engagements on.’ He pressed the talk button. ‘Mickey, you still there, you great long streak of piss?’
‘Yes, Mr Behenna,’ came Mickey’s nervous voice.
‘Well fuck off and ’and me back to your dad.’
On deck the moon, although not full, was bright; its face looked down at the two trawlers as they slipped through the benign waves. Jesse, now standing in the stern of the boat, put his face to the cool wind and closed his eyes. He felt secure and peaceful. He was increasingly realising that the sea was his home; as long as he had it in his life, he knew all would be well.
Looking to starboard, and travelling at the same speed, was Our Mermaid. Jesse listened to the thrum of the engines together with the swish of the wash that they churned behind them. He could make out the tall, thin silhouette of Mickey appearing from a hatch and sparking up a cigarette.
‘Hey, Mickey,’ Jesse called over to him.
‘Hey, Jess,’ called back Mickey.
‘Can you think of anywhere else you’d rather be?’ Jesse asked his friend.
‘Inside Loveday’s knickers?’ answered Mickey truthfully.
Jesse frowned at Mickey, knowing that – at this distance and in the dark – Mickey wouldn’t be able to read his face. He didn’t like Mickey talking about Loveday like that.
Loveday was under Jesse’s skin. He’d known her since … well, forever. And he hated to hear Mickey discuss her in such crude terms. He felt protective towards Loveday. He wanted to look after her and treat her well. He felt something that he couldn’t describe; something, maybe, close to love? He pulled himself up. Love? No, not love. Not for Loveday. Loveday was Mickey’s and he’d never hurt Mickey. He was like a brother to her. He just liked her. A lot. That was all. God, no, he didn’t love her. He was going to see the world. Not settle down with the first girl he’d ever known, right here on his doorstep. Bugger that.
‘Where would you rather be then, Jesse?’ asked Mickey, sucking on his cigarette and exhaling a long plume of smoke to trail behind him.
‘I told you. Nowhere other than here.’ There was a splash behind him. He turned and shouted, ‘Look, Mick. Dolphins!’ And, sure enough, in the wake between the boats, two dolphins slipped out of the water in perfect arcs, the moonlight glistening on their skins.
‘There’s two more!’ shouted Mickey. He bent down to the open hatch on the deck and shouted, ‘Dad. Come up. Dolphins.’
Any crew member on both boats who wasn’t already sleeping, or didn’t have a drop of romance in his soul, came on deck to watch the display that the dolphins put on for them. They counted up to fifteen, although it was hard to tell if some had been counted twice. Both Alfie and Edward cut their engines and, for maybe five or ten minutes, fisherman and dolphin enjoyed each other’s company. Finally the creatures slid beneath the waves and disappeared.
A thought dawned on Edward.
‘The little fuckers’ll have our catch if we don’t get a move on.’ He moved quickly towards the wheelhouse. ‘Full steam ahead, lads.’
Jesse was nudged awake at just before midnight. He’d been dreaming of swimming with the dolphins. One of them was swimming alongside him and he reached out to stroke its side. The dolphin turned to look at him and smiled. The smile grew wider and more familiar and Jesse became aware that this was not a dolphin but Loveday. Her red hair was streaming behind her as she swam above and below him, twisting and looping in the simple joy of being with him. Streams of air bubbles danced from her as she swam, always just a little bit faster and a little bit further out of reach. ‘Come on, Jesse. Come on,’ she spoke from beneath the waves, smiling up at him. ‘Come on. Before you lose me.’
‘Wake up, mate. It’s your watch. Come on. Get up.’ Jesse opened his eyes and slowly became aware of the familiar heat and smell of the The Lobster Pot’s cramped cabin. The tired face of Aaron, who’d just finished the first watch, loomed over Jesse’s bunk. ‘Wake up, you bugger. I need some kip before we start the trawl. Get out and let me in.’ Jesse flipped back the blankets, lifted his head from the pillow and swung his legs onto the floor. Apart from taking off his boots, he hadn’t bothered to get undressed before he slept so, apart from a quick rub of his eyes, there was no time wasted. Aaron was already crawling into the warm bunk and gave Jesse a shove as he reached for the blankets. ‘Get out and let me ’ave me beauty sleep.’
‘And what time would Sir like his wake-up call?’ a yawning Jesse asked sarcastically.
‘Bugger off.’
‘As Sir wishes.’ Jesse bent down and whispered in Aaron’s ear, ‘Would Sir like a goodnight kiss?’ Aaron produced a two-fingered salute and turned over. He was already asleep by the time Jesse closed the door.
Jesse reported to his father in the wheelhouse. ‘Any news?’ he asked him.
‘Aaron spotted some boats off to starboard about half a kilometre away. Spanish, by looks of it.’
‘Shit.’
‘Aye. Seeing more and more of ’em out here. Bastards are depleting our stocks and using up the quotas. Go and make us a brew, will you?’
Jesse gladly did; he was in need of one himself to wake him up. The next two hours went quietly and they saw no more foreign boats.
On the horizon he watched the occasional tanker as it headed off for who-knew-where with its lights shining in the gloom. The hypnotic throb of the engine and the rhythmic slosh of the sea water brought on an almost meditative state. He sipped his tea and thought about his future. The places he would go, the people he would meet, the money he would earn. Once he’d done all that, if Loveday were still free, he’d come back to her and marry her. Maybe Mickey would meet someone else; marry the first girl he got up the duff, like the soft bugger he was. Yes, that’s what he’d do. He smiled, contented with his plan.
Gradually he grew aware of the engine note changing and the boat slowing. Edward leant out of the wheelhouse window and said, ‘Get the lads up and prepare the trawl.’
*
Edward looked down from his vantage point in the wheelhouse and watched as the two derricks holding the beam trawls on either side of the boat swung out from the deck and over the water. He could hear the shackles and chain links of the trawl nets rattle as they went into the water. The rubber wheels at the bottom of the nets would allow the trawl to travel smoothly on the sea bed and gather their precious haul. He’d set the engine to a gentle towing pace of around two knots. He watched Jesse, in his yellow oilskin trousers and boots, working alongside the rest of the crew. He was a good lad. A born fisherman. He wished there was another way he could ensure the survival of Behenna’s Boats, but these were dangerous times for the fishing industry – in Cornwall in particular – and no one could predict what was going to happen. The mood in the harbour was one of doom and gloom, and every week it seemed as if more boats were being decommissioned after desperate fishermen had taken the EU grant and allowed their boats to be broken up in the name of keeping the UK’s quotas. It defied belief, and he knew that his own father would be turning in his grave to see the parlous state that things had reached.
But, if Behenna’s Boats and Clovelly’s Fisheries merged, his father’s legacy would be secured, for now at least, and Jesse would have a future. But was he condemning Jesse to a life with that skinny Greer? He shook his head – it was the 1980s, for God’s sake, not the 1580s and he had no power to make Jesse do anything. He felt a flash of anger at his own indecision. Damn it – why did all of this make him feel like he was selling Jesse to the bloody Clovellys?
‘You’m a bleddy old fool,’ he told himself. The envelope of cash was also preying on his mind. He could still give it back, couldn’t he?
He’d get this haul home and tell Bryn Clovelly to get stuffed, that’s what he’d do. Relieved to have made a decision at last, he turned his concentration to the job in hand.
It was a good night. Each haul on both boats was teeming with good fish. Sole and Dover sole, mostly. These would sell like hot cakes to London chefs, who fed them to their overstuffed clients for a fortune.
Down in the hold, in the fish room, the crew were working in well-drilled harmony. The fish were sorted, gutted, washed and placed in boxes of ice ready to be landed for the market. The smell of fish guts was usurped by the gleam in every man’s eye. This was a good haul, and they knew they would be well rewarded when they got it back to Trevay.
*
Bryn Clovelly caught the mooring rope that Edward threw over to him. ‘I hear you had a good trip,’ Bryn called, tying the rope to an ancient metal ring set into the harbour wall.
‘Aye.’
‘What have you got for me?’
‘Some good Dover sole and plaice.’
‘Not so much call for either at the moment,’ shrugged Bryn, giving a hand to Edward as he stepped off the boat and onto the first dry land he’d seen for seven long days. Edward was not in the mood for haggling.
‘Don’t give me any of that old shit, Bryn. There’s always call for Dover sole from those lah-di-bleddy-dah London types.’
Bryn shrugged again. ‘I’ll make my mind up when I see the catch.’
The crews of The Lobster Pot and Our Mermaid hoisted the fish boxes out of the hold and onto the quayside. There were plenty of them, and Edward could see Bryn’s eyes darting over them and making calculations. He held out his hand to Edward and gave him a figure. ‘Shake on it. You’ll not get a better price.’
Bryn had not mentioned the sweetener and neither had Edward, but it hung there between the two men.
Edward was no fool and he held his nerve; he’d agreed to nothing as yet. Keeping his hands in his pockets, he started the negotiations.
At last a figure was agreed on and they shook hands, each man regarding the other steadily. ‘I’d have given you more,’ said Bryn wryly, ‘if I knew that Clovelly and Behenna were destined to be one company.’
Edward pursed his lips and thought for a moment. ‘If I knew that the deal was only between you and me and that it had nothing to do with your Greer and my Jesse, I might just say yes. Jesse is his own man, Bryn. He’ll do as he likes.’
‘You’re a good negotiator, Edward, with strong powers of persuasion. You’ll sway him.’
Edward said nothing, but he saw a glint in Bryn Clovelly’s eyes – and it looked worryingly like victory.
‘I need to know that Clovelly’s has a future,’ said Bryn. ‘I need to know that I am passing it onto the next generation of my bloodline. I want my grandchildren to carry on the name of Clovelly. If Greer and Jesse were to marry, that would happen. But if you can’t see your way to giving your son a helping hand in the world, then there are plenty of boat owners – with unmarried sons – on this coast who will.’
6
The postman, never knowingly uninterested in people’s business, was enjoying his morning. It was that day in August when, around the country, exam results were dropping through letterboxes, anxious pupils waiting on the other side, braced for what news they might bring. The postman always took it upon himself to hand-deliver the envelopes in Trevay – whether he was conveying good news or bad, he wanted to pass it to the addressee personally.
Today he’d witnessed four people in tears (three of them mothers) and received two hugs of joy. No one had yet offered him a brew, and he could do with one. He was driving from the small modern housing estate at the top of Trevay, down the hill towards the old town and the sea. He pulled on the plastic sun visor to shield his eyes from the glare of the early morning light glinting off the water in the estuary. He turned right onto the posh road where the white stucco executive bungalows sat with their unfettered view of the river, the harbour and the open sea beyond. Each home was surrounded by a generous plot of land, either planted with palm trees, china-blue hydrangeas, large mounds of pampas grass or a selection of all three.
He stopped his van at Bryn and Elizabeth Clovelly’s conspicuously expensive bungalow, unimaginatively named Brybeth. He sorted through the bundles of post. He was looking for one with Greer Clovelly’s name on it. He found an electricity bill, a Cellophaned edition of Golfer’s Monthly and a letter from the DVLA (all addressed to Mr B. Clovelly), a postcard from Scotland (addressed to Mrs E. Clovelly) and finally a plain envelope addressed to Miss Greer Clovelly with a Truro postmark. He got out of his van and walked with dignified purpose towards their front door.
Greer was lying in bed listening to the radio. Kim Wilde was singing ‘You Keep Me Hangin’ On’. As usual Greer was thinking about Jesse. She didn’t hear the doorbell ring or the bustle of her mother coming from the rear kitchen to the front door. But she did hear her mother calling her name.
‘Greer. The postman has a delivery for you.’
‘What is it?’ she called back.
‘Something you’ve been waiting for.’ Her mother was using her singsong voice.
Greer sat up quickly. ‘Is it my exam results?’ She didn’t listen for the answer as she leapt out of bed, grabbed her Snoopy dressing gown, a cherished Christmas present from Loveday, Mickey and more especially Jesse, and dashed down the hall to the open front door.
She thanked the postman and slid her thumb under the flap of the envelope. Her hands shook a little as she took out the letter inside and unfolded it.
The look on her face told the postman all he needed to know. He hung about briefly in case there was a congratulatory cup of coffee to be offered, but when it wasn’t he set off, desperate to spread the news.
Bryn stood at the kitchen table and read the letter through again. ‘You passed! Ten O levels. My God, Greer, I’m proud of you.’
‘Thank you, Daddy.’
‘Ten! That’s ten more than you and me, eh, Elizabeth?’
‘It certainly is. Oh, Greer, we are proud of you.’
‘This means I can go to sixth-form college and do my art and design A level.’
Her father sat down opposite her and, pushing his reading glasses onto the top of his head, adopted a patient tone. ‘How about getting a good secretarial qualification? Hmm? Secretaries are always needed. Good ones, anyway. They are the oil of the engine in any business. And when you get married, you won’t need to work. You’ll be looked after by your husband, while you look after your home and your family. Like Mum.’
Greer looked at her father in exasperation.
‘I want to be an interior designer, and a wife and mum.’
‘Well, I’d like to be a professional golfer, but we all have to be realistic.’
‘I am being realistic. Lots of women have jobs these days and bring up a family.’
‘You’re talking about those lah-di-dah city types with posh nannies and banker husbands. It’s different here.’
‘And who says I can’t be a lah-di-dah city type?’ she countered mutinously.
Her father glowered at her. Greer chewed her lip and there was a strained silence. She knew it was pointless to provoke her father, but she consoled herself with the thought that he’d have to stop treating her like a child one day.
Her mother went to the bread bin and sliced two pieces of granary bread before popping them in the toaster. She was thinking of how best to back Greer without antagonising her dinosaur, chauvinist husband.
‘I think she’d make a very good interior designer, Bryn,’ she said quietly. ‘Look what she’s done with her bedroom. And interior designers can charge the earth for their services. She has good taste, and people are prepared to pay for good taste.’
Bryn shook his head dismissively. ‘A fool and his money are easily parted.’
*
‘Mum!’ Loveday was bouncing uncontrollably round the tiny stone-flagged hall of the cottage she shared with her mother. ‘Mum! I got seven! And an A for maths!’ She flung herself into her mother’s arms and jigged them both up and down on the spot. ‘Can you believe it, Mum?’
Beryl Carter managed to extricate herself from her daughter and, panting, said, ‘Oh, my darlin’ girl, you done so well! Your dad would be proud of you and no mistake. Seven! You’ll be going to university at this rate.’
Loveday stopped jumping and pulled her mother into a giant bear hug. ‘Mum, I’m not leaving you. I’m going to get a job and bring some good money into the house. I’m going to look after you properly. The way Dad would’ve.’
‘No,’ Beryl told her firmly, pulling herself out of Loveday’s grip again. ‘You’m not giving up your future for me. I can look after myself. You get out and see the world. You could be a doctor or … or … a professor or something.’
‘Not with only seven O levels,’ laughed Loveday. ‘And what do I want to see the world for? I’m happy in Trevay with you and Greer and Jesse and Mickey.’ A thought suddenly struck her. ‘I’ll ask if there’s a job going at Jesse’s dad’s or Greer’s dad’s. I’ll work as hard as they like. Harder than anyone they know.’
*
Jan Behenna took the envelope from the odious postman and propped it against the teapot on the kitchen table. She prayed Jesse had done well. She wanted him to be happy and fulfil his dreams, whatever they were. If that meant emigrating to Australia, so be it. She’d barely left Cornwall herself, let alone the United Kingdom. If Jesse went to Australia, Jan could apply for a passport and fly on an aeroplane. She’d have the chance to see the Sydney Harbour Bridge. She sighed as she dreamt of Jesse’s future. The one thing she didn’t want for him was to be pushed into a marriage of convenience to Greer bloody Clovelly and her jumped-up family.
‘Morning, Ma.’ Grant came into the kitchen; he’d come home for the weekend and looked better than he had for ages. His hair was shaved close and neat and, despite being out last night drinking with his old Trevay mates, he was up bright and early this morning and looked none the worse for it. It was early days, but Jan hoped that life in the army was giving the boy the discipline he sorely needed. She fervently prayed that he’d turned a corner and was putting his old ways behind him.
Movement upstairs signalled that Jesse was awake. He and Edward had come home from a long fishing trip the night before and he was only now stirring, the smell of eggs and bacon wafting up from the kitchen as good as any alarm clock.
Jesse entered, naked except for his boxers. He hadn’t known Grant was due a visit home, and the sight of his brother grinning at him from the breakfast table wasn’t an entirely welcome one.
‘All right, Grant.’
‘Hello, little brother.’ Grant ruffled Jesse’s hair roughly and Jesse jerked his head away quickly.
‘Get off.’
‘Oo-er, someone’s a bit touchy today. That Loveday Carter not let you ’ave a feel of ’er big tits yet?’
Jesse stiffened. Jan could sense the tension between them and tried to head it off at the pass.
‘Grant, leave Jesse be, he doesn’t need your teasing this morning. Here, Jesse.’ She handed him the envelope.
Jesse could have done without Grant being there while he opened the letter. Whether the news was good or bad, his brother would find some way of goading or mocking him for it.
‘Go on, son, open it,’ his mother said encouragingly.
Jesse looked from her to the letter. Would any of the contents make the blindest bit of difference to his future? He doubted it. Behenna’s Boats beckoned and there wasn’t much in this letter could change that.
He ripped open the envelope and eyed the contents.
‘Well?’ Jan asked anxiously.
A grin spread across Jesse’s face. Six O levels. He’d failed at geography and a couple of others, but all of the key subjects were there.
‘I got six!’
‘Oh, well done, son!’ Jan embraced him warmly and Jesse tried not to squirm. ‘Enough for college, are they?’
Grant sneered. ‘College? What – our Jesse a college boy, with all those other little stuck-up snivellers.’
‘Fuck off, Grant. Just because you were too busy getting in trouble and never got anything.’
‘College is just for nancy boys too shit-scared to do a proper man’s job.’ He shovelled a mouthful of bacon and eggs into his mouth.
‘Grant, stop winding Jesse up and, Jesse, mind your language at the table, please.’
‘I’m going out on the boats with Dad,’ Jesse announced, in a bid to put an end to both his mother and Grant’s speculation.
‘You don’t have to decide now, Jesse,’ his mother told him. ‘Wait until after the summer and see how you feel then.’
‘Anyway,’ said Grant, talking through his mouthful of food, ‘Dad’s got Jesse’s future all sewn up, ain’t that right? You’re going to be the family whore!’ He let out a snort of laughter and continued to shovel in the last few forkfuls of his breakfast.
Jesse felt the urge to get as far and as fast away from Grant as possible. He stood and headed towards the kitchen door.
‘But, Jesse, your breakfast?’ his mother called after him.
‘Not hungry, Mum.’ Jesse leapt up the hallway stairs two at a time, still with Grant’s spiteful laughter ringing in his ears.
*
Mickey wasn’t surprised by his results. He sat up in bed as his mum brought the envelope to him with a mug of tea.
‘B for technical drawing and physics, C for maths, English and history, and the rest I failed.’
His mum was thrilled, and said so. ‘How many is that you got, then?’
‘Five.’
‘Five,’ she said with relish. ‘Five O levels. You’m bleddy Einstein, boy.’
The phone in the hall started to ring. Annie Chandler gave her son a last pat on the leg and went downstairs to answer it. Mickey listened, still looking at his results letter with satisfaction.
‘’Ello? …’Ello, Jesse. How did you do in your … Did you? Well done, boy … yes, Mickey’s got his … five, yeah … shall I put ’im on?… Just a minute.’ Mickey didn’t need to be called; he was already coming down the stairs two at a time and took the phone receiver from his mother.
‘What you got, Jesse?’
‘Six. I can’t believe it!’
‘You bleddy swot.’
Jesse laughed. ‘You did all right, didn’t you? Five!’
‘Yeah.’ Mickey couldn’t help smiling to himself. ‘Yeah. Bleddy five O levels.’
*
‘Mum. Please,’ Greer was pleading. ‘I know it’s kind of Dad, but I don’t want to go out to dinner tonight.’
‘You’re not going to the Golden Hind and that’s an end to it.’ Her mother’s voice was muffled as she dragged the vacuum cleaner out of the understairs cupboard.
‘But everyone’s going and I want to be with my friends.’
‘No.’ Her mother unwound the cable from the back of the cleaner’s handle. ‘Your dad and I want to celebrate as a family.’ She handed Greer the plug end. ‘Put this in, would you?’
Greer did as she was told but wouldn’t give up. ‘Well, can we go out early? So that I can finish and get down to see everybody after we’ve eaten?’
But her mother had already drowned her out with the roar of the machine.
Greer went to her room seething with frustration. She’d been everything a daughter should be to her family. She was thoughtful, obedient, clever. She always looked her best and watched her figure. She never asked for anything. Well, she didn’t need to; her parents gave her everything before she asked. And now, here she was, almost 17, and they wouldn’t let her go out on the most important night of her life.
Loveday had phoned an hour ago and told her her results. Greer was pleased for her, but even happier that she had done better. Loveday had asked her to come down to Figgotty’s – a locals’ beach. No holiday-maker ventured there; it had such a steep descent that no buggy or grandma would be able to get down to it or, if they did, up from it again.
‘We’re taking some pasties,’ Loveday had told her.
‘Who’s we?’ Greer had asked.
‘About eight of us.’
‘Is Jesse going?’ Greer had hated herself for asking, so she added hastily, ‘And Mickey?’
‘Course they are. It was Jesse’s idea. He told me to call you.’
‘Did he?’ Greer hugged herself. ‘Hang on, I’ll just ask Mum.’ A few moments later she was back on the line, almost in tears. ‘My mum won’t let me. She wants me to go into Truro with her.’
‘Never mind.’ Loveday had suddenly felt sorry for her friend. ‘Maybe you can come tonight?’ she’d suggested. ‘The pub’s doing an “exam result special” night. There’s a hog roast in the beer garden and a DJ.’
But now Greer’s mum had categorically said no.
*
‘Buona sera, Signor Clovelly.’ Antonio, chef proprietor of the eponymously named Italian restaurant greeted Bryn with his arms wide and a dusting of pizza flour on his cheek.
‘Good to see you, Antonio. How’s the golf?’ Bryn and Antonio were cronies both at the golf club and in the local Masonic Lodge.
Antonio was taking Elizabeth’s wrap from her shoulders and replied in his heavily accented English, ‘I am playing offa sixteen.’ He shrugged. ‘But if I had more time, I could be closer to you. What you playing offa now?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Twelve? My God, you musta never be at work? Sì?’
The two men laughed and then Antonio saw Greer standing hunched and miserable in the doorway. He stepped towards her, holding his arms out wide again. ‘Look at leetle Greer! All-a grown up.’ He inclined his head to one side and brought his hands together as if in prayer. ‘But you are a beautiful young woman now!’
