many kids? Four and a half, at the last count. They must be nuts.
He suppressed a flicker of something that couldn’t possibly be envy and drove round the corner towards his rather more modest childhood home, a solidly respectable, warm and homely three storey half-timbered Edwardian house full of nooks and crannies for a child to hide in. He knew. He’d spent his childhood hiding in them and infuriating his sister because she couldn’t track him down.
He gave a hollow little laugh. Nothing different there, then.
He scanned the house and felt a pang of homesickness that took him by surprise.
It looked good. Freshly painted, the garden carefully tended, and his father, looking as solid and dependable as ever, was standing in the front garden with a slender, grey-haired woman who was smiling up at him with love in her eyes.
Not that he could see her eyes, but he hardly needed to. The body language said everything, but she wasn’t his mother and it seemed—wrong?
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he muttered, and kept right on past them, his heart thumping. Why shouldn’t his father find happiness? Just because his own life had taken a sharp and rather vicious downward turn didn’t mean his father didn’t deserve to be happy.
Without thinking about it, he found himself driving out of town and down the winding lane through the golf course to the little community at the mouth of the river where he’d spent every available moment as a child.
Unlike the main town, the harbour hadn’t changed a bit.
Or had it?
Sailing boats were pulled up on the shingle bank beside the quay as always, and there were cars parked outside the pub beside the little green, but the Harbour Inn looked as if it had undergone a revamp, like many of the houses at the smarter end. Nothing drastic, just the subtle evidence of a little more cash injected into the neighbourhood.
The harbour was a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde, torn between the fishermen and the yachties, the pub marking the dividing line; the smart houses in their fresh new paint were clustered together at one end and at the other, down near the ferry slipway and the entrance to the boatyard, the higgledy-piggledy collection of old wooden bungalows and huts and sheds that made up the rest of the little community were clustered round the scruffy but bustling café that hadn’t seen a coat of paint in years.
It had sold the best fish and chips in town, though, he remembered, and he’d bet it still did.
He parked the car on the quay—pay and display now, he noticed, and realised he didn’t have a single coin of English money. Oh, what the hell. It was the end of April. Who was going to check on him?
But, just in case, he went over to the café, bought a cup of coffee in a foam cup and put the change in the meter, stuck the ticket in his windscreen and went for a wander while his coffee cooled.
And saw other changes. A new chandlery, some very expensive craft tied up to the moorings in the river, a new clubhouse for the yacht club—all sorts of changes, but the old ferry was still tied up to the jetty, and there was a pile of lobster pots and nets heaped against the fish shack. They were probably the same ones that had been there in his youth.
He turned a little sharply, and winced. God, his leg hurt after the flight. He stretched, flexed his knee, limping slightly as he reached the jetty and stood there, breathing in the familiar air.
‘Davey?’
He turned his head, incredulous. ‘Bob? Hell, you’re still here?’ he said with a laugh, and found himself engulfed in a hug that smelt of sweat and tar and bilge water, with more than a lingering trace of fish. It was the most welcome hug he’d had in years, and he blinked hard and stood back, studying the wrinkled, sun-trammelled face of the old harbour master, those shrewd eyes still brilliant blue and seeing altogether too much.
‘They said you were coming home for the wedding. Your sister didn’t believe it, but I knew you wouldn’t let the old man down.’ He jerked his head at David’s feet. ‘So what’s this limp then?’
He shrugged and grinned. ‘Nothing. A bit of bother with a propeller.’
Bob winced. ‘Would have thought you’d know better than to do something daft like that,’ he said gruffly.
David didn’t bother to explain. Where to start? Or end, more to the point. That was the hard bit. He looked around. ‘Don’t suppose there’s anywhere round here to rent for a few weeks, is there? I don’t fancy a hotel.’
‘Not going home to stay? That’ll hurt, Davey. He’ll be expecting you.’
He shook his head at the old man. ‘I need my space, Bob, and so does he. Anyway, he’s got better things to do than entertain me.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do.’
Bob nodded thoughtfully, then he jerked his head towards the posher end. ‘You could try Molly Blythe. She takes paying guests sometimes. I don’t know if she’s up and running yet for the summer season, but it’s worth a try. Up there—the little white place at the end—Thrift Cottage. Molly’ll look after you if she can, and I know she can use the money right now. Just go and bang on the door. The kid’ll be around if she isn’t. I saw him heading back that way a little while ago. He’s been crabbing off the jetty.’
Crabbing. Hell, he hadn’t been crabbing in an English river for—well, for ever, and even the word was enough to bring the lump back to his throat.
He thanked Bob, drained the coffee and walked along the sea wall to the house Bob had pointed out, past the coastguard cottages and the little church, past the smart houses with the flashy cars, and, at the end of the cluster, set slightly apart from the others, was a pretty little white cottage set in a chaotic and colourful garden that looked as untended as the house.
There was a sign outside that said, ‘Bed and Breakfast’, but it was tired and peeling and faded with the sun. That didn’t bode well, and he could see, now he was close up, that the sign was just a reflection of the rest of the property. The barge boards were flaking, the garden was overgrown and the rose on the front wall was toppling gently over into the shrubs beneath, taking the drainpipe with it.
Thrift Cottage, indeed. It didn’t look as if anyone had spent anything on it for years, with the exception of the roof, which had new windows in it. Perhaps it was in the process of being done up—hence her need for money. He wondered what the neatly trimmed neighbours thought of Molly Blythe and her scruffy little house.
Not a lot, probably.
He went through the front gate that hung at a crazy angle on its tired hinges, walked up the steps to the door and rang the bell.
‘The bell doesn’t work. Who are you?’
He turned and studied the tow-haired, freckled child sitting cross-legged on the grass and studying him back with wide, innocent eyes. ‘I’m David. Who are you?’
‘Charlie. What do you want?’
His tone was simply curious, and David relaxed. ‘I’m looking for somewhere to stay. Bob told me to come and find Molly—’
But he was up, legs no thicker than knotted rope flying
