older version of Mickey was standing on the foredeck drinking a mug of tea. ‘’Ello, son! Where the ’ell ’ave you bin? You’re too late to help me. I’m all finished.’
‘Sorry, Dad.’
Mr Chandler put down his mug and helped Loveday onto the boat. ‘Thank you, Mr Chandler.’
‘’Tis all right, maid.’ Alfie Chandler was very fond of Loveday. She was warm, down to earth and undeniably sexy. A girl he’d be happy to call daughter-in-law. He hoped that Mickey would make his move before someone else came on the scene; there were many young lads who would bite their own arms off to get close to Loveday – he certainly would’ve done at Mickey’s age.
‘Hello, Mr Chandler.’ Greer was holding out her hand to him. ‘Would you help me aboard?’
‘Certainly.’ Alfie offered her his grimy and calloused hand. He couldn’t deny that she was a looker, but she was too bony and prim for his taste. Poor Jesse Behenna. He was caught in a net, whether he knew it or not. Bryn Clovelly and Ed Behenna would make sure of that.
Alfie leant into the wheelhouse and put his mug on a wooden ledge. ‘Right, you young ’uns. Tide’s flooding in now and you should get some good mackerel off the side.’
‘Cheers, Dad.’ Mickey gave him a short embrace.
‘Don’t be home too late or your ma will be worried.’
‘We won’t.’
Alfie stepped off the boat. Without a backward glance he walked off along the harbour wall that led straight to the Golden Hind and its welcoming bar.
‘What you got in the picnic basket, Loveday?’ asked Mickey, rubbing his hands.
‘You’re always hungry!’ Loveday swatted him away. ‘How do you stay so skinny?’
Greer and Loveday unpacked a checked tablecloth that Elizabeth had thoughtfully put in, and placed the Tupperware boxes of crab, potato salad and tomatoes on the cloth.
Jesse pulled out of his fishing bag four pasties and six tins of cider; certain proof that Donna from the Spar shop might be two years older than Jesse but that she definitely fancied him rotten.
After they’d eaten (Greer had picked at the salad and declined her pasty so Loveday had had it instead), the boys set up their fishing rods. The sun slowly dropped towards the horizon and gave a final fiery blaze before sinking into the sea. Greer, who was watching Jesse bait the large hook on his line, shivered at the sudden chill. He looked up.
‘You cold, Greer?’
‘I am a bit.’
‘Come here.’ Amiably, he opened an arm up to her and she tentatively let him put it around her. She was enclosed between his arms as he held the fishing rod. She could feel his chest moving in and out as he breathed. Conversely, she held her breath, in fear of actually touching him more closely.
A tug on the line disturbed the moment and he lifted an arm over her head, letting her out of the enclosure. ‘Want to reel this one in?’ he asked.
‘Show me how.’
He handed her the rod and instructed her gently on how to wind in the reel. The flapping mackerel broke the surface. ‘I don’t like this bit,’ she said.
‘And you a fisherman’s daughter!’ He laughed kindly. ‘You’d never make a fisherman’s wife.’
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
