Little Kiosk By The Sea Read online

  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 nec
essary. 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

  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 he
rself 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.