Fern Britton 3-Book Collection: The Holiday Home, A Seaside Affair, A Good Catch. Fern Britton
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from their rocky ledge into the sea.
‘Seals!’ Belinda laughed.
Dorothy patted her hand. ‘We might be lucky and see the dolphins.’
‘Really?’
Dorothy nodded as she tied a cotton spotted handkerchief over her hair. ‘If we’re lucky!’
Now that they were clear of the rocks, Henry gently opened the throttle. Within moments they were bouncing over the waves with the wind in their faces.
Belinda trailed her hand overboard so that her fingers were in the water. ‘This is heavenly!’ she shouted above the engine.
Henry was in his element. The Dorothy always had this effect on him; it was as if all anxious thoughts were whipped away by the breeze and scattered in the turbulent wake behind him. He took them out to sea and round a small island that was home to a reasonably large seal colony. He slowed the engine and let it idle as Belinda foraged for her camera and took photos.
The weather was fine and the sea flat. ‘Would you like to pop across to Trevay?’
Dorothy shook her head. ‘No, let’s go to Shellsand Bay. We can eat Belinda’s picnic.’
‘Righto, Number One.’ He pushed the throttle on again and for the next twenty minutes they raced and bounced the waves to Shellsand Bay.
He dropped anchor just offshore and the three of them sat in the comfortable leather seats munching the houmous salad wraps and sticky slices of flapjack that Belinda had made.
‘I love the sea,’ she said. ‘I grew up on the South Coast and loved going on day trips with my mum. Brighton was my favourite; it was always so busy and full of life. The pier scared me, though. I didn’t like seeing the water between the planks.’
‘Is your mother still alive?’ asked Dorothy.
‘No, she died just over a year ago. She’d suffered a massive stroke that left her almost paralysed. It meant she had to go into a nursing home, because she was unable to do anything for herself. But she still had all of her marbles, which made it so much harder to bear.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dorothy.
‘Not your fault,’ said Belinda, taking a bite of flapjack.
‘What about your father?’ asked Henry.
‘I don’t remember much about him. He walked out when I was a baby. I found some bits and pieces about him in Mum’s papers. I’ve been wondering about tracking him down.’
‘What did he do for a living?’ asked Henry, reaching for his second piece of flapjack.
Belinda looked at him steadily. ‘Mum never told me.’
‘Where did you grow up?’ asked Dorothy.
‘Pevensey Bay. We had a little flat just off the seafront. My mum was very beautiful. She had a few boyfriends in her time. They helped her with money, I suspect, but she worked in T J Hughes, the old department store. On the cosmetics counter.’
‘Where was her nursing home?’
‘Oh, in Eastbourne – God’s waiting room.’ Belinda gave a rueful smile and started to pack up bits of sandwich bag and tinfoil.
Dorothy thought about her own family. ‘It must have been horrible for you all.’
‘Yeah. It was … Is.’ Belinda shrugged and put on a smile. ‘But life is what it is. Me and Emily, Brett and Steve – we’re OK.’ She gave a laugh. ‘And get me: sitting on a swanky speedboat with one of the most handsome captains in Cornwall! Can it get any better?’
*
Connie was reversing into a perilous parking space on the edge of a quay next to the River Fal. Greg was blocking her view as he turned to see what she might hit.
‘For God’s sake, woman, there’s a bollard behind us.’
‘I know, and I could see it better if you sat back in your seat and let me park. That big head of yours is not see-through, you know.’
She moved forward a little and then slid back into the space.
‘Bloody hell, Connie, there’s a thirty-foot drop behind us!’ Greg yelled, making her jump.
She stamped on the brake and shouted back: ‘I’m doing you a favour, you stupid man. I don’t want Abi to have a bloody boat for her birthday, but I have brought you here because you have a broken arm and I’m trying to be nice! OK?’
A youngish man in faded red cotton shorts with a navy blue jumper was coming towards them. They both immediately plastered on their best fake smiles.
Connie got out. ‘Hello! You must be Peter. I’m Mrs Wilson and this –’ she waved vaguely to where Greg was struggling to get out of the car – ‘is my husband.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ Peter shook her hand and that of the advancing Greg. ‘I’ve got a super little boat for you. Perfect for your daughter. Come and have a look.’
The small grey RIB was bobbing gaily on the water. Peter handed Connie and then Greg into it.
‘You sit here in the front seat, Mrs Wilson and your husband and I will sit behind the console while I take her out.’
The men discussed torque and trim and engines and stuff while Connie enjoyed her comfortable seat and view of Falmouth from the water.
‘Why’s it called a rib?’ she ventured.
Greg tutted and said impatiently, ‘Rigid Inflatable Boat. It’s got a rigid hull and blow-up sides. I thought you’d know that.’
Peter added more kindly, ‘Many people ask the same question, don’t worry. It makes the boat very light and easy to handle.’
‘What happens if you get a puncture?’ asked Connie.
‘You have to be careful of barnacles and such, but you can get it fixed.’
Connie would have liked to ask more, but Greg was monopolising Peter’s attention again.
Later, as they left the sales office with their invoice and a promise that the boat would be delivered in time for Abi’s birthday, Greg was buoyant.
‘What a little corker we’ve got there. Perfect for the family.’
‘It’s Abi’s, not the family’s,’ said Connie, opening the door for Greg and helping him in.
‘Of course it’s Abi’s,’ he snapped. ‘But while she’s at uni it’ll need to be taken out and used.’ He fixed his seat belt in place. ‘Great name, though, eh? Am I genius or what?’
‘It’s OK,’ said Connie, starting up the engine.
‘OK? It’s genius. Abi’s Gale – she’ll love it.’
*
‘What shall we get for Abi’s birthday?’ Dorothy asked Henry over a lunchtime prawn sandwich in their local pub.
‘Money. That’s what she wants.’
‘Too boring. I’d like to give her some jewellery. It’s a custom for grandmothers to pass their engagement rings to their granddaughters.’
Henry ignored this and continued eating.
‘If I had an engagement ring to give. Or a wedding ring,’ needled Dorothy.
‘Good God, woman. You are my wife. There has never been anyone can hold a candle to you.’
Dorothy rounded on him. ‘Oh, I’m your wife, am I?’
Henry put his hand to his forehead and winced. ‘You know what I mean. In every sense that matters, you are my wife.’
‘Except in the sense that really matters.’