me thinking that I was working my fingers to the bone for the honour of serving the Watling family.’
Harry watched him wander off and suddenly felt very lonely. Perhaps she did expect too much of him? Despite his occasional grumbles, George was in extraordinarily good health for someone who’d been torpedoed in the war, had drunk like a fish for many years afterwards and still believed that smoking cleared his lungs. Perhaps it was time he had an easier life?
She felt really guilty about him by the time she returned to her boathouse. Her bedroom was usually a safe haven where she didn’t have to keep up the tough, capable face she wore at work. The cream-painted wrought-iron Victorian bedstead had refused to be ignored when she’d spotted it in one of Little Spitmarsh’s junk shops; she’d sneaked it home before anyone could laugh and wonder what Harry Watling was doing with something so unashamedly romantic and feminine. Now, with its goose-down quilt and the best bed linen she could afford, it was the place where she could dream or cry and not have to pretend to be the toughest girl in the class.
The trouble was that her safe haven didn’t feel quite as secure as it used to. Plenty of hard physical work and an unwavering confidence in her own abilities had once meant that nothing woke her up, except her own sixth sense tuning into a change for the worse in the weather or a potential problem in the yard. But, increasingly, doubts and anxieties were crowding in on her. Tonight she was worried that George’s years of self-destruction would suddenly catch up with him. He was all she had and, if anything happened to him, it would be her fault for not making enough money for him to retire in comfort. Not that his caravan was her idea of comfort; but God knows how many times she’d offered him better accommodation and he’d turned it down with a protest of ‘All I need is a dry bed and a tight deckhead, Miss Harriet.’ Stubborn old bugger.
Eventually Harry gave up trying to sleep and reached for the photo she kept on the pale-blue painted cabinet beside her. With his shaggy, sun-bleached surfer hair, blue eyes crinkling in the light, her dad seemed forever young. A big man, there were many ways in which Harry Watling senior had acted up to his larger-than-life image. Yet there was a quieter side to his personality. He read widely, and especially loved travel stories and poetry; and he was fascinated by Far Eastern culture, from his days skippering charter trips in the Indian Ocean. It would have surprised anyone only familiar with the man who, perhaps with precognition, lived each day as if it were his last.
A fleeting sensation came to her mind, of being swept off her feet and onto her father’s shoulders. The giddy excitement of being held high, the sound of her mother’s protests fading away, wind in her face and fear making her breathless as her father picked up speed. That reckless enthusiasm for life might have clouded his judgement about priorities at times; and certainly the size of his debts had been unexpected and worrying. But Harry was quite sure that everything would have been repaid if only he hadn’t died so tragically young. Leaving his wife and child with such a financial burden had surely been unintentional. In her memory her father had never worried much about tomorrow. Harry hadn’t inherited his confidence, but she had inherited his boat yard and, unless she found new customers to keep it afloat, she would lose the little she had left of him.
Unlike his shed, which was his daytime retreat and filled with the detritus of his everyday life, George’s caravan huddled by the waterside and was shipshape to the point of austerity. He’d had plenty of time to discover what was really important and it wasn’t possessions. Leaving his coat and boots by the door, George poured himself a glass of water and crossed the dimly lit room to prepare for bed. His body ached, but his head was full of the
Harry watched him wander off and suddenly felt very lonely. Perhaps she did expect too much of him? Despite his occasional grumbles, George was in extraordinarily good health for someone who’d been torpedoed in the war, had drunk like a fish for many years afterwards and still believed that smoking cleared his lungs. Perhaps it was time he had an easier life?
She felt really guilty about him by the time she returned to her boathouse. Her bedroom was usually a safe haven where she didn’t have to keep up the tough, capable face she wore at work. The cream-painted wrought-iron Victorian bedstead had refused to be ignored when she’d spotted it in one of Little Spitmarsh’s junk shops; she’d sneaked it home before anyone could laugh and wonder what Harry Watling was doing with something so unashamedly romantic and feminine. Now, with its goose-down quilt and the best bed linen she could afford, it was the place where she could dream or cry and not have to pretend to be the toughest girl in the class.
The trouble was that her safe haven didn’t feel quite as secure as it used to. Plenty of hard physical work and an unwavering confidence in her own abilities had once meant that nothing woke her up, except her own sixth sense tuning into a change for the worse in the weather or a potential problem in the yard. But, increasingly, doubts and anxieties were crowding in on her. Tonight she was worried that George’s years of self-destruction would suddenly catch up with him. He was all she had and, if anything happened to him, it would be her fault for not making enough money for him to retire in comfort. Not that his caravan was her idea of comfort; but God knows how many times she’d offered him better accommodation and he’d turned it down with a protest of ‘All I need is a dry bed and a tight deckhead, Miss Harriet.’ Stubborn old bugger.
Eventually Harry gave up trying to sleep and reached for the photo she kept on the pale-blue painted cabinet beside her. With his shaggy, sun-bleached surfer hair, blue eyes crinkling in the light, her dad seemed forever young. A big man, there were many ways in which Harry Watling senior had acted up to his larger-than-life image. Yet there was a quieter side to his personality. He read widely, and especially loved travel stories and poetry; and he was fascinated by Far Eastern culture, from his days skippering charter trips in the Indian Ocean. It would have surprised anyone only familiar with the man who, perhaps with precognition, lived each day as if it were his last.
A fleeting sensation came to her mind, of being swept off her feet and onto her father’s shoulders. The giddy excitement of being held high, the sound of her mother’s protests fading away, wind in her face and fear making her breathless as her father picked up speed. That reckless enthusiasm for life might have clouded his judgement about priorities at times; and certainly the size of his debts had been unexpected and worrying. But Harry was quite sure that everything would have been repaid if only he hadn’t died so tragically young. Leaving his wife and child with such a financial burden had surely been unintentional. In her memory her father had never worried much about tomorrow. Harry hadn’t inherited his confidence, but she had inherited his boat yard and, unless she found new customers to keep it afloat, she would lose the little she had left of him.
Unlike his shed, which was his daytime retreat and filled with the detritus of his everyday life, George’s caravan huddled by the waterside and was shipshape to the point of austerity. He’d had plenty of time to discover what was really important and it wasn’t possessions. Leaving his coat and boots by the door, George poured himself a glass of water and crossed the dimly lit room to prepare for bed. His body ached, but his head was full of the
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