Читать книгу A Good Catch: The perfect Cornish escape full of secrets - Fern Britton, Fern Britton - Страница 12

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 small receiver/mouthpiece from the radio set and put his thumb on the talk button.

‘Mermaid. This is Lobster Pot. Wass on? Over.’

‘Mermaid, Lobster Pot. We still headin’ for Tring Fallows? Over.’

‘Lobster Pot, Mermaid. Can you switch to channel nine? Over.’

Edward waited a minute for Alfie to swap to a channel that they could use just between themselves.

‘Lobster Pot, Mermaid. Over.’

‘Yeah, Alfie. Tring Fallows it is.’

Jesse, desperate to talk to his mate Mickey, held his hand out to his father, opening and closing his fingers in the universal code for ‘hand it over.’ Edward kept talking. ‘Is your Mickey there, Alf? Only ’is mate wants to ’ave a word.’

‘I’ll get ’im.’ They heard Alfie shout for his son as Edward passed the mouthpiece to Jesse.

Mickey’s voice came over the airwaves. ‘’Ello?’

‘Mickey, ’tis Jesse. You sleepin’ before we get to the fishin’ ground, or no?’

‘Gonna have a snout up top then I’m going to grab some zeds. You?’

‘Same. Give us a minute and I’ll be out too.’

Edward reached forward and snatched the radio from Jesse. ‘That’s enough. It ain’t for you two to make your social engagements on.’ He pressed the talk button. ‘Mickey, you still there, you great long streak of piss?’

‘Yes, Mr Behenna,’ came Mickey’s nervous voice.

‘Well fuck off and ’and me back to your dad.’

On deck the moon, although not full, was bright; its face looked down at the two trawlers as they slipped through the benign waves. Jesse, now standing in the stern of the boat, put his face to the cool wind and closed his eyes. He felt secure and peaceful. He was increasingly realising that the sea was his home; as long as he had it in his life, he knew all would be well.

Looking to starboard, and travelling at the same speed, was Our Mermaid. Jesse listened to the thrum of the engines together with the swish of the wash that they churned behind them. He could make out the tall, thin silhouette of Mickey appearing from a hatch and sparking up a cigarette.

‘Hey, Mickey,’ Jesse called over to him.

‘Hey, Jess,’ called back Mickey.

‘Can you think of anywhere else you’d rather be?’ Jesse asked his friend.

‘Inside Loveday’s knickers?’ answered Mickey truthfully.

Jesse frowned at Mickey, knowing that – at this distance and in the dark – Mickey wouldn’t be able to read his face. He didn’t like Mickey talking about Loveday like that.

Loveday was under Jesse’s skin. He’d known her since … well, forever. And he hated to hear Mickey discuss her in such crude terms. He felt protective towards Loveday. He wanted to look after her and treat her well. He felt something that he couldn’t describe; something, maybe, close to love? He pulled himself up. Love? No, not love. Not for Loveday. Loveday was Mickey’s and he’d never hurt Mickey. He was like a brother to her. He just liked her. A lot. That was all. God, no, he didn’t love her. He was going to see the world. Not settle down with the first girl he’d ever known, right here on his doorstep. Bugger that.

‘Where would you rather be then, Jesse?’ asked Mickey, sucking on his cigarette and exhaling a long plume of smoke to trail behind him.

‘I told you. Nowhere other than here.’ There was a splash behind him. He turned and shouted, ‘Look, Mick. Dolphins!’ And, sure enough, in the wake between the boats, two dolphins slipped out of the water in perfect arcs, the moonlight glistening on their skins.

‘There’s two more!’ shouted Mickey. He bent down to the open hatch on the deck and shouted, ‘Dad. Come up. Dolphins.’

Any crew member on both boats who wasn’t already sleeping, or didn’t have a drop of romance in his soul, came on deck to watch the display that the dolphins put on for them. They counted up to fifteen, although it was hard to tell if some had been counted twice. Both Alfie and Edward cut their engines and, for maybe five or ten minutes, fisherman and dolphin enjoyed each other’s company. Finally the creatures slid beneath the waves and disappeared.

A thought dawned on Edward.

‘The little fuckers’ll have our catch if we don’t get a move on.’ He moved quickly towards the wheelhouse. ‘Full steam ahead, lads.’

Jesse was nudged awake at just before midnight. He’d been dreaming of swimming with the dolphins. One of them was swimming alongside him and he reached out to stroke its side. The dolphin turned to look at him and smiled. The smile grew wider and more familiar and Jesse became aware that this was not a dolphin but Loveday. Her red hair was streaming behind her as she swam above and below him, twisting and looping in the simple joy of being with him. Streams of air bubbles danced from her as she swam, always just a little bit faster and a little bit further out of reach. ‘Come on, Jesse. Come on,’ she spoke from beneath the waves, smiling up at him. ‘Come on. Before you lose me.’

‘Wake up, mate. It’s your watch. Come on. Get up.’ Jesse opened his eyes and slowly became aware of the familiar heat and smell of the The Lobster Pot’s cramped cabin. The tired face of Aaron, who’d just finished the first watch, loomed over Jesse’s bunk. ‘Wake up, you bugger. I need some kip before we start the trawl. Get out and let me in.’ Jesse flipped back the blankets, lifted his head from the pillow and swung his legs onto the floor. Apart from taking off his boots, he hadn’t bothered to get undressed before he slept so, apart from a quick rub of his eyes, there was no time wasted. Aaron was already crawling into the warm bunk and gave Jesse a shove as he reached for the blankets. ‘Get out and let me ’ave me beauty sleep.’

‘And what time would Sir like his wake-up call?’ a yawning Jesse asked sarcastically.

‘Bugger off.’

‘As Sir wishes.’ Jesse bent down and whispered in Aaron’s ear, ‘Would Sir like a goodnight kiss?’ Aaron produced a two-fingered salute and turned over. He was already asleep by the time Jesse closed the door.

Jesse reported to his father in the wheelhouse. ‘Any news?’ he asked him.

‘Aaron spotted some boats off to starboard about half a kilometre away. Spanish, by looks of it.’

‘Shit.’

‘Aye. Seeing more and more of ’em out here. Bastards are depleting our stocks and using up the quotas. Go and make us a brew, will you?’

Jesse gladly did; he was in need of one himself to wake him up. The next two hours went quietly and they saw no more foreign boats.

On the horizon he watched the occasional tanker as it headed off for who-knew-where with its lights shining in the gloom. The hypnotic throb of the engine and the rhythmic slosh of the sea water brought on an almost meditative state. He sipped his tea and thought about his future. The places he would go, the people he would meet, the money he would earn. Once he’d done all that, if Loveday were still free, he’d come back to her and marry her. Maybe Mickey would meet someone else; marry the first girl he got up the duff, like the soft bugger he was. Yes, that’s what he’d do. He smiled, contented with his plan.

Gradually he grew aware of the engine note changing and the boat slowing. Edward leant out of the wheelhouse window and said, ‘Get the lads up and prepare the trawl.’

*

Edward looked down from his vantage point in the wheelhouse and watched as the two derricks holding the beam trawls on either side of the boat swung out from the deck and over the water. He could hear the shackles and chain links of the trawl nets rattle as they went into the water. The rubber wheels at the bottom of the nets would allow the trawl to travel smoothly on the sea bed and gather their precious haul. He’d set the engine to a gentle towing pace of around two knots. He watched Jesse, in his yellow oilskin trousers and boots, working alongside the rest of the crew. He was a good lad. A born fisherman. He wished there was another way he could ensure the survival of Behenna’s Boats, but these were dangerous times for the fishing industry – in Cornwall in particular – and no one could predict what was going to happen. The mood in the harbour was one of doom and gloom, and every week it seemed as if more boats were being decommissioned after desperate fishermen had taken the EU grant and allowed their boats to be broken up in the name of keeping the UK’s quotas. It defied belief, and he knew that his own father would be turning in his grave to see the parlous state that things had reached.

But, if Behenna’s Boats and Clovelly’s Fisheries merged, his father’s legacy would be secured, for now at least, and Jesse would have a future. But was he condemning Jesse to a life with that skinny Greer? He shook his head – it was the 1980s, for God’s sake, not the 1580s and he had no power to make Jesse do anything. He felt a flash of anger at his own indecision. Damn it – why did all of this make him feel like he was selling Jesse to the bloody Clovellys?

‘You’m a bleddy old fool,’ he told himself. The envelope of cash was also preying on his mind. He could still give it back, couldn’t he?

He’d get this haul home and tell Bryn Clovelly to get stuffed, that’s what he’d do. Relieved to have made a decision at last, he turned his concentration to the job in hand.

It was a good night. Each haul on both boats was teeming with good fish. Sole and Dover sole, mostly. These would sell like hot cakes to London chefs, who fed them to their overstuffed clients for a fortune.

Down in the hold, in the fish room, the crew were working in well-drilled harmony. The fish were sorted, gutted, washed and placed in boxes of ice ready to be landed for the market. The smell of fish guts was usurped by the gleam in every man’s eye. This was a good haul, and they knew they would be well rewarded when they got it back to Trevay.

*

Bryn Clovelly caught the mooring rope that Edward threw over to him. ‘I hear you had a good trip,’ Bryn called, tying the rope to an ancient metal ring set into the harbour wall.

‘Aye.’

‘What have you got for me?’

‘Some good Dover sole and plaice.’

‘Not so much call for either at the moment,’ shrugged Bryn, giving a hand to Edward as he stepped off the boat and onto the first dry land he’d seen for seven long days. Edward was not in the mood for haggling.

‘Don’t give me any of that old shit, Bryn. There’s always call for Dover sole from those lah-di-bleddy-dah London types.’

Bryn shrugged again. ‘I’ll make my mind up when I see the catch.’

The crews of The Lobster Pot and Our Mermaid hoisted the fish boxes out of the hold and onto the quayside. There were plenty of them, and Edward could see Bryn’s eyes darting over them and making calculations. He held out his hand to Edward and gave him a figure. ‘Shake on it. You’ll not get a better price.’

Bryn had not mentioned the sweetener and neither had Edward, but it hung there between the two men.

Edward was no fool and he held his nerve; he’d agreed to nothing as yet. Keeping his hands in his pockets, he started the negotiations.

At last a figure was agreed on and they shook hands, each man regarding the other steadily. ‘I’d have given you more,’ said Bryn wryly, ‘if I knew that Clovelly and Behenna were destined to be one company.’

Edward pursed his lips and thought for a moment. ‘If I knew that the deal was only between you and me and that it had nothing to do with your Greer and my Jesse, I might just say yes. Jesse is his own man, Bryn. He’ll do as he likes.’

‘You’re a good negotiator, Edward, with strong powers of persuasion. You’ll sway him.’

Edward said nothing, but he saw a glint in Bryn Clovelly’s eyes – and it looked worryingly like victory.

‘I need to know that Clovelly’s has a future,’ said Bryn. ‘I need to know that I am passing it onto the next generation of my bloodline. I want my grandchildren to carry on the name of Clovelly. If Greer and Jesse were to marry, that would happen. But if you can’t see your way to giving your son a helping hand in the world, then there are plenty of boat owners – with unmarried sons – on this coast who will.’