Читать книгу The Little Kiosk By The Sea: A Perfect Summer Beach Read - Jennifer Bohnet - Страница 11

CHAPTER ONE

SABINE

‘Two tickets for the afternoon river trip? No problem,’ Sabine said, smiling at the young woman standing in front of the kiosk. ‘Here you go. We cast off at 2.30 today, so make sure you’re back here at least fifteen minutes before.’

‘Definitely. We’ll be here. It won’t be rough, will it?’ the girl asked as she handed over the ticket money. ‘I’m not a very good sailor. We’re down on holiday and my boy f… my husband loves boats so I thought I’d treat him.’ She looked along the embankment. ‘He’s wandered off to look at some old steam engine or something.’

‘The river will be as smooth as the proverbial baby’s bottom this afternoon,’ Sabine promised.

‘Great. I’d hate to spoil things by being sea sick.’

‘On honeymoon, are we?’ Sabine said, looking at the shiny ring on the girl’s left hand.

The girl flushed. ‘How’d you guess?’

‘Oh something to do with the way you forgot to call him your husband? You obviously haven’t had time to get used to saying it yet.’

‘Two days,’ the girl confided. She leant in. ‘We eloped.’

‘Very brave of you,’ Sabine said, smiling.

The girl shrugged. ‘Necessity rather than bravery,’ she said. ‘See you this afternoon.’

Sabine watched her walk away and join her new husband, who greeted her with a lingering kiss. ‘May married life be kind to you,’ she muttered before turning her attention back to sorting the kiosk out for the season.

Two weeks late arriving on the quay meant there’d barely been time to set up things before the first river trip of the season. Not that there was a lot to do really, but Sabine liked to have everything to hand. Ticket books, cash tin, receipt book, tide table book, chalk, mugs, foldaway chairs, kettle, bottles of water, coffee and biscuits. That just left finding space for the first four paintings of the season.

A couple of years ago, she’d discovered the tourists liked her pencil sketches of the town and the river. One quiet afternoon she’d sat in one of the canvas director’s chairs outside the kiosk and idly started to sketch the river and its boats. She’d wanted a small picture to hang in her newly decorated bathroom, with its blue and white nautical theme. A tourist collecting tickets for a boat trip had seen it and asked to buy it when finished – provided she’d sign it for him.

That initial sale had thrown her into a panic. She’d no idea what to charge for an unframed original picture. It wasn’t as if she was famous or anything – or likely to be. In the end she suggested a sum and the tourist had shaken his head at her – before giving her double what she had asked and saying, ‘You really don’t know how talented you are, do you?’

Sabine had taken the money thoughtfully. Yes, she did know she had a talent. Years ago she’d been all set to go to art college but instead had to give up her place and stay at home to help look after her mother. Something that she’d done willingly.

By the time she was free to pursue a career, the time to go to art college had passed and marriage and family life had eventually taken over. If she drew anything in the following years it was simply because she fancied doing it.

After that first, unexpected sale, she’d started to do a couple of drawings a week, surprised by how quickly they sold. These days she spent winter painting and drawing views of the town and the river, ready for summer. By the end of the season she rarely had any left. Her secret ‘just for fun’ bank account grew substantially every summer.

The one she hung now on the folded-back stable door was a firm favourite with the tourists. A pen and ink drawing of the old Butterwalk with its columns and hanging baskets, it sold well every season.

Once she was satisfied the picture was hanging straight, she stood with her back to the kiosk looking across the river and along the embankment, breathing deeply and thinking about the future. Was this really going to be the last season she’d be working in the kiosk? If the council carried out their threat at the end of summer, forcing Owen and the other boat owners to use an un-imaginative refurbished office on the other side of the road, it would be. No way could she bear the thought of working indoors all summer long. Still Owen and the Robertsons were on the case, demanding a public meeting before a decision was taken and getting up a petition.

A flash of red coming towards her caught her eye. She laughed and shook her head. Johnnie, her twin brother. The old Breton red beret sitting jauntily on his head and the folder of papers he was carrying told her instantly this morning he was on the ‘Save the Kiosk’ warpath. Five minutes later he was greeting her with his customary cheek kisses. They might have been born in the town, but their French father had ensured they knew all about their French ancestry and learnt the language. For years now, they’d spoken only French to each other in private.

‘Ça va?’

‘Oui. Et toi?’

Johnnie LeRoy nodded.

‘Haven’t seen that for a few years,’ she said, looking at the beret. ‘Thought we’d thrown it out when Papa died.’

‘Never,’ Johnnie said, shaking his head. ‘Family heirloom. Sign of the workers’ solidarity this is.’

Sabine smiled. She doubted that any of the locals would realise the significance of the red beret.

‘Got a few signatures already,’ Johnnie said opening the folder and handing her a poster with the words, ‘SAVE THE KIOSK’ emblazoned in red across the top. ‘Need you to pin this up and to put the petition somewhere people can sign it.’

‘You don’t think the powers-that-be are serious about getting rid of the kiosk?’

Johnnie shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Telling them we want it kept won’t do any harm though. Embankment wouldn’t be the same without the kiosk.’

‘True. Fancy a coffee?’ Sabine asked, reaching for the kettle.

Johnnie shook his head. ‘Not this morning, thanks. I want to drop a poster off at the yacht club and then I’m planning on giving Annie and her bottom a good going-over.’

Sabine smiled at the scandalised expression on a passing tourist’s face. Johnnie grinned at her before whispering, ‘Gets them every time!’ Annie, named after his late wife, was Johnnie’s thirty-two-foot sailing yacht moored out on one of the pontoons in the river.

‘Have fun. See you tonight for supper,’ she said, turning her attention to a couple looking at the times of river trips for the week and began to talk them into taking the afternoon trip. Gift of the gab, Owen called her sales technique. Said it was the main reason he employed her to run the kiosk. That and the fact he was in love with her. She’d lost count of the number of times he’d asked her to marry him since Dave died. Said he was going to keep asking her until she said yes.

It had become something of a joke between them now. Only last week he’d asked her again and she’d said her usual ‘No’, adding jokingly, ‘I think you’d better stop asking me, Owen. Otherwise one of these days I might be tempted to say yes and then you’ll be saddled with me.’

‘If that means there is a possibility of you saying yes one day, I intend to keep on asking,’ Owen had replied seriously. ‘I’ve always loved you. Dave was my best mate but I could have killed him when you married him and not me.’

Sabine sighed. ‘Owen, I love you to bits but not in that way. You deserve more than a one-sided marriage.’

‘If you were the one side, I’d take it happily,’ Owen said.

Sorrowfully Sabine shook her head at him before reaching up and giving him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Sorry, Owen.’ She knew she hurt him every time she refused his offer, but love had to be a two-way thing for a marriage to work, didn’t it? She’d been a single woman for so long she could barely remember what it had been like being in a relationship, let alone being married.

When Dave had died, it had been a devastated Owen who’d tried to step into his shoes and be there whenever Peter had needed a father figure, insisting that was what godfathers were for. Two years ago he’d made sure Peter had a job ready and waiting for him when he’d finished his engineering course at college. At the time she’d questioned Owen as to whether it was a genuine job at the time or one he created.

‘Of course it’s genuine,’ he’d said. ‘I need a boat engineer. Happy for it to be Peter. Besides,’ he added with a grin. ‘A bit of nepotism never did any harm!’ It was Peter’s second season this year and he’d told Sabine he loved it. Couldn’t imagine doing anything else – living anywhere else.

She did wish sometimes that Peter had been a bit more adventurous – left home and seen a bit of the world before settling down in town. He’d done a couple of yacht deliveries with Johnnie but hadn’t wanted to do more. Took after his father in that respect. Dave had never wanted to live anywhere else or even take holidays abroad. Whereas she had always longed to see the world. The one opportunity to do that had sadly come at the wrong time of her life.

She glanced at a tourist studying the sailing timetable.

‘Can I book a ticket for this afternoon’s trip?’ he asked, his accent marking him as American.

‘Of course.’

‘Great little town you’ve got here,’ he said, as Sabine took his money and handed him a ticket.

‘Your first visit?’

‘Yeah, hoping to unearth some relatives,’ he said with a grin. ‘Grandmother was a GI bride way back in ’44. She kind of lost touch with folks here when she left. Family name was Holdsworth. Don’t suppose it’s yours? Know anyone of that name?’

Sabine laughed. ‘Well-connected ancestors you’ve got with that name, that’s for sure. No, it’s not mine. And as this isn’t small-town America, I don’t know everyone, but I don’t think there are any Holdsworths currently living in town.’

‘You mean there’s no longer a Govenor Holdsworth in charge out at the castle? I was hoping for an invite to stay there.’

‘You wouldn’t be very comfortable if you did – Windsor Castle it’s not.’

‘Shame. Good job I booked into The Royal for a week or two then. See you later.’

By the time Sabine helped Owen and Peter to cast off that afternoon, the boat was three quarters full and she watched it depart, pleased the first of the season’s sailings was so full.

As the Queen of the River began to make its way upstream, Sabine started to close up the kiosk. Life for the next few months would be ruled by the tide table and the need to open the kiosk every day to take advance bookings. Today, though, it was early enough in the season, with few people around, she could close up and go home for an hour or two before the boat returned and she had to be on hand to help the passengers disembark.

A chilly March breeze was blowing off the river and Sabine was glad of her fleece as she made for her cottage halfway up Crowthers Hill, one of the old roads leading out of town into the back country.

The house in Above Town she and Dave had bought together as a newly married couple had been too full of memories for both her and Peter to stay there happily without Dave. Far better to have a new start in a different house – one that she and Peter could build into a home, so twelve years ago she’d bought the cottage when Dave’s insurance money had eventually turned up.

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 necessary. 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.’