Читать книгу The Little Kiosk By The Sea: A Perfect Summer Beach Read - Jennifer Bohnet - Страница 12

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 herself 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.

Another teenage memory from a long-ago summer flitted into her mind as she saw a tourist boat slowly making its way back down river. An illicit June evening trip up river, creeping on board with Beeny without buying a ticket, hoping bad-tempered Mitch Hutchinson wouldn’t notice them and have them thrown off. Beeny French-kissed Owen, his son, for his silence when he found them and realised they hadn’t paid. Funny how it was only Beeny he’d wanted to kiss. She hadn’t cared, though. The only person she was interested in kissing in those days was Gus. Not that she had, of course. She’d been invisible to him.

Harriet glanced at a blackboard nailed to the side of the kiosk with neat chalk-writing advertising the times of the next trips up the river, gold lettering at the top proclaimed: ‘Hutchinson River Trips. Established 1931.’ Was Owen running the family business now? Did Beeny still live in town? Funny how the old kiosk was kick-starting so many memories. Turning, she crossed the road and walked towards the Royal Avenue Gardens.

Standing by the inner harbour, its muddy waters crammed with boats small enough to pass under the embankment bridge to reach the river, her stomach rumbled and she realised she was ravenous, Angie’s delicious scones not enough to make up for her missed lunch. She glanced behind her at The Royal Hotel. Time for more nostalgia. Turning, she crossed the road and made her way into the hotel foyer, automatically turning right for the bar and restaurant.

After ordering a steak salad, Harriet took her glass of wine over to a window table and settled down to wait for her meal. Looking around, she could see the place had been extensively modernised since the last time she’d been there, but had somehow managed to retain most of its atmosphere from the eighteenth-century days when it had been a busy coaching inn.

‘Enjoy your meal,’ the waitress said, smiling at her. As she heard the Birmingham accent, Harriet smiled back. An incomer. Not a possible old friend from a past life. Good. She wasn’t ready to meet any of those yet.

Glancing around at the other people in the restaurant, an elderly couple, a family of six with an adorable toddler, a group of locals having a drink at the end of the working day, Harriet pushed her self-conscious feelings of being conspicuously alone away. She’d always hated dining alone. At least it wasn’t a permanent state of affairs. Frank would be joining her in two days. Tomorrow she would buy a book to read as she ate. Tonight she’d people watch and make plans for tomorrow and the meeting with Trevor Bagshawe, solicitor, to which she and Frank had planned to go together but now she was having to face alone.