Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Epilogue
EARLY SEASON
For as long as anyone could remember, the kiosk on the quay had been part of the town’s summer street furniture. A focal point for the locals as much as the holidaymakers. Every 1st March, the wooden hexagonal hut re-appeared without fuss or fanfare on its designated place on the embankment between the taxi rank and the yacht club, its wooden struts and panels gleaming with freshly applied paint. Red, white, blue and yellow – all bright summer colours which, come October, would have been bleached and faded away by the summer weather. The jet-black orb on the top of the domed roof was a favourite with the gulls, who perched there serenely surveying the scene before swooping down and stealing ice creams and pasties from unwary holidaymakers.
As well as its annual paint make-over, the kiosk had occasionally been refurbished inside. These days it boasted an electric connection for the necessary computer, a kettle, mugs, a round tin that was never empty of biscuits and a small electric heater to keep the occupant warm in early and late season when the wind off the river blew straight in through the half-open stable door.
There was a small shelf unit for holding tickets and the cash box, a cupboard for locking things in, space to the left of the door for the outside advertising boards to come in overnight and three foldaway canvas director chairs for sitting outside in the sun with friends when business was slow.
The whole atmosphere of the town changed as the locals welcomed the re-appearance of the hut which signalled the imminent arrival of the holidaymakers, the second home owners and the day-trippers. Maybe this would be the year fortunes would be made. If not fortunes, at least enough money to see the families through winter without getting deep into overdrafts. The last thing anyone wanted – or needed – was another wet season.
This summer though, 1st March came and went with no sign of the kiosk. All winter rumours had rumbled around town about its demise and locals feared the worst: the council had never liked it and wanted it gone – not true, the mayor said. Health and Safety had condemned it as an unfit workplace – but nobody would give details of the problem. The rent for the summer season had doubled and Owen Hutchinson, owner of the pleasure boats he operated through the kiosk, had refused to pay. A fact he denied.
Then, two weeks before Easter, without any warning, the re-painted kiosk appeared in its usual place. Collectively, the town heaved a sigh of relief. Panic over. Time to enjoy the summer.
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