The Little Kiosk By The Sea: A Perfect Summer Beach Read. Jennifer Bohnet

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       CHAPTER THREE

      JOHNNIE

      Johnnie whistled tunelessly as he steered Annie on a falling tide across the Dart towards the grid. He loved the river at this time of day. Early evening and the light of the day was disappearing, although there was still activity on the water.

      The Higher Ferry, its three lanes crammed with cars full of returning commuters from work in Torquay or even Exeter, was making its way across to the Dartmouth slipway. The naval college lorded it over Sandquay and the marina in the deepening gloom. Motoring past one of the huge black buoys in the middle of the river, he watched a shag preening itself, perched on the iron ring while seagulls wheeled and screeched overhead. When one wheeled directly over his head, aiming for Annie’s mast, Johnnie shouted ‘Bugger off’, knowing it was a useless shout. He’d waged a constant vendetta against them for years to Sabine’s amusement.

      ‘They’re part of the river’s landscape,’ she always said.

      ‘Bloody vermin,’ he’d mutter back.

      Further upriver, on the banks that were appearing as the tide went out, oyster catchers were busy prodding around in the mud. He’d timed his arrival at the maintenance grid perfectly and, once Annie was alongside the embankment wall, he cut the engine.

      ‘Throw me the rope and I’ll tie you up aft,’ a female voice said.

      ‘Thanks.’ And he threw the stern line up towards the woman who expertly caught it and began to tie it to one of the rings. Johnnie went forward to the bow and threw the mooring rope curled up on the deck onto the quay before stepping off the boat onto the landing ladder and climbing up to the embankment.

      ‘Nice boat,’ the woman said.

      ‘Thanks,’ Johnnie answered, concentrating on pulling the bow into the position he needed for Annie to settle properly on the grid overnight. Once he was satisfied, he turned his attention to the stern rope, but the woman had done a good job there, releasing and tightening the rope as necessary whilst he did the bow.

      ‘Done a bit of sailing, then?’ he said. She might be wearing an expensive yachting waterproof jacket, but that was no guarantee she’d ever stepped on board a boat. Some women wore nautical clothes to be fashionable when around boats and water. Although Johnny had to admit she’d done a pretty proficient job with the rope.

      ‘Just a bit.’ The woman smiled at him. ‘Have a good evening.’

      ‘You too.’

      Johnnie watched as she walked away. Nice smile. He couldn’t remember seeing her around the river before, and he knew he’d remember that smile, so he’d guess she was a holidaymaker.

      He stayed on board Annie for half an hour, adjusting the ropes as she settled down on the grid, the wooden piles against the embankment wall keeping her off the stones. Once he was happy with the way she was settling, he grabbed his laptop from the chart table, secured the cockpit hatch and set off for Sabine’s and supper. Ten minutes later, he was sitting in her cosy kitchen.

      ‘You all right?’ he asked as she placed the chicken casserole on the table. ‘You’re a bit quiet tonight.’

      Sabine shrugged. ‘Things on my mind.’

      Johnnie knew better than to probe. Sabine would tell him in her own time.

      ‘Took a booking this afternoon for a delivery over to St. Malo next week,’ he said. ‘Forty-foot motor yacht so should be a quick trip. Only be away for three or four days at the most. Be back for Easter.’

      ‘Good. Do you get Annie across ready for tomorrow?’

      Johnnie nodded. ‘Yep.’

      ‘You want to sleep here tonight?’ Sabine asked, knowing the yacht would be at an uncomfortable angle once the tide was fully out.

      ‘Thanks, but I’ll go to the cottage.’ He shrugged as Sabine glanced at him. ‘Needs an airing.’

      ‘Got a few signatures on the kiosk petition this afternoon by the way,’ Sabine said before adding, ‘Owen is planning on leaving Peter his boat business.’

      ‘Strewth. Bloody generous of him,’ Johnnie said. ‘Any strings?’ Given how fond he knew Owen was of his sister, maybe it was a ruse to gain her love? No. Not Owen’s style at all.

      Sabine shook her head. ‘No. He just thinks of Peter as the son he never had.’

      ‘Set Peter up that’s for sure,’ Johnnie said. ‘What does he say?’

      ‘Doesn’t know yet. Owen is getting it all formalised before he tells him.’

      Sabine stood up and cleared the plates away before placing an apple tart and a dish of clotted cream on the table in front of Johnnie.

      ‘Help yourself. Had my first American of the season book a ticket today. And guess what? He’s researching his family history! Quelle surprise! Why can’t they leave the past alone? Asked me if I knew any Holdsworths.’

      ‘What did you say?’

      ‘Basically that, unlike smalltown America, I knew the name but I don’t know everybody in the town.’

      ‘Pretty sure there aren’t any living in the town now,’ Johnnie said. ‘Didn’t we go to school with a girl who had Holdsworth relatives, though?’

      ‘She was the one I wanted you to marry so we could be sisters,’ Sabine said. ‘Wonder if he’s going to turn out to be related to that branch of the family.’

      ‘You ever hear what happened to your friend?’

      Sabine shook her head. ‘Nope. Family simply vanished at the height of the scandal.’

      On his way home later that evening, Johnnie stopped by the yacht to check everything was okay before crossing the embankment road and making for Undercliffe. The cottage he and Annie had bought when they married, filled with youthful optimism, no longer felt like home without her there. It had lost the wonderful homely and safe feeling that Annie had created within its walls. Now it was just a cottage where many painful memories blocked out the happy ones. He needed a drink to stay in the place these days.

      Picking up the post from the doormat, he rifled through it. A letter from France, caught up in between the pamphlets and newspapers of junk mail that his post mainly consisted of these days, he placed on the table. He recognised Cousin Martha’s writing. Daughter of Tante Brigitte, his father’s younger sister, she was the one who kept him and Sabine up to date with family news these days. She was also the one whom he’d stayed with during those first dreadful days after he’d lost Annie and he’d fled to France.

      Pouring himself a finger of whisky and taking the letter, he wandered through into the small sitting room and sank down onto the leather Chesterfield. Thank god his drinking was under control, thanks to Sabine, but he knew she would still have taken the bottle of whisky he’d hidden under the kitchen sink away if she’d realised it was there. ‘Too much temptation,’ she’d say.

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