Read Online In the Blood by Steve Robinson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steve Robinson
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and still operate at low tide.
The ferry was not operating just now, though. A crude, hand-made sign carrying the words ‘Not in Service’ confirmed the fact to anyone who tried to board. On the pontoon beside it, Martin Cole was about to cast off. Martin was the skipper now. He’d looked after the ferry business for Amy over the last two years - since she could no longer face it. He was fast approaching forty and felt very average. His clothes came off the shelf in medium sizes. His hair was mid length and brown, neither too tidy nor too unruly, and his build was neither fat nor thin. Average. He looked over at Simon, his assistant, sitting on his hands behind the wheel, looking like he wished he was somewhere else. The logo on his vivid royal-blue t-shirt read, Rip Curl - a suggestion of where that somewhere else might be. Since taking Simon on at the start of the season, Martin wished some of that twenty-something spirit would return to him.
He threw off the stern line and gave the catamaran’s rear end a firm push with his Derry boot. “You might have worn something appropriate,” he said, stepping aboard. Simon’s three-quarter length, baggy grey shorts, and the bright t-shirt fell far short of his expectations.
Sensing his cue, like an automaton with a new coin, Simon animated himself to the wheel and threw her into reverse.
“Could have smartened yourself up a bit too,” Martin added over the accelerated engine noise. He thought Simon’s hair looked like hay pulled from a horse’s feed bag.
Simon looked over his shoulder and shrugged. “Don’t have a black t-shirt. She don’t pay me enough to buy one specially.”
Martin shook his head. He slipped a Leatherman multi-tool from a worn leather holster on his hip and dexterously flicked open one of blades with his thumb. “You must have been able to find something less colourful than that!” he said as he sliced through the frayed end of the stern line and pulled a lighter out from his shirt pocket.
“What can I say,” Simon said. “I’m a colourful guy.”
Martin sealed the fibres, pressing the hot nylon between his thumb and forefinger. Though he couldn’t see Simon’s face, he knew the smirk that lived there. He lifted a seat lid and pulled out a heavy, navy blue marine performance jacket. “Put this on!”
The jacket thumped into Simon’s back and dropped behind him. When he realised what it was, he looked out at the clear late morning sky and protested, “You’re kidding, I’ll fry!”
“Just put it on!” Martin pointed a warning finger. “And when we get there, remember... No one else gets on.”
“I know.”
Martin had his doubts. He checked the time and realised they were later than planned, but they were okay. There was still thirty minutes to spare. He looked across to Helford point, his gaze fixed. By halfway he could see a few people at the bottom of the steps near the pick-up point, no doubt waiting to cross. Today, they would have to wait.
As they drew closer, Martin saw another figure descending the steps - a lone figure moving slowly and deliberately, head sunken, clutching her flowers. He felt for Amy, for what he knew she was going through. He thought of that well coined phrase, ‘Time is a great healer’, but he’d seen no change in her since it happened, no sign of letting go and moving on with her life. Two years today... Where does it go?
The engine revs dropped. A quick shift into reverse jolted Martin back from his thoughts; memories of a morning nothing like this. The catamaran sidled up to the jetty. A glance at his watch again told him they had twenty minutes left. Perfect. The two walkers waiting to cross seemed to get the picture. Clearly, they had seen the signs; seen Martin in his black shirt and black jeans, and seen Amy with her flowers, also in black: an ankle-length skirt
The ferry was not operating just now, though. A crude, hand-made sign carrying the words ‘Not in Service’ confirmed the fact to anyone who tried to board. On the pontoon beside it, Martin Cole was about to cast off. Martin was the skipper now. He’d looked after the ferry business for Amy over the last two years - since she could no longer face it. He was fast approaching forty and felt very average. His clothes came off the shelf in medium sizes. His hair was mid length and brown, neither too tidy nor too unruly, and his build was neither fat nor thin. Average. He looked over at Simon, his assistant, sitting on his hands behind the wheel, looking like he wished he was somewhere else. The logo on his vivid royal-blue t-shirt read, Rip Curl - a suggestion of where that somewhere else might be. Since taking Simon on at the start of the season, Martin wished some of that twenty-something spirit would return to him.
He threw off the stern line and gave the catamaran’s rear end a firm push with his Derry boot. “You might have worn something appropriate,” he said, stepping aboard. Simon’s three-quarter length, baggy grey shorts, and the bright t-shirt fell far short of his expectations.
Sensing his cue, like an automaton with a new coin, Simon animated himself to the wheel and threw her into reverse.
“Could have smartened yourself up a bit too,” Martin added over the accelerated engine noise. He thought Simon’s hair looked like hay pulled from a horse’s feed bag.
Simon looked over his shoulder and shrugged. “Don’t have a black t-shirt. She don’t pay me enough to buy one specially.”
Martin shook his head. He slipped a Leatherman multi-tool from a worn leather holster on his hip and dexterously flicked open one of blades with his thumb. “You must have been able to find something less colourful than that!” he said as he sliced through the frayed end of the stern line and pulled a lighter out from his shirt pocket.
“What can I say,” Simon said. “I’m a colourful guy.”
Martin sealed the fibres, pressing the hot nylon between his thumb and forefinger. Though he couldn’t see Simon’s face, he knew the smirk that lived there. He lifted a seat lid and pulled out a heavy, navy blue marine performance jacket. “Put this on!”
The jacket thumped into Simon’s back and dropped behind him. When he realised what it was, he looked out at the clear late morning sky and protested, “You’re kidding, I’ll fry!”
“Just put it on!” Martin pointed a warning finger. “And when we get there, remember... No one else gets on.”
“I know.”
Martin had his doubts. He checked the time and realised they were later than planned, but they were okay. There was still thirty minutes to spare. He looked across to Helford point, his gaze fixed. By halfway he could see a few people at the bottom of the steps near the pick-up point, no doubt waiting to cross. Today, they would have to wait.
As they drew closer, Martin saw another figure descending the steps - a lone figure moving slowly and deliberately, head sunken, clutching her flowers. He felt for Amy, for what he knew she was going through. He thought of that well coined phrase, ‘Time is a great healer’, but he’d seen no change in her since it happened, no sign of letting go and moving on with her life. Two years today... Where does it go?
The engine revs dropped. A quick shift into reverse jolted Martin back from his thoughts; memories of a morning nothing like this. The catamaran sidled up to the jetty. A glance at his watch again told him they had twenty minutes left. Perfect. The two walkers waiting to cross seemed to get the picture. Clearly, they had seen the signs; seen Martin in his black shirt and black jeans, and seen Amy with her flowers, also in black: an ankle-length skirt
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