Page 29 of Summer at Harbour View House
‘By “grandma”, you mean a full body, is that right?’
‘Yep.’
Natasha smiled. ‘That’s the only one I have.’
‘I’m sure you’ll look great in it. He’ll probably perve over you, too.’
‘Probably?’ Natasha smiled. ‘I’m not that old.’
Hannah tittered. ‘Not compared to him.’
‘Come on,’ Natasha said. ‘Let’s get going before I end up feeding you to that chicken.’
‘I think he’s full now, anyway,’ Hannah said.
‘She.’
‘Ah, right.’
With their swimsuits on under their clothes, they headed down to the harbour. The sun had come up over the cliffs to the east, but was obscured by the same bank of grey cloud that had hung relentingly above them all yesterday. A cold wind was blowing in off the sea, and Natasha wished she’d brought a coat. So much for the summer.
Matt was waiting by the harbour wall, a plastic cooler box at his feet. He chuckled as they arrived, clapping his hands together.
‘Look at you’s all bright and breezy,’ he said.
Hannah grinned. ‘She’s bright, I’m breezy,’ she said.
At Matt’s quizzical look, Natasha said, ‘Natasha Bright. That’s my name.’
‘If we’re doing introductions again,’ Matt said, ‘since we were all a little sloshed yesterday, then I’m Matthew Collins. Local. You met Jago, didn’t ‘e? Me cousin. We to school together up on the hill, ‘fore they closed it and sold it off to some yuppies from London to turn into one o’them eco resort jobs.’
Matt had brushed his beard and wore a fisherman’s cap. A duffel coat looked like it had survived through several world wars. He wore gloves and boots, and Natasha wondered if they were underdressed.
‘Don’t worry, maid, I brought some spares,’ he said, catching her staring at his coat. ‘Plus, boat’s got a little wheelhouse we can squeeze into if the wind starts to rip.’ He chuckled. ‘You city lot don’t know what you’s doing when there ain’t no trains or taxis.’
‘Brentwell has a population of twenty-two thousand,’ Hannah said. ‘Hardly a metropolis, Matthew.’
‘’Bout the same as the whole Roseland Peninsula,’ Matt said. ‘On a bit less land, I reckon. You both city folk?’
‘If you call it a city,’ Hannah said.
Natasha shook her head. ‘I’m not. I’m from—’ She stopped. Did she really need to do this now? My life is not a joke. ‘I’m from the Devon countryside,’ she said at last. ‘A small village outside Brentwell, on the Plymouth to Exeter line.’
‘Oh, right? ‘e got a name? Might of been. Never know.’
‘Ah, I doubt it.’
‘Bathwater!’ Hannah said with a sudden flowery laugh that made Natasha want to push her over the harbour wall into the murky water below. ‘She’s from Bathwater.’
Natasha sighed. ‘It’s on the River Bath, a little tributary which feeds into the Dart. I don’t think they were thinking too clearly when they named it. There’s a little reservoir. It’s not so bad.’
‘And people like to joke about Pinkle,’ Matt said. ‘Anyways, we’d best get on or we’ll miss the tide. Me boy’s down there, getting the old girl ready.’
‘Your—’
Matt was already heading down a set of concrete steps to the beach. A small walkway ran around the edge of the breakwater wall. A little fishing boat was moored up near the end, bobbing up and down in the water. A man stood in the bow, and waved as they approached.
‘Me boy, Davey,’ Matt said, flapping a hand at the man as he wound a rope in his hands. He wore a thick grey knitted sweater and beige cargo trousers. One Doc Martin boot rested on the edge of the boat. In his mid-twenties perhaps, he had tousled back hair and a wispy beard, making him handsome in a rugged, weatherworn way.
