A Good Catch

‘Don’t worry about Loveday. I know how you feel about her. She’ll see sense one day,’ she told him.

Mickey blushed and quickly brushed her off. ‘Loveday’s all right but I’m playing the field.’

Greer raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. ‘Are you, Mickey?’

‘Sure. I’m a fisherman and there’s plenty more fish in the sea.’

‘Oh, Mickey,’ Greer laughed, ‘you’re fooling no one.’ Mickey looked at her ruefully but then laughed too.

Loveday looked back over her shoulder and saw Greer and Mickey walking arm in arm. Heads together and laughing.

‘Jesse, look, I knew it. Mickey and Greer are a match made in heaven.’

Jesse turned to look too, but said nothing. He was trying not to think about the lace bra that was showing through Loveday’s T-shirt, which was only serving to accentuate her generous cleavage, while also trying to keep in check the dangerous sensations that threatened to overwhelm him whenever he was in close proximity to Loveday Carter.

*

Our Mermaid was a good-sized trawler painted in the traditional local colours of sky blue, chalk white and clotted cream yellow. The hull had streaks of rust coming from the holes where the anchor chain fed, but she was in good condition and well maintained. She was tied up alongside the deepest part of the harbour wall where the boys hoped to fish from.

‘Hey, Dad,’ called Mickey as they approached.

An older version of Mickey was standing on the foredeck drinking a mug of tea. ‘’Ello, son! Where the ’ell ’ave you bin? You’re too late to help me. I’m all finished.’

‘Sorry, Dad.’

Mr Chandler put down his mug and helped Loveday onto the boat. ‘Thank you, Mr Chandler.’

‘’Tis all right, maid.’ Alfie Chandler was very fond of Loveday. She was warm, down to earth and undeniably sexy. A girl he’d be happy to call daughter-in-law. He hoped that Mickey would make his move before someone else came on the scene; there were many young lads who would bite their own arms off to get close to Loveday – he certainly would’ve done at Mickey’s age.

‘Hello, Mr Chandler.’ Greer was holding out her hand to him. ‘Would you help me aboard?’

‘Certainly.’ Alfie offered her his grimy and calloused hand. He couldn’t deny that she was a looker, but she was too bony and prim for his taste. Poor Jesse Behenna. He was caught in a net, whether he knew it or not. Bryn Clovelly and Ed Behenna would make sure of that.

Alfie leant into the wheelhouse and put his mug on a wooden ledge. ‘Right, you young ’uns. Tide’s flooding in now and you should get some good mackerel off the side.’

‘Cheers, Dad.’ Mickey gave him a short embrace.

‘Don’t be home too late or your ma will be worried.’

‘We won’t.’

Alfie stepped off the boat. Without a backward glance he walked off along the harbour wall that led straight to the Golden Hind and its welcoming bar.

‘What you got in the picnic basket, Loveday?’ asked Mickey, rubbing his hands.

‘You’re always hungry!’ Loveday swatted him away. ‘How do you stay so skinny?’

Greer and Loveday unpacked a checked tablecloth that Elizabeth had thoughtfully put in, and placed the Tupperware boxes of crab, potato salad and tomatoes on the cloth.

Jesse pulled out of his fishing bag four pasties and six tins of cider; certain proof that Donna from the Spar shop might be two years older than Jesse but that she definitely fancied him rotten.

After they’d eaten (Greer had picked at the salad and declined her pasty so Loveday had had it instead), the boys set up their fishing rods. The sun slowly dropped towards the horizon and gave a final fiery blaze before sinking into the sea. Greer, who was watching Jesse bait the large hook on his line, shivered at the sudden chill. He looked up.

‘You cold, Greer?’

‘I am a bit.’

‘Come here.’ Amiably, he opened an arm up to her and she tentatively let him put it around her. She was enclosed between his arms as he held the fishing rod. She could feel his chest moving in and out as he breathed. Conversely, she held her breath, in fear of actually touching him more closely.

A tug on the line disturbed the moment and he lifted an arm over her head, letting her out of the enclosure. ‘Want to reel this one in?’ he asked.

‘Show me how.’

He handed her the rod and instructed her gently on how to wind in the reel. The flapping mackerel broke the surface. ‘I don’t like this bit,’ she said.

‘And you a fisherman’s daughter!’ He laughed kindly. ‘You’d never make a fisherman’s wife.’

5

The summer they left school was a good one. The sun shone, the sea remained calm and the beaches were inviting. The holiday-makers came down in their droves, so there was plenty of work for the school-leavers, waiting tables or taking money in dusty beach-side car parks.

Jesse worked on his father’s flagship, The Lobster Pot. Being a Behenna and heir to the business made no difference: he was not given an easy ride. He had to learn the business from the bottom up.

Like most Cornish trawlers, The Lobster Pot had five crew members. Edward was the skipper, the toothless Spencer was his mate. In charge of the engines was the mechanic, Josh, a Kiwi of about 35 who’d landed in Cornwall as a student, years earlier, and never gone home. The cook was Hamish, a Scotsman with a surprisingly good palate, and the two deckhands were Jesse and another young school-leaver, Aaron.

The boat went out for up to seven days at a time, with two and a half days back on dry land before going to sea once more. It was a steep learning curve for Jesse, who’d not been allowed to join his father on these trips before, but he had the sea in his soul. Not only did he enjoy the work, he enjoyed the money that was divvied up at the end of each trip.

Once a catch was landed and sold at market, the money was used to pay for the diesel, food and other essentials, then the largest share of what was left over went to the owner – in this case Edward. The rest was split between the crew. The skipper Edward (again), Spencer, Josh, Hamish and then the deckies Jesse and Aaron.

It was not just a good summer for the visitors, the fish seemed to like it too; they were swimming in their droves to the Cornish fishing grounds.

The Lobster Pot would glide out of Trevay harbour with most of the Behenna fleet behind her, ready to make their fortunes. For Jesse, released from the classroom and still weighing up life’s possibilities, these were halcyon days. He found he was loving life at sea: the sound of the engine chugging below his feet, the cry of the gulls performing stall turns above him, and the instinct he was starting to develop from his father as they sat poring over the charts, determining where the next good catch might be waiting for them.

On one particular warm August night, Edward and Jesse were in their usual seats in the galley, having had a supper of poached cod and bacon with new potatoes coated in bacon fat. Edward was drinking a large mug of powerfully strong tea.

‘I’m reckoning we aim for Tring Fallows. Word is they’m the best fishing grounds just now.’ He tapped the chart, then leant back to stretch tension out of his lower back.

Jesse remained hunched over the charts, studying the distance between where they were now and where they were going. ‘How long will it take to get there?’

‘Should be there in about four hours.’

Jesse glanced at the time. ‘I’m on watch at midnight.’

‘I recommend you get some shuteye now then,’ his father said.

Jesse heaved himself a little off the leatherette bench seat and craned his head to see out of the starboard porthole. ‘Our Mermaid is still with us. She coming to Tring Fallows too?’

‘Aye. We’ll need both of us to haul the buggers in. This’ll be a good catch if we get it right.’

The ship’s radio came to life and the familiar voice of Alfie Chandler, Mickey’s dad, spoke.

‘Lobster Pot, Lobster Pot, Lobster Pot. This is Mermaid. Over.’

Edward unhooked the small receiver/mouthpiece from the radio set and put his thumb on the talk button.

‘Mermaid. This is Lobster Pot. Wass on? Over.’

‘Mermaid, Lobster Pot. We still headin’ for Tring Fallows? Over.’

‘Lobster Pot, Mermaid. Can you switch to channel nine? Over.’

Edward waited a minute for Alfie to swap to a channel that they could use just between themselves.

‘Lobster Pot, Mermaid. Over.’

‘Yeah, Alfie. Tring Fallows it is.’

Jesse, desperate to talk to his mate Mickey, held his hand out to his father, opening and closing his fingers in the universal code for ‘hand it over.’ Edward kept talking. ‘Is your Mickey there, Alf? Only ’is mate wants to ’ave a word.’

‘I’ll get ’im.’ They heard Alfie shout for his son as Edward passed the mouthpiece to Jesse.

Mickey’s voice came over the airwaves. ‘’Ello?’

‘Mickey, ’tis Jesse. You sleepin’ before we get to the fishin’ ground, or no?’

‘Gonna have a snout up top then I’m going to grab some zeds. You?’

‘Same. Give us a minute and I’ll be out too.’

Edward reached forward and snatched the radio from Jesse. ‘That’s enough. It ain’t for you two to make your social engagements on.’ He pressed the talk button. ‘Mickey, you still there, you great long streak of piss?’

‘Yes, Mr Behenna,’ came Mickey’s nervous voice.

‘Well fuck off and ’and me back to your dad.’

On deck the moon, although not full, was bright; its face looked down at the two trawlers as they slipped through the benign waves. Jesse, now standing in the stern of the boat, put his face to the cool wind and closed his eyes. He felt secure and peaceful. He was increasingly realising that the sea was his home; as long as he had it in his life, he knew all would be well.

Looking to starboard, and travelling at the same speed, was Our Mermaid. Jesse listened to the thrum of the engines together with the swish of the wash that they churned behind them. He could make out the tall, thin silhouette of Mickey appearing from a hatch and sparking up a cigarette.

‘Hey, Mickey,’ Jesse called over to him.

‘Hey, Jess,’ called back Mickey.

‘Can you think of anywhere else you’d rather be?’ Jesse asked his friend.

‘Inside Loveday’s knickers?’ answered Mickey truthfully.

Jesse frowned at Mickey, knowing that – at this distance and in the dark – Mickey wouldn’t be able to read his face. He didn’t like Mickey talking about Loveday like that.

Loveday was under Jesse’s skin. He’d known her since … well, forever. And he hated to hear Mickey discuss her in such crude terms. He felt protective towards Loveday. He wanted to look after her and treat her well. He felt something that he couldn’t describe; something, maybe, close to love? He pulled himself up. Love? No, not love. Not for Loveday. Loveday was Mickey’s and he’d never hurt Mickey. He was like a brother to her. He just liked her. A lot. That was all. God, no, he didn’t love her. He was going to see the world. Not settle down with the first girl he’d ever known, right here on his doorstep. Bugger that.

‘Where would you rather be then, Jesse?’ asked Mickey, sucking on his cigarette and exhaling a long plume of smoke to trail behind him.

‘I told you. Nowhere other than here.’ There was a splash behind him. He turned and shouted, ‘Look, Mick. Dolphins!’ And, sure enough, in the wake between the boats, two dolphins slipped out of the water in perfect arcs, the moonlight glistening on their skins.

‘There’s two more!’ shouted Mickey. He bent down to the open hatch on the deck and shouted, ‘Dad. Come up. Dolphins.’

Any crew member on both boats who wasn’t already sleeping, or didn’t have a drop of romance in his soul, came on deck to watch the display that the dolphins put on for them. They counted up to fifteen, although it was hard to tell if some had been counted twice. Both Alfie and Edward cut their engines and, for maybe five or ten minutes, fisherman and dolphin enjoyed each other’s company. Finally the creatures slid beneath the waves and disappeared.

A thought dawned on Edward.

‘The little fuckers’ll have our catch if we don’t get a move on.’ He moved quickly towards the wheelhouse. ‘Full steam ahead, lads.’

Jesse was nudged awake at just before midnight. He’d been dreaming of swimming with the dolphins. One of them was swimming alongside him and he reached out to stroke its side. The dolphin turned to look at him and smiled. The smile grew wider and more familiar and Jesse became aware that this was not a dolphin but Loveday. Her red hair was streaming behind her as she swam above and below him, twisting and looping in the simple joy of being with him. Streams of air bubbles danced from her as she swam, always just a little bit faster and a little bit further out of reach. ‘Come on, Jesse. Come on,’ she spoke from beneath the waves, smiling up at him. ‘Come on. Before you lose me.’

‘Wake up, mate. It’s your watch. Come on. Get up.’ Jesse opened his eyes and slowly became aware of the familiar heat and smell of the The Lobster Pot’s cramped cabin. The tired face of Aaron, who’d just finished the first watch, loomed over Jesse’s bunk. ‘Wake up, you bugger. I need some kip before we start the trawl. Get out and let me in.’ Jesse flipped back the blankets, lifted his head from the pillow and swung his legs onto the floor. Apart from taking off his boots, he hadn’t bothered to get undressed before he slept so, apart from a quick rub of his eyes, there was no time wasted. Aaron was already crawling into the warm bunk and gave Jesse a shove as he reached for the blankets. ‘Get out and let me ’ave me beauty sleep.’

‘And what time would Sir like his wake-up call?’ a yawning Jesse asked sarcastically.

‘Bugger off.’

‘As Sir wishes.’ Jesse bent down and whispered in Aaron’s ear, ‘Would Sir like a goodnight kiss?’ Aaron produced a two-fingered salute and turned over. He was already asleep by the time Jesse closed the door.

Jesse reported to his father in the wheelhouse. ‘Any news?’ he asked him.

‘Aaron spotted some boats off to starboard about half a kilometre away. Spanish, by looks of it.’

‘Shit.’

‘Aye. Seeing more and more of ’em out here. Bastards are depleting our stocks and using up the quotas. Go and make us a brew, will you?’

Jesse gladly did; he was in need of one himself to wake him up. The next two hours went quietly and they saw no more foreign boats.

On the horizon he watched the occasional tanker as it headed off for who-knew-where with its lights shining in the gloom. The hypnotic throb of the engine and the rhythmic slosh of the sea water brought on an almost meditative state. He sipped his tea and thought about his future. The places he would go, the people he would meet, the money he would earn. Once he’d done all that, if Loveday were still free, he’d come back to her and marry her. Maybe Mickey would meet someone else; marry the first girl he got up the duff, like the soft bugger he was. Yes, that’s what he’d do. He smiled, contented with his plan.

Gradually he grew aware of the engine note changing and the boat slowing. Edward leant out of the wheelhouse window and said, ‘Get the lads up and prepare the trawl.’

*

Edward looked down from his vantage point in the wheelhouse and watched as the two derricks holding the beam trawls on either side of the boat swung out from the deck and over the water. He could hear the shackles and chain links of the trawl nets rattle as they went into the water. The rubber wheels at the bottom of the nets would allow the trawl to travel smoothly on the sea bed and gather their precious haul. He’d set the engine to a gentle towing pace of around two knots. He watched Jesse, in his yellow oilskin trousers and boots, working alongside the rest of the crew. He was a good lad. A born fisherman. He wished there was another way he could ensure the survival of Behenna’s Boats, but these were dangerous times for the fishing industry – in Cornwall in particular – and no one could predict what was going to happen. The mood in the harbour was one of doom and gloom, and every week it seemed as if more boats were being decommissioned after desperate fishermen had taken the EU grant and allowed their boats to be broken up in the name of keeping the UK’s quotas. It defied belief, and he knew that his own father would be turning in his grave to see the parlous state that things had reached.

But, if Behenna’s Boats and Clovelly’s Fisheries merged, his father’s legacy would be secured, for now at least, and Jesse would have a future. But was he condemning Jesse to a life with that skinny Greer? He shook his head – it was the 1980s, for God’s sake, not the 1580s and he had no power to make Jesse do anything. He felt a flash of anger at his own indecision. Damn it – why did all of this make him feel like he was selling Jesse to the bloody Clovellys?

‘You’m a bleddy old fool,’ he told himself. The envelope of cash was also preying on his mind. He could still give it back, couldn’t he?

He’d get this haul home and tell Bryn Clovelly to get stuffed, that’s what he’d do. Relieved to have made a decision at last, he turned his concentration to the job in hand.

It was a good night. Each haul on both boats was teeming with good fish. Sole and Dover sole, mostly. These would sell like hot cakes to London chefs, who fed them to their overstuffed clients for a fortune.

Down in the hold, in the fish room, the crew were working in well-drilled harmony. The fish were sorted, gutted, washed and placed in boxes of ice ready to be landed for the market. The smell of fish guts was usurped by the gleam in every man’s eye. This was a good haul, and they knew they would be well rewarded when they got it back to Trevay.

*

Bryn Clovelly caught the mooring rope that Edward threw over to him. ‘I hear you had a good trip,’ Bryn called, tying the rope to an ancient metal ring set into the harbour wall.

‘Aye.’

‘What have you got for me?’

‘Some good Dover sole and plaice.’

‘Not so much call for either at the moment,’ shrugged Bryn, giving a hand to Edward as he stepped off the boat and onto the first dry land he’d seen for seven long days. Edward was not in the mood for haggling.

‘Don’t give me any of that old shit, Bryn. There’s always call for Dover sole from those lah-di-bleddy-dah London types.’

Bryn shrugged again. ‘I’ll make my mind up when I see the catch.’

The crews of The Lobster Pot and Our Mermaid hoisted the fish boxes out of the hold and onto the quayside. There were plenty of them, and Edward could see Bryn’s eyes darting over them and making calculations. He held out his hand to Edward and gave him a figure. ‘Shake on it. You’ll not get a better price.’

Bryn had not mentioned the sweetener and neither had Edward, but it hung there between the two men.

Edward was no fool and he held his nerve; he’d agreed to nothing as yet. Keeping his hands in his pockets, he started the negotiations.

At last a figure was agreed on and they shook hands, each man regarding the other steadily. ‘I’d have given you more,’ said Bryn wryly, ‘if I knew that Clovelly and Behenna were destined to be one company.’

Edward pursed his lips and thought for a moment. ‘If I knew that the deal was only between you and me and that it had nothing to do with your Greer and my Jesse, I might just say yes. Jesse is his own man, Bryn. He’ll do as he likes.’

‘You’re a good negotiator, Edward, with strong powers of persuasion. You’ll sway him.’

Edward said nothing, but he saw a glint in Bryn Clovelly’s eyes – and it looked worryingly like victory.

‘I need to know that Clovelly’s has a future,’ said Bryn. ‘I need to know that I am passing it onto the next generation of my bloodline. I want my grandchildren to carry on the name of Clovelly. If Greer and Jesse were to marry, that would happen. But if you can’t see your way to giving your son a helping hand in the world, then there are plenty of boat owners – with unmarried sons – on this coast who will.’

6

The postman, never knowingly uninterested in people’s business, was enjoying his morning. It was that day in August when, around the country, exam results were dropping through letterboxes, anxious pupils waiting on the other side, braced for what news they might bring. The postman always took it upon himself to hand-deliver the envelopes in Trevay – whether he was conveying good news or bad, he wanted to pass it to the addressee personally.

Today he’d witnessed four people in tears (three of them mothers) and received two hugs of joy. No one had yet offered him a brew, and he could do with one. He was driving from the small modern housing estate at the top of Trevay, down the hill towards the old town and the sea. He pulled on the plastic sun visor to shield his eyes from the glare of the early morning light glinting off the water in the estuary. He turned right onto the posh road where the white stucco executive bungalows sat with their unfettered view of the river, the harbour and the open sea beyond. Each home was surrounded by a generous plot of land, either planted with palm trees, china-blue hydrangeas, large mounds of pampas grass or a selection of all three.

He stopped his van at Bryn and Elizabeth Clovelly’s conspicuously expensive bungalow, unimaginatively named Brybeth. He sorted through the bundles of post. He was looking for one with Greer Clovelly’s name on it. He found an electricity bill, a Cellophaned edition of Golfer’s Monthly and a letter from the DVLA (all addressed to Mr B. Clovelly), a postcard from Scotland (addressed to Mrs E. Clovelly) and finally a plain envelope addressed to Miss Greer Clovelly with a Truro postmark. He got out of his van and walked with dignified purpose towards their front door.

Greer was lying in bed listening to the radio. Kim Wilde was singing ‘You Keep Me Hangin’ On’. As usual Greer was thinking about Jesse. She didn’t hear the doorbell ring or the bustle of her mother coming from the rear kitchen to the front door. But she did hear her mother calling her name.

‘Greer. The postman has a delivery for you.’

‘What is it?’ she called back.

‘Something you’ve been waiting for.’ Her mother was using her singsong voice.

Greer sat up quickly. ‘Is it my exam results?’ She didn’t listen for the answer as she leapt out of bed, grabbed her Snoopy dressing gown, a cherished Christmas present from Loveday, Mickey and more especially Jesse, and dashed down the hall to the open front door.

She thanked the postman and slid her thumb under the flap of the envelope. Her hands shook a little as she took out the letter inside and unfolded it.

The look on her face told the postman all he needed to know. He hung about briefly in case there was a congratulatory cup of coffee to be offered, but when it wasn’t he set off, desperate to spread the news.

Bryn stood at the kitchen table and read the letter through again. ‘You passed! Ten O levels. My God, Greer, I’m proud of you.’

‘Thank you, Daddy.’

‘Ten! That’s ten more than you and me, eh, Elizabeth?’

‘It certainly is. Oh, Greer, we are proud of you.’

‘This means I can go to sixth-form college and do my art and design A level.’

Her father sat down opposite her and, pushing his reading glasses onto the top of his head, adopted a patient tone. ‘How about getting a good secretarial qualification? Hmm? Secretaries are always needed. Good ones, anyway. They are the oil of the engine in any business. And when you get married, you won’t need to work. You’ll be looked after by your husband, while you look after your home and your family. Like Mum.’

Greer looked at her father in exasperation.

‘I want to be an interior designer, and a wife and mum.’

‘Well, I’d like to be a professional golfer, but we all have to be realistic.’