Chapter One #3
The Sidwell-Plants – Robert and Patience – were more aloof and might be heavy going unless they opened up with a couple of gin and tonics inside them.
Clarice . . . I couldn’t make her out. Spiky, certainly, but her bloomers remark had made me laugh, so perhaps she was more fun than I thought.
Of them all, she was the one I’d heard of.
Her recent concert tour had garnered enthusiastic reviews from even the newspapers’ most staid and jaded music critics, and I’d been disappointed that we’d not been able to hear her when she’d played in Bristol.
As for her husband, Edgar, I had no idea. He’d said nothing at all since we arrived and had merely looked at everyone with a faint air of disapproval.
Spikiness and sullen broodiness notwithstanding, I hoped they might play for us, but resolved not to be too disappointed if they did not.
They were there, like the rest of us, for a relaxing break at JB McIntyre’s new weekend retreat and it seemed churlish to expect that they might also have to sing for their supper.
George Wilson was closer to my age and seemed like a jolly enough fellow.
He had a salesman’s charm and patter that might make him easy to get along with, as long as his boyish enthusiasm didn’t become wearing if we were exposed to it for too long.
He was more than averagely good-looking, too, and from the way she kept stealing glances at him, he had certainly caught Patience Sidwell-Plant’s eye.
The motor launch was piloted by just one man and I began to feel a familiar indignation on behalf of a lone servant sent to do the work of at least two or three.
Not only would he have to greet his master’s guests and see them safely aboard the launch, he’d have to carry all our luggage down the jetty and stow it securely before piloting us out to the island.
A door slammed behind us and I turned to see a bearded man in sea boots and oilskins shambling round to the far side of the hut. He returned moments later, pushing a handcart on to which he proceeded to load the group’s luggage.
By the time the launch drew alongside, he had wheeled the cart down the jetty and was in time to catch the line the boat’s pilot threw ashore and to tie it expertly to one of the iron rings set in the stones. Between them they made the launch fast and put out the gangplank.
The boat’s . . . captain? Was he a captain? A pilot? Handler? Driver? Whatever his job title, he came down the gangplank and gave us all a warm smile.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for being patient. My name’s Crawford and this swarthy reprobate is Tommy Vickerman.
He brings our post and supplies out to the island, but I’m the one who takes the guests.
’ He pointed to the fishing boat. ‘Don’t never get on that old bucket with Tommy ’cept in an emergency.
And then only if you don’t have no other choice. ’
The bearded man gave a nod and a chuckle. ‘He i’n’t wrong. I only gets on it cos I can’t afford nothin’ better.’
‘If you’d like to come this way,’ said Crawford, ‘you can make yourselves comfortable while we get your dunnage squared away, and we can be off. Mind your step now.’
Crawford retreated back up the gangplank to receive us on deck, while Vickerman stood with his foot on the base to help us on our way.
Lady Hardcastle and I lingered at the rear, watching the group as they lined up.
I wasn’t wholly surprised to see confident young George Wilson stride to the front and board first. He refused help from Crawford as he hopped on to the deck and made his way towards the open platform at the stern with a cheerful grin on his face.
Patience Sidwell-Plant left her husband behind and followed Wilson just as confidently, though she did take Crawford’s proffered hand and acknowledged his assistance with a curt nod.
Granville Bridgewater allowed Dotty to precede him and kept an attentively caring eye on her as she wobbled up the broad plank, before making his own way aboard with just as little agility.
Edgar Everett led Clarice to the foot of the plank and quietly said, ‘Slight step,’ as he drew her forwards. ‘Raised battens about a foot apart.’
Edgar moved slowly, but Clarice, who was feeling her way with the cane, was significantly more confident. Nevertheless, Sidwell-Plant took it upon himself to walk closely behind her and seemed poised to catch her if she stumbled.
‘I can feel you behind me, whoever that is,’ said Clarice. ‘Please don’t crowd me.’
‘It’s me. Robert. I just wanted to—’
‘Well, don’t.’
The three of them boarded safely and went with the others to the stern.
Lady Hardcastle was next, with me taking up my usual protective position at the rear. I’d boarded many boats in my time and should have felt quite at home, but still the bounciness of the gangplank and the gentle sway of the boat took me as much by surprise as they always did.
By the time we arrived at the stern, the others had all gone into what I heard Bridgewater call the ‘saloon’. We joined them and made small talk while Crawford and Vickerman loaded the luggage.
From the shore, Guardians Rock looked very much like any of the dozens of small islands dotted around Britain’s coastline.
As far as mainlanders were able to tell, it was just another craggy lump of rock too far from land to be casually useful, but close enough that it might one day be pressed into service if the need arose.
At some point, it seemed, a need had arisen, and a king – it was usually a king, or at the very least a bellicose prime minister – had seen fit to build a fort upon it, as they had upon many of the other tiny islands.
I had no proper idea who the coast of Devon might need to be protected from, but it was usually the French.
If not them, then the Spanish. Neither nation had ever made a serious effort to attack Britain by sea, but it was impossible to tell whether that proved the effectiveness or the pointlessness of the island forts.
Essential or futile, Guardians Rock and its fort grew more and more impressive as we approached. Much of the island was bounded by sheer cliffs of at least fifty feet high, with just one accessible point on the landward side where a quay had been built in a small inlet.
The bulk of the island was flat above the cliffs but the ground rose steeply towards a high plateau at the centre, upon which the sizeable fort had been built.
Stone walls seemed to grow from the rock itself, inset with windows and arrow loops.
The central area of the roof was gabled, with Tudor chimneys not entirely unlike those of The Grange back home in Littleton Cotterell.
By this point I was prepared to go out on a limb and guess that the fort had been built at the instigation of Henry VIII.
Crenelated platforms extended from either end of the gables, presumably providing a stable base for the fort’s guns in its working days, but which were now, I hoped, equipped with comfortable garden furniture for alfresco entertainment when the weather allowed.
Lady Hardcastle and I went out on to the after-deck of the launch as we approached the quay, the better to get a first, proper glimpse of our destination, and – almost as importantly – to get us away from Granville Bridgewater’s relentless joviality.
I had been worried about young George Wilson, but so far it was Bridgewater who was proving to be the tiresome one.
Crawford lined up the launch for its approach to the quayside, built into a tiny cove protected on three sides by yet more towering cliffs.
From our vantage point we were the first aboard to see our weekend host, JB McIntyre of Philadelphia.
Dressed in English country tweeds and standing beside a barrel, he caught sight of us and gave the friendliest of waves.
We waved back with equal friendliness, but then both sides realized our collective error as we tried to work out what to do with our arms and faces during the long minutes between this initial greeting and our eventual arrival.
When the launch finally docked, though, our premature hail was rewarded with the most effusively enthusiastic greeting.
Lady Hardcastle and I were the first down the gangplank once JB and Crawford had secured it, and JB launched himself at us like one of Sir Hector Farley-Stroud’s ebullient spaniels.
‘Emily,’ he said as he tried to hug her. ‘So wonderful to see you. Thank you for coming.’
Lady Hardcastle was certainly not averse to a friendly pat on the arm, and was very much inclined to hug her good friends, but this surprisingly familiar greeting took even her by surprise. She handled it well, though, and returned his brief embrace with only the faintest trace of bemusement.
‘It’s entirely my pleasure, JB dear,’ she said once he had released her. ‘We couldn’t possibly pass up the chance to see your magnificent new drum.’
‘My drum?’
‘Your drum. Your home.’
‘I’ve not heard that one. It’s not really my home, though. For now it’s just my weekend retreat.’
‘Soon to be a magnificent luxury resort. We’re very keen to see it.’
‘Thank you.’ He made to hug me next but turned the movement into a two-handed handshake at the last moment. Perhaps something in my expression put him off. It wasn’t intentional, but I was a little relieved nonetheless.
‘And welcome to you, my dear Miss Armstrong. Or do we know each other well enough now for me to call you Florence?’
‘Whatever makes you most comfortable,’ I replied. ‘As my mother always said, “You can call me anything you like as long as you call me early for my dinner.”’
He laughed. ‘I like that. Let me just greet the others and we can all make our way up to the fort together.’
‘Well, this is quite a bit different from the places we usually weekend,’ said Lady Hardcastle when he had gone.