Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Bound
The sun is out and there’s a very strong pong of fish. I’ve had to do a lot of mental gymnastics to make myself okay with the nature of this job and a huge amount of research in order to look after the animals I’ve been entrusted with for the next six months, but on balance, I think I’ve made the right decision. A fresh start is exactly what I need.
The ferry dock is quieter than I’d imagined. I’d anticipated vast numbers of tourists here, since the Easter holidays are just around the corner and tourist season starts early on Loor. Maybe they’ve all caught an earlier ferry? Which would be odd since the M.S. Kernowek only sails three times a week. Or maybe, it dawns on me, I’ve missed the ferry.
‘But how?’ I murmur to myself. ‘I checked the timetable.’
‘You must’ve been looking at the summer one,’ a wide-shouldered man tells me. He has a scalding sunburn on his bald head, and for some reason I could easily picture him driving a tank. ‘Summer timetable starts tomorrow. Today, we’re still on the winter timetable.’
‘Damn,’ I say, not knowing what to do or where to go, because I left my Fiesta at my parents’ house and took a cab here. Nemo is miaowing miserably at my side. ‘When’s the next ferry?’
‘Not for another two days.’
My heart sinks. I’ve truly messed this up. Fresh start? Fresh disaster, more like.
‘Is there a guest house I could stay at?’ I ask.
He looks down at Nemo. ‘Not with a cat. Now, with a dog, it might be different, but nobody wants a cat slinking around their guest house, do they? All hell would break loose. It would be winding up the dogs, walking mud on all the furniture, eating leftovers on the kitchen worktops. More of a home pet than a travel pet, are cats. Never seen anyone try to take one on holiday to Loor before.’
‘I’m moving to Loor for a job,’ I say, bristling. ‘It’s not a holiday.’
‘Shame you didn’t get here an hour earlier. You could have caught the ferry then.’
After imparting this piece of wisdom, he maintains a dignified silence.
It looks like I’m going to be sleeping rough at the dock, unless I’m willing to get a taxi back to my parents’ house and admit my mistake. On reflection, I think I’d rather sleep at the dock.
‘I suppose, if you’re really stuck, I could run you over to Loor in my boat,’ he says.
I look at him doubtfully.
‘What kind of a boat do you have?’ I say, imagining some sort of rickety rowing boat or children’s dinghy.
‘Fishing boat,’ he answers, proudly. ‘She’s not the prettiest you’ve ever seen, but she’s tough as old boots.’
I don’t know this man. He’s a complete stranger. He seems trustworthy enough at first glance, but what if he binds me with fishing rope, locks me in the cabin and holds me prisoner? He could dump my body out to sea, and nobody would ever know what happened to me.
‘Do you have any credentials?’ I say and he looks confused.
‘I can show you my driving licence,’ he says, taking it out of a very battered wallet. He hands it to me.
It says his name is William Bound.
‘Call me Billy,’ he says.
Good old Billy Bound.
I take a photo on my phone.
‘I’m sending this to my emergency contacts,’ I say, forwarding it to my mum, who replies instantly with a series of question marks.
I don’t reply to her question marks and my phone begins to ring. I put it on silent.
‘Very sensible. Never trust strangers,’ he says. ‘Can I see some ID from you?’
Quite surprised by this request, even though I’ve just made the exact same one, I flash him my licence and he mouths my name, as if committing it to memory. Impressively, he manages to pronounce my surname correctly.
‘Now to the matter of payment. I do have some business on Loor, as my son lives there and I’m due a visit, so I won’t charge you full whack.’
‘How much is full whack?’
‘Hundred pounds.’
‘What? It’s twelve miles offshore. The ferry was only ￡89 for a return.’
‘They have more passengers to make it worth their while. I’ve only got you and the cat, and I assume the cat isn’t paying.’
We both look at Nemo, whose miaow gains considerable volume with the addition of an audience.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, panicking. ‘It’s just that I don’t have much money on me.’
Once I paid out the rest of the year’s rent, so that my flatmates weren’t left footing the bill, I had almost nothing left.
He points across the dock. ‘Cashpoint is right over there.’
‘I don’t have much in my bank account either.’
He ruminates on this. ‘One hundred pounds is my price, but for you, I’ll do it for ninety.’
‘Can you go any lower?’ I ask. ‘Because I might seem like a tourist, but I was born in Cornwall and I’m absolutely skint.’
‘Oh, you’re a Cornish maid? Whereabouts were you born?’ he says, brightening at once.
‘Newquay, then we moved to Mousehole. My parents still live there.’
I make sure to pronounce it correctly in the Cornish way, MOWzel, so he knows I’m serious.
‘In that case, let’s call it twenty-five pounds.’
That’s one hell of a locals’ discount. Still, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
‘Twenty-five pounds it is,’ I say, shaking his hand to seal the deal.
‘I’ll just eat my breakfast,’ he says, going to his van. It has a number plate that says PA57Y, which makes me smile. I appreciate the gastronomical delights of a Cornish pasty as much as anyone, but I’m not sure I’d want it on my number plate.
He reaches into the footwell of the passenger side and takes a polystyrene container out of a brown paper bag. As soon as he opens the lid, I’m hit by a waft of sugary sweetness.
‘What is that?’ I ask him. ‘French toast?’
‘This?’ he says, looking surprised. ‘I thought you said you were a Cornish maid, or were you fibbing?’
‘I was born in Cornwall, but I live in London now. Well, until very recently.’
‘Too bad,’ he says. ‘So many people have to move away for work. Crying shame if you ask me. Who wants to live in a city and get black bogeys from all the smog?’
He takes a big bite of his breakfast.
‘That smells very… sweet,’ I say.
‘This,’ he says, with momentous gravity, ‘is thunder and lightning. Clotted cream thunder clouds and the finest golden syrup lightning over toast. Food of the gods.’
I feel queasy looking at it, but mostly because the sweetness is undercut by the fishy stench of the dock.
He takes an unfeasibly long time to chew each mouthful and hums happily as he does so. Finally, when he’s washed it all down with Irn-Bru, which he calls ‘a good Celtic drink’, he stands up. ‘You ready?’ he asks me.
Am I?
No, not remotely.
I nod. ‘Definitely.’