Chapter 12 #3
‘That’s what training’s for,’ I say. The exact thing I should not be saying.
‘She knows boats. She knows engines. She’s got nerve – I’ve seen her haul gear in weather that would send most blokes running for the pub.
The local stuff she can learn. You can’t teach someone to be calm in a crisis. She already is.’
Another silence. Longer this time.
‘Well,’ Bill says, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘That’s quite the character reference.’
I close my mouth. Too late.
Cal pushes off the wall. ‘Here’s what I think.
She’s got the qualifications. She’s got the engine skills, which we’re desperate for.
And she’s here, which is more than anyone else has offered in six months.
’ He looks at Bill. ‘We operate on competence, not on whether someone’s a man or a woman.
If she can do the job, that’s what matters. ’
Bill grumbles into his tea but doesn’t argue. He’s a good man, Bill – once he sees someone prove themselves, the old-fashioned nonsense falls away. He just needs to see it.
Cal turns to me. ‘Now. She hasn’t agreed to anything yet. She might not want to. She’s got enough on her plate with that trawler and the cottage.’ He pauses, and there’s amusement in his eyes. ‘But you seem to be the expert on what she can do, Harding. So you can be the one to recruit her.’
‘Me?’
‘You. Walk down there, make the pitch. Tell her what we need, what the commitment looks like, what the assessment involves.’ He reaches for his jacket.
‘And if she says yes, you’ll run her assessment.
Thursday afternoon. Water rescue scenarios, equipment checks, knot work, the lot.
You’re acting deputy while Kit’s away – it’s your call whether she’s ready. ’
‘Cal—’
‘And if she passes, you train her. Weekly sessions until Kit’s back and we can reassess the rota.’ He claps me on the shoulder. ‘I know there’s history between your families, Jude. Old blood and old grudges.’
‘There’s history,’ I say carefully. ‘Even if I don’t know the half of it.’
‘Don’t need to know the half of it. Just need to know she can do the job.’ His gaze is steady. ‘This crew operates on competence, not on who someone’s grandad did or didn’t like fifty years ago. Your dad doesn’t run this station. I do. We clear?’
‘Crystal.’
‘Good man.’
He disappears through the door, footsteps echoing down the corridor. A moment later I hear the exterior door bang shut.
Bill follows, clapping me on the shoulder as he passes. ‘She’s got good certs, I’ll give her that. If she can do the job, she can do the job.’ He pauses at the door. ‘Just don’t let old Reuben hear about it from someone else. Tell him yourself. He’ll take it better.’
Fatherly advice from a man who doesn’t know the half of it. I nod. Bill leaves.
Tom’s still there. Quiet. Methodical. Rinsing his mug at the small sink in the corner, taking his time about it.
‘You all right?’ he asks, without turning around.
‘Fine. Just tired.’
‘Mm.’ He sets the mug on the drainer. Turns. Leans against the counter and looks at me with that steady, patient expression – the same one he uses on nervous animals, probably, and it’s annoyingly effective on humans too. ‘That was quite the speech.’
‘It was a pragmatic assessment of available resources.’
‘If you say so.’
He heads for the door. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t deliver a warning or a lecture. Just says, over his shoulder, quiet enough that I could pretend I didn’t hear it:
‘She seems good, Jude. Be careful with it.’
And he’s gone.
I strip out of my waterproofs in silence, hands moving through the familiar motions. Hang the gear on the drying rack. Stow my helmet. Lock my personal items back in my locker.
All the while my brain’s screaming.
Last night was supposed to be a one-time catastrophic lapse in judgement. A mistake we’d both pretend never happened. Stress relief in the worst possible form, with the worst possible person.
And now I’ve got to walk down to the harbour, find the woman who threw me out of her shed eight hours ago, and ask her if she’d like to spend five weeks in close physical proximity with me on a lifeboat.
Trusting me with her life. Being trusted with hers.
Because I opened my stupid mouth and defended her capabilities to the very people who were looking for a reason to say no.
I did this to myself.
I literally argued my way into this.
For five weeks minimum. While Kit’s three thousand miles away and I’m here running his business and covering his duties and trying to keep Dad from unravelling and pretending I’m not buried under the weight of it all.
And I’ll be the one who recruited a Trelawney onto the crew.
The one Dad will blame when he inevitably finds out.
The one who’ll have to stand between Brynn and whatever explosion happens when the truth comes out.
‘Oh, this is going to go spectacularly, catastrophically badly,’ I mutter to no one in particular.
I walk out of the station into the grey morning light. The harbour’s waking up properly now – boats heading out, gulls wheeling overhead, the smell of diesel and salt and fish guts heavy on the air.
Down at the south end, the shed doors are still open. I can see movement inside – a figure on the deck of the trawler, working, always working.
I have to walk down there.
I have to ask her.
I have to look Brynn Trelawney in the eye, eight hours after having her against the wall of her own boat’s wheelhouse, and talk about knot work and rescue protocols and professional boundaries.
A gull screams overhead, mocking me.
Yeah. That sounds about right.