Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
JUDE
Thursday morning starts with Dad calling me Kit.
‘Kit, have you checked the nets?’ He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, still in his pyjamas at half seven, hair uncombed, that unfocused look in his eyes that’s becoming more frequent. ‘The forecast says weather’s coming. We need to get the catch in before—’
‘It’s Jude, Dad.’ I keep my voice even. ‘Kit’s in New York, remember? With Isla and Maisie.’
He blinks. For a moment, confusion clouds his face – that terrible blankness where I can see him reaching for a fact that should be right there and finding nothing. Then it clears, and he’s back. Mostly.
‘Right. New York.’ He runs a hand through his hair, embarrassed now, which is almost worse than the confusion. ‘Of course. I knew that.’
The wrong name. Always the wrong name. Even when Kit’s three thousand miles away, he’s the one Dad reaches for first.
‘Tea’s in the pot,’ I say, turning back to the stove. ‘Toast in a minute.’
We don’t talk about the slip. We never do. Just move past it, pretend it didn’t happen, add it to the growing catalogue of things we’re not acknowledging.
The catalogue is getting long.
This is what mornings are now. First the fog, then the anger. The anger at least sounds like him.
I’m buttering toast when he says, ‘Heard the Trelawney girl’s doing her assessment today.’
My hand stills on the knife. ‘Where’d you hear that?’
‘Dot.’ His voice has an edge now, the confusion replaced by old stubbornness. More familiar. ‘She says you’re the one running it.’
Of course Dot told him. Dot tells everyone everything – it’s her calling, her art form, the thing she was put on this earth to do. And of course she framed it as Jude’s doing, because it is, and because that makes it a better story.
‘It’s just an assessment, Dad. Cal asked me to run it.’ Because I opened my stupid mouth and vouched for her, but Dad doesn’t need to know that part. ‘She probably won’t pass.’
The lie comes easily. Too easily.
‘She’d better not.’ He’s at the table now, mug clenched in both hands like he’s trying to strangle it. ‘Bad enough she’s back at all, sniffing around the harbour like she owns the place. But the lifeboat? That’s ours. Hardings have served on that crew for three generations.’
‘I know.’
‘Your grandfather helped build that station. I spent thirty years—’
‘I know, Dad.’
He says it with total authority, total clarity.
The long-term memories are granite – 1974, the station dedication, every boat he’s ever crewed.
It’s the new ones that dissolve. He can remember his grandfather hauling the first keel block into position.
He can’t remember that Kit left for New York three weeks ago.
‘That family has no business—’
‘I said I know.’ Sharper than I intended. I take a breath, set the plate of toast in front of him. ‘It’s just an assessment. I’ll make sure it’s thorough.’
What I don’t say: She’ll pass. I’ve seen her certificates. I’ve seen her work. She’s more qualified than half the people who’ve applied in the last two years.
What I definitely don’t say: I’m the one who told Cal and Bill exactly that, in detail, like a man compiling his own execution order.
I did this to myself. I literally argued my way into this.
‘Just make sure you do,’ Dad says. ‘Thorough.’
‘I will.’
I escape upstairs to shower and change, standing under water hot enough to scald, trying to burn out the images that keep surfacing.
The sound she made when I told her about Dad. The way the anger cracked open and she kissed me like she was falling. Her voice: My grandad forgot things too. Small things first. Like she was handing me permission to be fucking scared.
And then the notebook. Her plans, her lists, the future I held in my hands before she threw me out.
I turn the water to cold and stand there until I’m shivering.
I should go for a surf. The swell would be clean this morning – glassy and cold. Exactly what I need. But there’s no time. There’s never time.
It doesn’t help.
The lifeboat station is quiet when I arrive at quarter to two. Cal’s already there, clipboard in hand, running through the assessment checklist with the methodical precision of a man who’s done this a hundred times.
‘Harding.’ He nods when he sees me. ‘You ready?’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’
He gives me a look that suggests he’s not entirely fooled by my casual tone, but doesn’t push. ‘Standard protocol. Knots, equipment, water recovery. I’ll observe the final drill.’
‘Right.’
‘And Jude?’ He waits until I meet his eyes. ‘Whatever history there is between your families, leave it at the door. I need an honest assessment.’
‘You’ll get one.’
Cal was always like this with Kit – direct, trusting, full of the quiet faith that comes from training someone yourself. I’m the understudy promoted to lead because the star is on holiday. Cal’s patient with me, but it’s not the same, and we both know it.
I spend the next ten minutes checking equipment I’ve already checked twice, arranging the rope for knot tests, making sure the rescue mannequin is properly weighted. Busy work. Anything to keep my hands occupied and my mind from wandering.
At two o’clock exactly, Brynn arrives at the sea pool the RNLI use for training.
She’s in practical gear – waterproof trousers, thermal layer, hair pulled back tight. She looks sharp. Ready.
‘Trelawney.’ I nod, aiming for professional detachment.
‘Harding,’ she replies, voice flat. But I catch the way her jaw tightens slightly when she sees me. The way her eyes flick over me once, quickly, before she looks away.
Good. So we’re both pretending.
‘Cal’s observing the final drill,’ I say, all business. ‘We’ll start with knots, move to equipment, finish with water recovery. Any questions?’
‘No.’
‘Right then.’ I gesture towards the rope shed that sits along the rough-hewn rock wall. ‘Show me a bowline.’
She doesn’t hesitate before striding over. Her hands move with automatic efficiency that speaks to years of practice – loop, pass through, around, back down. Done in under five seconds.
‘Figure eight on a bight.’
Same thing. Quick, clean, perfect.
‘Clove hitch.’
She raises an eyebrow, but does it anyway. Flawless.
‘Anchor bend. Round turn and two half hitches. Sheet bend.’ I’m throwing them faster now, trying to catch her out.
She ties each one without pause, without error, without looking at her hands.
‘Taught yourself from YouTube, did you?’ The words slip out before I can stop them.
Her eyes meet mine, and there’s the faintest hint of a smirk. ‘My grandfather taught me to tie knots before I could write my name. But thanks for the condescension. Really sets the tone.’
‘Just being thorough.’
‘Mm.’
She doesn’t believe me. Fair enough. I don’t believe me either.
I move her to equipment next – life jackets, throw bags, the portable radio, the casualty care kit. She identifies each piece correctly, demonstrates proper usage, answers my questions about protocols with detailed knowledge that suggests she’s memorised the manual. Possibly twice.
‘VHF procedures,’ I say. ‘Talk me through a Mayday call.’
She does, perfectly, including the phonetic alphabet and the specific format for position reporting.
‘And if the radio fails?’
‘EPIRB activation, flares in sequence of three, and if all else fails, the international distress signal is both arms raised and lowered repeatedly.’ She pauses. ‘Do you want me to demonstrate, or can we move on?’
There’s a challenge in her voice. A dare.
‘Water recovery,’ I say, ignoring it. ‘Get changed. Drysuits are in the locker room back at the station.’
She disappears along the pathway that leads to station and I’m watching her through the door, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Cal appears at my shoulder. ‘Well?’
‘She knows her stuff.’ I hate admitting it. Not because it’s not true – because I’m the one who told Cal exactly this three days ago, and being right is somehow worse. ‘Theory is solid.’
‘And practically?’
‘We’ll see.’
The water recovery drill is conducted in the sea pool at the back of the station – a concrete rectangle.
During summer it’s an outdoor swimmer’s haven, apart from when the RNLI commandeer it for purposes just like this.
In March, it’s a freezing dip of hell with the natural tide, sometimes 1.
5 metre waves crashing over the man-built walls.
When Kit completed his initial training, a wave so big hit, it flung him against the wall.
He wore those vivid bruises like a badge of honour, thinking he was the man, until they turned to a mustard yellow and he was teased out of The Ship.
Brynn emerges from the station in the spare drysuit, hair tucked under the collar.
Neoprene doesn’t leave much to the imagination, and I’m not imagining – I’m remembering.
Which is worse. I have to look away before my brain supplies any more unhelpful comparisons between this version of her and the version I can’t stop thinking about.
‘Right,’ I say, voice almost a croak. ‘I’ll be the casualty. You need to get me out of the water and onto the platform using standard recovery technique.’
‘You’re the casualty?’
‘Problem?’
Her jaw tightens, too quick to mean anything. ‘No problem.’
I lower myself into the pool – the water is bloody cold – and let myself float, arms spread, playing dead weight.
‘Casualty is unconscious, unresponsive,’ Cal calls from the observation deck. ‘Water conditions: moderate swell. You have three minutes.’
Brynn doesn’t hesitate. She’s in the water before Cal finishes speaking, strong strokes cutting through the chop as the wave generator kicks in.
She reaches me in seconds, and then her hands are on me – one under my arm, the other across my chest – and she’s turning me onto my back, securing my airway, kicking towards the platform.
Her grip is firm. Professional. Exactly correct.