Chapter 11
Having slept in late, Noah stared out of the window from his bedroom across Dragonfly Lake, barely visible through the heavy rain.
He would miss the view when he left later, he had to concede. And perhaps the luxury of proper walls rather than the plastic ones on the caravan that were so noisy every time it rained. As well as the leaks and the condensation on a chilly morning.
Instead, solid and sturdy Maple Tree Lodge was holding fast against the wind and rain that was lashing the window at the moment. The predicted storm had arrived with a vengeance.
Perhaps it was a sign that it was time for him to leave. He turned to look at the room once more before picking up his rucksack and his phone which was on charge.
He had spent the previous day studying and researching the boat that he had inherited.
It was a beauty, a classic 1930s powerboat 10 metres long with a small inside cabin that could double up as a bed for the night.
Although completely unseaworthy at the moment, once it was fully restored with new, sleek mahogany, the boat would be elegant once more.
He had spent hours in bed the previous evening working out what he would need to repair it.
It would take many hours of work. Did he have that time?
Yes, if he cancelled his next project which was also going to be in Brighton.
Did he have the space to work? Only if he hired himself his own boat dry dock somewhere.
It was a conundrum but he was sorely tempted to take the winter off and work for himself, for once.
No last-minute demands from clients. He would be the client this time.
He had some money put aside which would see him through the renovations if he didn’t have any other income.
He had always dreamt of security but he would never earn enough to buy any property and so the savings had remained in the bank for now.
He kept wondering and thinking over what came next for him.
He had always been moving on but the decisions had normally been taken out of his hands.
A contract would come through and he would move on to the next town, the next project.
But he was tired of renting. He found himself longing for a bolt-hole of his own.
Would he ever find somewhere to call home?
Perhaps nowhere would ever feel like that.
He wondered if, perhaps, it was an age thing. He had been running and moving around for so long, for so many years, that perhaps at the age of thirty-four he was finally ready to settle down. Although he had no idea where and what that would be like.
He gave a longing look at the luxurious bed.
Wherever he ended up, he would be buying something as comfortable as this.
Although the oak four-poster wasn’t quite his style, he loved the wood and artistry with which it had been made, he thought, reaching out to stroke the corner post of the bed.
Walter had made this, of that he was sure.
It touched him deep inside that they had that connection with the love of woodcraft.
Maple Tree Lodge as a whole was certainly well built. A solid structure, much like the Jackson family themselves. It was only his side of the family that had been made on less firm foundations, it appeared.
Even now as he headed downstairs, he could hear the chatter from the kitchen and, seeing Lily talking to a man at the reception desk, he automatically swerved to head outside instead.
So he went, unable to stop himself from seeing his boat one more time. His boat.
He couldn’t help but smile to himself, even as he hunkered down under the hood of his winter coat and felt the strong winds whip around him.
The storm was here already, not that he worried too much about that kind of thing.
He had spent many nights sheltering from coastal storms. He was used to a little bad weather.
He made his way to the barn and went in, grateful to be out of the eye of the storm outside.
He unzipped his coat and headed over to throw off the tarpaulin.
He stood and stared at the boat for a while.
It was resting on a makeshift dry dock and he remembered the first time he had ever seen a boat sitting out of the water.
When he had arrived in Penzance, he had struggled to find himself any kind of job.
A rough-looking teenager wasn’t an ideal employment opportunity for most people, especially when he only had a bicycle to his name.
After a couple of days of sleeping rough, he had ended up in a boatyard, drawn to the amazing sight of so many boats sitting out of the water waiting to be checked or repaired.
He walked forward, staring up at a boat near the open gates, fascinated that it was out of the water and revealing the most important part of itself, its very heart.
He could still remember the thrill and wonder, trying to work out how the massive hole that the vessel in front of him had could be mended.
He could also remember the shock of hearing the deep male voice behind him. ‘What are you doing in here?’
Noah had spun around, instantly knowing that he had been trespassing. ‘Nothing,’ he said quickly to the middle-aged man who had a weathered face as if he had spent a lifetime on the ocean. ‘I was just looking at it.’
The man had looked at him for a long while before asking whether he wanted a hot drink.
Noah had stared at him suspiciously. Nobody offered anything to him without a reason, he had found over his sixteen years. In the end, he nodded and let the man walk into a nearby cabin before he spun around and went to leave.
He had just been heading away when he saw the screwdriver set on a nearby workbench.
His steps faltered. His bicycle needed repairing and he hadn’t got any more money, having used it all for his coach ticket to Cornwall and some food.
The bike was his only form of transport.
Surely a couple of tools wouldn’t make any difference to anyone, he wondered, despite the guilt deep inside.
After all, the man appeared to have loads around, given the size of his workshop cabin nearby.
In the end, Noah slipped a couple under his sweatshirt and quickly left before the man returned.
He managed to repair his bicycle later that afternoon. Still not finding any work or a place to sleep, he resigned himself to sleeping once more in one of the bus shelters that he’d seen next to the pier.
But despite the beauty of the evening sun setting over the sea, he couldn’t settle.
Not with the heavy weight of guilt hanging over him.
He had become a thief. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t care.
That he didn’t care what anyone thought of him.
But the shame remained with him until he couldn’t bear it any longer.
He went back to the boatyard, relieved to find the gates still open despite the late hour. However, his steps faltered when he saw the light on inside the cabin. Hoping he could get away without being noticed, he had just reached the bench next to the boat when a voice spoke.
‘If you had asked me instead of stealing them, I would have lent the screwdrivers to you.’
He gulped and looked up at the same man who had offered him a drink earlier. He suddenly felt fearful. What would he do? Hurt him? Call the police? Run him out of town?
Noah hesitated, still feeling guilty about his theft. ‘I only borrowed them,’ he muttered, bringing them out of his pocket and putting the screwdrivers down on the bench. ‘I haven’t got any tools of my own.’
‘It would have been polite to ask,’ said the man, coming over and wiping his hands on a rag as he went.
‘Sorry,’ muttered Noah, feeling about two foot high. ‘I needed to fix my bike.’
The man studied him for a while. ‘Well, you can pay me back by lending me a hand. Help me carry this wood, would you?’ He nodded at a nearby pile on the back of a trailer.
Noah looked at the man suspiciously. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Why not? You’re here, aren’t you?’ Then, to Noah’s surprise, the man laughed. ‘And because I hurt my shoulder kayaking yesterday, okay?’ he carried on.
So Noah did as he was asked and carried the planks of wood across to the boat.
‘Do you know what type of wood this is?’ asked the man as he went back and forth.
Noah shook his head.
‘It’s larch,’ he replied. ‘Look, I’ll show you how flexible it is. Best thing for boats.’
Noah followed the man into his workshop and lost track of time as the man chatted away about boat craft. He hadn’t even realised that it had become completely dark outside, apart from the large work lights that the man had switched on to see.
‘You got somewhere to sleep tonight?’ asked the man, whose name was Michael.
Noah shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t care about sleeping outside. The sound of the ocean and the salty air made him feel fresher, somehow. It was certainly preferable to the hot and sweaty city where he had been living.
‘Look, now that I’ve busted my shoulder, I’m going to need a hand over the next few days if you fancy helping me out,’ said Michael. ‘I’ll pay you.’
‘Why?’ asked Noah, still suspicious. Nothing had ever come easily to him without a hidden clause.
‘Listen, I reckon everybody needs a break once in a while,’ Michael told him.
For a brief moment, Noah had had to blink back the tears. The one thing he had never been given ever in his life had been a break. Thankfully he managed to suppress the turmoil inside, something he had got very good at during his childhood.
‘Why me?’ croaked Noah, the emotion still bubbling in his throat.
‘Why not?’ asked Michael, with a sad smile.
And that was how his love of boatmaking had begun. Over the next few days, Michael had begun to teach him the craft.
By the end of the week, Michael had drawn him to one side. ‘You’re a natural,’ he said, nodding his approval. ‘Never seen anyone with that amount of skill at your age.’
Noah had beamed with pride about himself, an entirely new emotion up until that point in his life.
It turned out that Michael’s apprentice had just left and he had been wanting more help around the boatyard.
So it became a permanent arrangement. Now that he was finally earning money, Noah found himself some cheap lodgings and had stayed there for five years until Michael retired.
He had pushed back against getting any academic qualifications.
School had never been his favourite place.
But he was lucky that his skills came so easily to him and after a couple of years, he could even teach Michael a thing or two with each new project.
By the time that Michael was ready to retire, Noah had become so good at his craft that Michael had offered to sell him the boatyard. But Noah had resisted. It was time to move on, he thought, still not wanting to get too close to anyone.
They shook hands that final day and Noah was able to say thank you. It was too small a phrase for what Michael had given him. A trade. A craft. A future.
‘Get yourself a boat of your own one day,’ Michael had once told him. ‘It’s freedom.’
At the time and over the years since, Noah had dismissed the thought but now he was sorely tempted as he stood in the barn and looked up at his inheritance once more.
He brought out his phone and took yet more photos of the boat. Something to carry with him and also to remind him what he was leaving behind. The boat was in no shape to be towed at that moment. It would have to remain at Maple Tree Lodge for a while longer.
Hopefully it was only a brief farewell, thought Noah. He would be back, he promised himself before he locked up the barn. He just had no idea when or how.