“Thank you, sir, thank you, madam.” The Kernow Belle boatman helped us disembark onto the pier with a grin. “Last boat back’s at four-thirty.”
“Now then,” I said looking round. “We need the St Mawes Ferry.”
“Another boat, darling?”
“Second of three I’m afraid, Sarah. We get the last ferry from St Mawes to St Anthony.”
“Don’t be afraid, darling, I love these boats, now is that ours?” She pointed to a small wooden ferry boat docked at the end of the pier next to a placard saying simply ‘St Mawes’.
“Almost an hour’s wait,” I said, looking at a sign showing twelve noon as the next crossing. “Shall we go for a wander?”
“Lead on, Jack.”
We walked along the pier and then left up a hill and along Falmouth’s narrow high street, coming before long to a sign on the wall and an arrow next to it pointing down a steep alley.
‘Fo’c’sle Locker, Chandlery’
“D’you mind if we have a look in there,” I said to Sarah. “I know it’s been fine since you arrived, but it rains an awful lot here. Could do with something waterproof.”
“Okay, interesting name for a shop.” We turned into the alley and stepped gingerly down the slope, which led, it seemed, directly into the water below. “Interesting little ope.”
“Sorry?”
“This alley, you call it an ope.”
“How did you know that?”
“And look at her.” Sarah ignored my question as we arrived at the entrance to the Fo’c’sle Locker, a low doorway on the right (invisible from the top of the alley), which was guarded by an enormous painted ship’s figurehead that looked at us with baleful eyes. I started when the figurehead seemed to speak.
“No need to worry about Sally, love, she’s not going anywhere.”
“Pardon?”
A young blonde woman in a striped Breton sweater, calf-length jeans, canvas deck shoes and a red and white kerchief around her neck, appeared from behind the statue.
“Sally, our figurehead, love,” she said, hair blowing sideways in the breeze.
“She’s a big girl.” I jerked my head towards Sally’s larger than life form.
“Oh yes, came from a ship called HMS Amazon.”
“I can imagine.”
“What can I do for you, love?”
“My husband’s looking for an oilskin,” Sarah said, stepping between me and the woman.
“Then you’re at the right place. Come inside.”
And in we went, me ducking through the low doorway, which was guarded by another, smaller figurehead above the threshold (clinging on to what looked like an old sailing ship’s bowsprit). Once inside, and blinking in the dimness, I looked around to see an Aladdin’s cave for yachtsmen, a long, low ceilinged room stacked with every conceivable nautical accessory; brass ships’ clocks, compasses, bells and barometers, reels of rope and yarn, coloured lamps hanging off the ceiling, lifebelts, charts, tins of marine varnish and paint, fishing equipment (including a pile of lobster pots), flags of every kind, an enormous foghorn standing upright on the floor, and in a wooden crate next to it, live bait (I watched Sarah grimace as she sniffed the air and watched the maggots wriggle). There seemed no rhyme or reason as to how the goods were arranged, and I looked in vain for waterproof clothing until our hostess gestured to an area at the far end of the shop where a hanging rail held oilskins of all shapes and sizes.
“You looking for a jacket or full-length, love?” she asked me, running her hand along the garments.
“He’d just like a jacket I think, wouldn’t you, darling?”
“Er… yes, jacket should be okay. I’m a fifty chest but it needs to be big enough to go over a coat.”
“Try this, it’s a size up.”
I slipped the proffered oilskin over my sports jacket, then carefully did up the newly stiff buttons.
“Yes, that seems fine.”
“Matching sou-wester, love, keep all that lovely salt and pepper hair dry?”
“Um… no thanks. Jacket’s already got a hood, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, nice big hood. Will that be all?”
“That’ll be all,” said Sarah. “Sorry, we’re in a hurry, can we pay?”
“Matching sou-wester indeed,” snapped Sarah as we emerged into the light of the ‘ope’. “Keep all that salt and pepper hair dry.”
“Just sales patter, now come on,” I said, taking her arm as we stepped back up to the high street. “We’ve actually still got half an hour to look around.”
“D’you know what, Jack,” said Sarah, pointing to a men’s clothing store across the road. “I think you could do worse than buy a new jacket.”
“I just did.”
“Not an oilskin, silly, a modern one. I mean, that tweed sports coat hasn’t been fashionable since about 1955.”
“I like it, it’s comfortable.”
“It’s old, now come on, they’ve got some lovely casual jackets in the window.”
We entered the shop, which, to my relief, was run by two men, with whom Sarah spent some time discussing my sartorial needs. Almost half an hour later we were back in the high street, me now wearing a navy blue ‘Harrington’ zip-up jacket with tartan lining and elasticated waist and cuffs (‘I think he’d like to wear it out of the shop, wouldn’t you, Jack?’). My trusty tweed was then consigned to a carrier bag, along with the oilskin.
“You look a treat, darling. Takes years off you.”
“Never mind that, have you seen the time?” A clock above our heads showed two minutes to twelve. “We need to get moving.”
“Looks like they’re about to go,” I shouted as we arrived at the pier to see the St Mawes boat preparing to leave. We ran to it, clambering down a ladder, throwing the carrier bag in first then jumping on board just as the boatman cast off the mooring ropes. Sitting down, I noticed the old man in the overcoat from the Kernow Belle standing in the bows. His eye caught mine and he nodded, then turned his gaze towards the far shore, hair and beard flowing in the breeze as the little ferry pressed through the waves to its destination, about a mile across the harbour from Falmouth. Sarah, excited as ever by new experiences and with shopping now seemingly forgotten, began pointing out more landmarks.
“That’s St Mawes Castle, I could tell you some history about that.”
“I’m sure.”
“And there,” she said, waving her hand at a white tower that seemed to sit impossibly on the rocks at the mouth of the harbour. “That’s St Anthony Lighthouse.”
“We could drive there tomorrow if you like.”
“Yes let’s.”
Arriving in St Mawes, we found we had just missed the St Anthony crossing, a sign by the empty berth stated in chalk writing that there was an hour’s wait for the next boat. I looked across the water to see the ferry itself not far from shore, weaving away from us between the boats moored in the river.
“The ferry gods are against us today.”
“Not necessarily,” said Sarah, pointing to a café. “Now we’ve time for a cream tea.”
“It’s not even half twelve.”
“It can count as lunch.” She took me by the hand and pulled me into the café, where a waitress led us to a window table and took our order. “And look.” Sarah pointed out of the window as we waited. “That motorbike again, the one from the station and the hotel. See.” I duly looked, to see a black Triumph parked just along the road.
“Certainly looks like the same one. I mean, there can’t be too many black Bonnevilles around here. I’ll try and remember that number plate, I—”
“Two cream teas?” interrupted the waitress, placing a tray in front of us.
“Yes, thank you,” said Sarah. “I’m so looking forward to this, Jack,” she added, the mysterious Triumph now clearly forgotten. “Now then, you must put the jam on the scones first. Then the cream.”
“Isn’t it the other way round?”
“No, that’s Devon, darling.”
*
Cream teas consumed, we boarded the St Anthony ferry (actually no more than a small open boat with an outboard engine), to find the bearded man we had met earlier sitting on a seat in the bows.
“Been shopping?” he said, looking at the carrier bag.
“Oilskins. Never know when I’ll need them.”
“Next week, Friday, late afternoon I’d reckon. See you’ve a different jacket on and all.”
I smiled and nodded, as the boatman pulled his starter cord in a series of short revs before the outboard spluttered into life.
“Going over to that new school in St Anthony?” the old man then asked, as the ferry carried the three of us across the river.
“We are,” I shouted over the noise of the engine.
“Heard they call it The Academy.”
“That’s right, you know it?”
“Oh yes. Met a few of the kids there. Bright lot, eh?”
“Indeed. Set up specially for gifted children. And that’s it to the right, Sarah,” I said, as the main school building and its lawns sweeping down to the water’s edge came into view.
“Gifted,” the old man said with a faraway look in his eyes. “Ah yes, I do hope they are, at least the one I need.”
“And you,” Sarah asked him. “You live over there in St Anthony?”
“Oh no, but I come here from time to time.”
“Truro then?”
“Around and about, here in the Old World, and in America.” He stood up as he said this and stared westwards, causing the little boat to pitch from side to side, then steadied himself and sat down again but continued his faraway gaze, now appearing to speak more to the wind than to us. “Wherever I’m needed to protect the righteous.”
Sarah giggled and nudged me.
“America and the righteous,” she sniggered, pointing to the top of what looked like a whisky bottle protruding from one of the old man’s many coat pockets. “More like the self-righteous, he’ll be lucky if he gets to the other side of here without falling in.”
“Shh.” I put my finger to Sarah’s lips, worried the old man might see her laughing, but he continued to look ahead, seemingly oblivious of our presence.
As the ferry continued to chug forwards, I looked upstream to see two kayaks in the distance, one red and the other yellow, paddled by a girl and a boy that I thought I might have seen before at the academy. I watched as the canoes followed the course of the river, turning into a clump of overhanging trees, before suddenly disappearing from view. A few moments later our ferry pulled up against a small wooden jetty at the end of a narrow lane that wound away into the thick woodland that covered the banks of the creek as far as the eye could see. Three boys I also recognised from the academy were waiting, and impatiently went to jump into the ferry until the boatman shouted at them to stop while the passengers got onto dry land. The old man disembarked first, followed by Sarah and me.
“I’ll be here every hour, on the half hour, until six this evening,” said the boatman, as he let us off. “Busy day today, both ways,” he added, as the three boys climbed into the boat.
“Thank you,” I replied. “And goodbye to you as well,” I added, addressing the old man.
“There’s nobody here, darling,” said Sarah, looking down the empty lane. “He’s vanished.”