CHAPTER THREE

The Curnow Shipyard

Sailing from the west and clear of Start Point on a northerly course Greg saw the daymark on the top of the east cliffs marking the entrance to the Dart. The cliffs and rocks are steep and jagged either side, above as well as below water. He made for this landmark until, as if by magic, the vista of Dartmouth town became visible through the narrow entrance. He took down his mainsail and started the engine before reaching the Castle on the port side. Once through the narrows, past the ferry terminal on the Kingswear shore and the large marina to starboard, it was a short distance to the Curnow shipyard on the east side of the river.

Greg tied up at the visitors’ pontoon and made his way along the gangway toward the offices.

‘Well, well, well, what do I see coming toward me?’ called out a voice from the top of the outside wooden staircase.

‘Chris,’ cried Greg. ‘How the devil are you? Thought I’d give you a surprise.’

‘You’ve done that all right. If you’d phoned first, I’d have put out the red carpet.’

Chris came down the steps to meet his old pal with a bear hug.

‘It’s been a long time,’ said Chris. ‘Your ears must have been burning. ’Twas only the other day I said to John - he’s our accountant, you remember - that I could do with somebody like you to handle the publicity and PR. It’s getting too much for me, and I’m not really qualified. Come on up and tell me what you’ve been doing. Why have you left it so long?’

Chris introduced Flossie, his secretary, who promptly put the kettle on and commenced to make tea for them. She was a startling-looking girl in her twenties, with a big mop of fuzzy auburn hair and a red ribbon tied in a bow on top. She was dressed as if she was someone in showbiz, not a secretary.

‘Is this private, Chris?’ she enquired. ‘I’ll go and have my tea with John.’

‘No, no. You carry on, Flossie. I haven’t seen Greg for - how long? - three, four years?’ he said, looking at Greg, who vigorously nodded assent. ‘I’ve been struggling to get out a press release about an agency we’ve taken on. It took me more than a week to produce. It’s a French company. We are to be the sole UK distributors for a range of their chandlery. You would have done a job like that in an hour or so,’ he said to Greg, and then, turning to Flossie: ‘Please carry on and type it, Flossie. I will get my old pal here to give it the once-over; he used to be in the advertising and publicity business.’

With Flossie clattering away at her typewriter the two of them reminisced about past times and Greg filled Chris in on his wanderings. Chris Curnow told Greg he now employed some thirty staff on boatbuilding and maintenance.

‘Greg, why don’t you stay where you are for the night?’ said Chris. ‘From what you tell me you don’t have to go back to the Solent in a hurry. Flossie here will fax that article of yours. I’ve got a plan brewing in this grey matter of mine and a busy afternoon ahead. May I come on board this evening, say about five o’clock, and try you out on what I have in mind?’

‘Sure, Chris. In the meanwhile I’ll nip over on the ferry and top up my victuals. See you at five.’

Chris came on board that evening and explained what he had in mind: ‘Firstly, some good news about the shipbuilding side of the business. I’m about to sign a contract with the state of Qatar to build a fast patrol boat. From what you told me earlier, Greg, I believe we can help each other. Here’s what I propose. My workload has increased to breaking point over the last year. I’m a boatbuilder, not a publicity man or a writer like you. I have taken on more than I can chew. I told you about the agency for the French company. Six months ago we also went into the brokerage business and sales look promising, but it takes up far too much of my time. Why don’t you move down here, lock, stock and barrel? I’ll give you a pontoon berth and a site for your caravan, no charges. In return, you take over all my publicity work, including the new agency, and run the brokerage. What do you say?’

‘I say that’s fantastic, that’s what I say.’

They shook hands and Chris said, ‘Have you got any problems you haven’t told me about?’

‘Well, yes, just a small one. I’m a bit involved with a family who have become good friends in Salcombe. Before I could think what I was doing I found myself tempted by what they called “a bit of trade”.’

Chris looked at Greg enquiringly with one eyebrow raised.

‘Being a bit short of the readies, I was talked into accepting some cases of Calvados and caviar, which they told me would fetch a handsome profit. I can’t think of a way of selling them. You wouldn’t have any ideas, would you?’

‘A bit of trade? That’s a euphemism round these parts for smuggling. Well, let me think. I may have a contact - I’ll let you know when you return. I must get back to Rosemary now - I promised her I’d be early tonight and take her out. She’s had a rough time from me recently, and I haven’t left here before six or seven o’clock for ages. Now that I’ve got something to celebrate, with you coming to help out, I know she’ll be pleased. You don’t want to change your mind?’

‘My word is my bond, you know that, Chris. It’s the best thing I’ve heard for a very long time. I’ll sail back to the Hamble in the morning. Give me a couple of days to sort things out. I’ll tow the caravan down first, and then go back for the boat.’

***

Ashore in Bursledon, Greg’s first thoughts were of Mary. He phoned her.

‘I’ve missed you,’ she said.

‘And I‘ve missed you too. I’ve got something to tell you, and I’d rather not do it on the phone.’

‘Sounds serious. How would you like to come round to my flat? I’ll rustle up some grub this evening. It so happens I have something to tell you too.’

Mary gave him directions, and he was round at her place at six thirty that evening. She’d just got back, shopping for their supper on the way from work. They greeted each other with a kiss and a hug and huge smiles.

Seated with glasses of wine in their hands, Mary spoke first: ‘You’ve got something on your mind. I have a feeling what you have to say affects us.’

Greg put his glass down and took her hand in both of his.

‘It does. Meeting you has made me think more positively than I have for years. I told you that I was going to visit my old pal in Dartmouth. Well, the result of that visit is that I’ve taken up a job offer from him based at his yard on the Dart.’

Mary pulled her hand from his and put it across her mouth as she raised her eyebrows in an expression of surprise.

‘I knew it.’ she exclaimed as her hand dropped back on his. ‘Destiny has funny tricks to play,’ she said wistfully. ‘I’ve been putting off telling you that I have been offered a place on a management course in Aberdeen. This will last three months and could lead to a senior position in Scotland. I need to do this thing, Greg. An opportunity like this will not be offered to me again.’

There was a long pause.

‘And why would you turn it down?’

‘I seriously thought of turning it down, Greg, because of you. I thought we’d got something going between us. I know we are both strong-minded. Distance should not part us if what we have is strong.’

He wanted to say, ‘Marry me and come to Devon,’ but he held back, not only because he was afraid that her answer would be ‘No,’ but because he knew he too had put himself first with his decision to go to Dartmouth.

Mary went to the fridge and returned to top up their glasses.

‘Mary, you are terribly important to me. I am going to miss you so very much.’

He watched the tears start to roll down her cheeks. He wiped them away with his thumbs, grasped her shoulders, and they rolled back onto the sofa. That kiss conveyed more passion and love than they had experienced together before.

After supper they extended the intensity of their feelings in the bedroom. Greg did not return to his caravan that night. They knew they had something special that was more than passing friendship.

Over breakfast they said much about writing and phoning. Contact numbers were exchanged. Mary went to work and Greg returned to Bursledon.

He hitched the caravan up to the old Consul and set off for Devon. When he arrived late in the evening Chris Curnow was still in his office. He directed Greg to a cleared concrete apron near No.1 Shed and personally helped him to jack up the caravan, lay a cable to a power point, and connect a hosepipe to a nearby tap.

‘You go back to get the boat tomorrow, Greg, before we get down to business. See you in two or three days. Saturday or Sunday I’ll have more time to hand things over to you.’

‘Sounds about right,’ said Greg. ‘I’ll sell the car when I get back to Bursledon - or, to put it more accurately, my pal with the garage where the caravan has been parked will sell it for me. It will help me to reimburse him for past favours.’

Once back in Bursledon, Greg resisted the temptation to phone Mary. He sailed down the Hamble, out into Southampton Water and on westwards through the Solent into the English Channel. He sailed on toward his destination. Or was it his destiny?

What had he done? He was supremely happy in Mary’s company. Had he found love again - and thrown it away? No. Their feelings for each other were mutual. They would last. Between them they would find a way. What was it she had said outside her flat when they had parted that morning? She had said, ‘This was meant to be.’

Aground and tucked up in the south-west corner on the sand in The Cobb at Lyme Regis, he was safe for the night. He dropped off to sleep with positive thoughts for his future.

***

With the rise of the tide in the morning he set sail for Dartmouth.

Greg was no sooner tied up to the visitors’ pontoon at the Curnow Yard on Friday afternoon than Chris came down to greet him. Greg invited him on board.

‘I’ve got your “bit o’ trade” sorted,’ said Chris. ‘I’ve a pal in London with a wine bar and restaurant, a man I can trust. He told me on the phone that he’ll take them, but he first needs to know what he is buying. We’ll ship the cases up to London to Antonio, who I know will offer you a good price if the goods are the real stuff. I assure you that, despite his name, Antonio, like me, is of good Cornish stock and not averse to a bit of trade.’

‘I shall be glad to unload this lot,’ said Greg.

‘The staff will all be gone shortly, and I’ll give you a hand to get those cases into the warehouse. I’ll explain to the despatch manager on Monday morning that they are a gift for a business contact in London, and give him the address.’

When Greg entered Chris’s office on Saturday morning he instinctively knew that the other man present was Chris’s brother. He was tall, had the same dark complexion, and his ginger hair reached forward to a widow’s peak.

‘Meet my brother Harry,’ said Chris.

Apart from Harry’s short military-style haircut they could have been twins.

‘I’ll not beat about the bush,’ said Chris. ‘Harry’s been in prison for the last three years. He’s not proud of it, and he’ll tell you his story in his own good time. He’s out on licence. I’m helping the company as well as my brother by giving him a job. Old Seth, who runs the warehouse, is retiring at the end of the year, and I’ve given him another easier job in the yard without a drop in pay, so he’s happy. With the new agency the warehouse work will become more exacting and, whilst Harry is overqualified for the job, we have agreed he will be able to do it well.’

Harry departed for the warehouse. Chris and Greg spent the morning covering what Chris wanted from Greg, from launching the new chandlery line to building up the brokerage business.

‘One thing more,’ said Chris: ‘Flossie didn’t think much of the press release I was doing when you were here last week. Do you think you could put it into some sort of order for me?’

Greg was in Chris’s office with Flossie on Monday morning when a slightly built handsome man of about sixty, peering over the top of spectacles halfway down his aquiline nose, and with a mass of nearly white hair, came in from the adjacent office and looked enquiringly at Flossie.

‘Oh, John, this is Mr Norfield, Chris’s friend.’

They shook hands and the tall man said, ‘We met many years ago, you may remember. I’m John Dalton, the company secretary and accountant. Welcome to our establishment. Chris has told me what you are going to be up to.’ With raised eyebrows and a grin he added, ‘Provided whatever you suggest doesn’t cost us too much, you won’t be seeing a lot of me.’

He returned to his office.

‘I know Chris is away for a couple of days,’ said Greg to Flossie. ‘I have rewritten his press release, but I expect you’ll want to retype it.’

‘I’m not surprised at that; I nearly rewrote it myself!’ she said.

The two of them had a chuckle.

‘I’ve got another item of my own which I need to fax, if I may, and I’d like to phone a couple of people that Chris says may be interested to have us sell their boats for them.’

‘Let me have your stuff for faxing, Mr Norfield. I’ll do that, and you use Chris’s desk there. Any numbers you need just ask me. Use the green phone, the black one is internal.’

‘You’re a gem, Flossie. I can see what Chris meant by you running the place. And please call me Greg.’

After a quick sandwich in the caravan Greg made his way to No. 1 Shed to reacquaint himself with Bill Fossett, the shipyard manager. He found him finishing his own lunch in the little office built for him high up overlooking the workspace.

At Greg’s request he trotted out how he came to be there: ‘A five-year apprenticeship at Mashfords in Plymouth. Ten years with a small builder in Looe, during which I obtained my HNC in shipbuilding by part-time study in Plymouth. I jumped at this job when I saw it advertised seven years ago.’

Greg explained why he was there and moved on to find Harry in his cubbyhole in the warehouse.

‘I’ve got a list from the French of all the items we will be importing,’ said Harry. ‘They’ve marked the most popular items within the existing markets in Europe. I need to devise our own list for this country with reference numbers to make it easier for stocking. Got any ideas?’

Greg looked at the list.

‘I need to study this more carefully. I’ll get a copy for Bill Fossett. Three heads are better than two. What do you think?’

‘Good idea,’ replied Harry. ‘By the way, I used to be an accountant.’

Greg did as he promised and went back to the caravan to see what he could make of his own copy.

On the Wednesday he had a further session with Chris. He cleared the air to be away until the following weekend, when prospective brokerage customers were more likely to want attention. Then he set sail for Salcombe.

***

Greg tied up at the town quay. It was convenient for shopping and there was The Victoria, a pub that sold proper draught beer and had first-class bar food at Greg’s prices. The harbourmaster was on the quay to extract his dues.

‘Good evening, sir. I’ve seen you here before, I believe?’

‘That’s right. May I tie up here for tonight?’

‘That will cost you the princely sum of two pounds, please, sir.’

It was late in the afternoon by the time he had finished his shopping. He found a comfortable corner in The Victoria and settled with his pint. The only other occupant of the bar seated nearby was an old man with grey hair down to his shoulders, a long white beard, well-worn jeans, shorty gumboots and a white roll-neck. He looked every bit the ancient mariner, complete with a greasy Breton cap pulled down low.

‘Good evening to you, sir,’ he said, eyeing Greg over his pint mug. ‘I’m be guessing you’m be a visitor to these parts.’ He sounded like Robert Trehairne.

‘And good evening to you. I’m guessing that you are local.’

Over the next hour or so Greg was regaled with the history of the area and was not surprised to hear from this character much about the smuggling of “the old days”.

At this point the harbourmaster entered the bar. Greg, now well fortified, took a bold approach and invited him to join them for a beer on the basis that he might learn even more about the potential dangers of ‘bits of trade’.

‘I see you’ve already met Josh,’ said the harbourmaster as he sat down. ‘I’m Nick Wroughton, ex-merchant navy, paid by the council to keep an eye on you mariners and the suchlike. Good health to you.’

‘Josh here has been telling me about smuggling and the local history.’

‘Oh, he can do that all right. He’s part of it himself - aren’t you, Josh? He’s been around these parts for ninety-odd years. Might have been smuggling in his early days - isn’t that right, Josh?’

Josh mumbled something into his beer mug that sounded a bit like “Ooh ahrr” and Nick addressed Greg again.

‘Don’t you sometimes anchor in Robbie’s Creek, upriver?’

‘I have done,’ said Greg cautiously, fearful that maybe he was about to be charged harbour dues for all the times he’d anchored there.

‘It is beyond the jurisdiction of the harbour authorities up there,’ continued Nick. ‘Robert Trehairne owns the rights to the oyster beds. Not that there are any oysters any more. He used to have a noticeboard on the bank prohibiting anchoring or fishing, but it blew down in a gale.’

Greg decided that he’d had enough ale and was hungry. He thanked the two of them for their company and moved to the eating area. After his meal he returned to the boat. As he lay in his bunk he found comfort from what he had learned that evening in the pub. He was not under suspicion. He had not owned up to knowing the Trehairnes, and it didn’t seem that present-day smuggling existed, at least in the mind of the harbourmaster. And he should know.