line, shivered at the sudden chill. He looked up.
‘You cold, Greer?’
‘I am a bit.’
‘Come here.’ Amiably, he opened an arm up to her and she tentatively let him put it around her. She was enclosed between his arms as he held the fishing rod. She could feel his chest moving in and out as he breathed. Conversely, she held her breath, in fear of actually touching him more closely.
A tug on the line disturbed the moment and he lifted an arm over her head, letting her out of the enclosure. ‘Want to reel this one in?’ he asked.
‘Show me how.’
He handed her the rod and instructed her gently on how to wind in the reel. The flapping mackerel broke the surface. ‘I don’t like this bit,’ she said.
‘And you a fisherman’s daughter!’ He laughed kindly. ‘You’d never make a fisherman’s wife.’
The summer they left school was a good one. The sun shone, the sea remained calm and the beaches were inviting. The holiday-makers came down in their droves, so there was plenty of work for the school-leavers, waiting tables or taking money in dusty beach-side car parks.
Jesse worked on his father’s flagship, The Lobster Pot. Being a Behenna and heir to the business made no difference: he was not given an easy ride. He had to learn the business from the bottom up.
Like most Cornish trawlers, The Lobster Pot had five crew members. Edward was the skipper, the toothless Spencer was his mate. In charge of the engines was the mechanic, Josh, a Kiwi of about 35 who’d landed in Cornwall as a student, years earlier, and never gone home. The cook was Hamish, a Scotsman with a surprisingly good palate, and the two deckhands were Jesse and another young school-leaver, Aaron.
The boat went out for up to seven days at a time, with two and a half days back on dry land before going to sea once more. It was a steep learning curve for Jesse, who’d not been allowed to join his father on these trips before, but he had the sea in his soul. Not only did he enjoy the work, he enjoyed the money that was divvied up at the end of each trip.
Once a catch was landed and sold at market, the money was used to pay for the diesel, food and other essentials, then the largest share of what was left over went to the owner – in this case Edward. The rest was split between the crew. The skipper Edward (again), Spencer, Josh, Hamish and then the deckies Jesse and Aaron.
It was not just a good summer for the visitors, the fish seemed to like it too; they were swimming in their droves to the Cornish fishing grounds.
The Lobster Pot would glide out of Trevay harbour with most of the Behenna fleet behind her, ready to make their fortunes. For Jesse, released from the classroom and still weighing up life’s possibilities, these were halcyon days. He found he was loving life at sea: the sound of the engine chugging below his feet, the cry of the gulls performing stall turns above him, and the instinct he was starting to develop from his father as they sat poring over the charts, determining where the next good catch might be waiting for them.
On one particular warm August night, Edward and Jesse were in their usual seats in the galley, having had a supper of poached cod and bacon with new potatoes coated in bacon fat. Edward was drinking a large mug of powerfully strong tea.
‘I’m reckoning we aim for Tring Fallows. Word is they’m the best fishing grounds just now.’ He tapped the chart, then leant back to stretch tension out of his lower back.
Jesse remained hunched over the charts, studying the distance between where they were now and where they were going. ‘How long will it take to get there?’
‘Should be there in about four hours.’
Jesse glanced at the time. ‘I’m on watch at midnight.’
‘I recommend you get some shuteye now then,’ his father said.
Jesse heaved himself a little off the leatherette bench seat and craned his head to see out of the starboard porthole. ‘Our Mermaid is still with us. She coming to Tring Fallows too?’
‘Aye. We’ll need both of us to haul the buggers in. This’ll be a good catch if we get it right.’
The ship’s radio came to life and the familiar voice of Alfie Chandler, Mickey’s dad, spoke.
‘Lobster Pot, Lobster Pot, Lobster Pot. This is Mermaid. Over.’
Edward unhooked the small receiver/mouthpiece from the radio set and put his thumb on the talk button.
‘Mermaid. This is Lobster Pot. Wass on? Over.’
‘Mermaid, Lobster Pot. We still headin’ for Tring Fallows? Over.’
‘Lobster Pot, Mermaid. Can you switch to channel nine? Over.’
Edward waited a minute for Alfie to swap to a channel that they could use just between themselves.
‘Lobster Pot, Mermaid. Over.’
‘Yeah, Alfie. Tring Fallows it is.’
Jesse, desperate to talk to his mate Mickey, held his hand out to his father, opening and closing his fingers in the universal code for ‘hand it over.’ Edward kept talking. ‘Is your Mickey there, Alf? Only ’is mate wants to ’ave a word.’
‘I’ll get ’im.’ They heard Alfie shout for his son as Edward passed the mouthpiece to Jesse.
Mickey’s voice came over the airwaves. ‘’Ello?’
‘Mickey, ’tis Jesse. You sleepin’ before we get to the fishin’ ground, or no?’
‘Gonna have a snout up top then I’m going to grab some zeds. You?’
‘Same. Give us a minute and I’ll be out too.’
Edward reached forward and snatched the radio from Jesse. ‘That’s enough. It ain’t for you two to make your social engagements on.’ He pressed the talk button. ‘Mickey, you still there, you great long streak of piss?’
‘Yes, Mr Behenna,’ came Mickey’s nervous voice.
‘Well fuck off and ’and me back to your dad.’
On deck the moon, although not full, was bright; its face looked down at the two trawlers as they slipped through the benign waves. Jesse, now standing in the stern of the boat, put his face to the cool wind and closed his eyes. He felt secure and peaceful. He was increasingly realising that the sea was his home; as long as he had it in his life, he knew all would be well.
Looking to starboard, and travelling at the same speed, was Our Mermaid. Jesse listened to the thrum of the engines together with the swish of the wash that they churned behind them. He could make out the tall, thin silhouette of Mickey appearing from a hatch and sparking up a cigarette.
‘Hey, Mickey,’ Jesse called over to him.
‘Hey, Jess,’ called back Mickey.
‘Can you think of anywhere else you’d rather be?’ Jesse asked his friend.
‘Inside Loveday’s knickers?’ answered Mickey truthfully.
Jesse frowned at Mickey, knowing that – at this distance and in the dark – Mickey wouldn’t be able to read his face. He didn’t like Mickey talking about Loveday like that.
Loveday was under Jesse’s skin. He’d known her since … well, forever. And he hated to hear Mickey discuss her in such crude terms. He felt protective towards Loveday. He wanted to look after her and treat her well. He felt something that he couldn’t describe; something, maybe, close to love? He pulled himself up. Love? No, not love. Not for Loveday. Loveday was Mickey’s and he’d never