faded polo shirt and realised he shouldn’t have worn jeans. Fortunately, he had a few pairs of khaki shorts in the backpack, along with an assortment of tee shirts, and those should do the trick in the blistering sun once he was on board the liner.
He switched off the thought, his mind already moving to work, planning how he would co-ordinate the work to be done on the liner and the time when it would be ready to set sail in its new, improved condition. He would charge outrageous prices for anyone lucky enough to secure a ticket, and he had no doubt that people would be queuing to pay.
Done deal.
He hadn’t felt this relaxed in ages.
* * *
Delilah Scott eyed her mobile, which was buzzing furiously at her, and debated whether she should pick it up or not.
Her sister’s name was flashing on the screen, demanding urgent attention.
With a little sigh of resignation she answered, and was greeted with a flurry of anxious questions.
‘Where on earth have you been? I’ve been trying to get through to you for the past two days! You know how I worry, Delly! It’s mad here, with the shop... I can’t believe you’ve decided, just like that, to extend your holiday! You know I’m depending on you getting back here to help... I can’t do it on my own...’
Delilah felt her stomach churn into instant nervous knots.
‘I—I know, Sarah,’ she stammered, gazing through the tiny porthole of her very small cabin, which was just big enough for a single bed, the very barest of furniture, and an absolutely minuscule en-suite shower room. ‘But I thought the added experience would come in handy for when I get back to the Cotswolds... It’s not like I’m on holiday...’ she tacked on guiltily.
‘You are on holiday, Delly!’ her sister said accusingly. ‘When you said that you’d be doing some teaching for a fortnight, I never expected you to send me an email telling me that you’d decided to extend the fortnight into six weeks! I know you really needed to get away, Delly...what with that business with Michael...but still... It’s manic here...’
Delilah felt the worry pouring down the phone line and experienced another wave of guilt.
Back home, Sarah was waiting for her. Building work which was costing an absolute arm and a leg was set to begin in two weeks’ time, and she knew that her sister had been waiting for her to get back so that they could weather it together.
But was it too much to take a bit of time off before the dreadful drudgery of normal life returned? She had just completed her art degree, and every single free moment during those three years she had been in that tiny cottage with her sister, worrying about how they were going to survive and counting the takings from the gallery downstairs in the certain knowledge that sooner or later Dave Evans from the bank was going to lose patience and foreclose.
And then there had been Michael...
She hated thinking about him—hated the way just remembering how she had fallen for him, how he had messed her around, made her feel sick and foolish at the same time.
She definitely didn’t want to hear Sarah rehashing that horrible catastrophe. Delilah loved her sister, but ever since she could remember Sarah had mothered her, had made decisions for her, had worried on her behalf about anything and everything. The business with Michael had just fed into all that concern. Yes, it was always great to have the comfort of someone’s love and empathy when you’d just had your heart broken, but it could also be claustrophobic.
Sarah cared so much...always had...
Their parents, Neptune and Moon, both gloriously irresponsible hippies who had been utterly and completely wrapped up in one another, had had little time to spare for their offspring. Both artists, they had scratched a living selling some of their art, and later on a random assortment of crystals and gems after their mother had become interested in alternative healing.
They had converted their cottage into a little gallery and had just about managed to survive because it was slap-bang in the middle of tourist territory. They had always benefited from that. But when they had died—within months of one another, five years previously—sales of local art had already begun to take a nosedive and things had not improved since.
Sarah, five years older than Delilah, had been doing the best she could, making ends meet by doing the books for various people in the small village where they lived, but it had always been understood that once Delilah had completed her art degree she would return and help out.
As things stood, they had taken out a substantial loan to fund renovations to the gallery, in order to create a new space at the back where Delilah would teach art to anyone local who was interested and, more importantly, other people, keen on learning to draw and paint, who would perhaps attend week-long courses, combining sightseeing in the picturesque Cotswolds with painting indoors and outdoors.
It was all a brilliant if last-ditch idea, and whilst Delilah had been totally in favour of it she had suddenly, when offered the opportunity to extend her stay on board the Rambling Rose, been desperate to escape.
A little more time to escape the finality of returning to the Cotswolds and to breathe a little after her break-up from Michael.
Just a little more time to feel normal and relaxed.
‘It’ll be brilliant experience for when I get back,’ she offered weakly. ‘And I’ve transferred most of my earnings to the account. I’ll admit I’m not on a fabulous amount, but I’m making loads of good contacts here. Some of the people are really interested in the courses we’ll be offering...’
‘Really?’
‘Honestly, Sarah. In fact, several have promised that they’ll be emailing you for details about prices and stuff in the next week or so.’
‘Adrian’s just about finished doing the website. That’s more money we’re having to expend...’
Delilah listened and wondered whether these few weeks on the liner were to be her only window of freedom from worrying. Sarah would not countenance selling the cottage and Delilah, in fairness, would have hated to leave her family home. But staying required so many sacrifices that she felt as though her youth would be eaten up in the process. She was only twenty-one now, but she could see herself saying goodbye to her twenties in the never-ending task of just making ends meet.
She had had a vision of having fun, of feeling young when she had been going out with Michael, but that had been a very narrow window and in the end it had just been an idiotic illusion anyway. When she thought about him now she didn’t think of fun, she just thought of being stupid and naïve.
She knew that she was playing truant by extending her stay here, but the responsibilities waiting for her wouldn’t be going anywhere...and it was nice not being mothered by her sister, not having every move she made frowningly analysed, not having her life prescribed because Sarah knew best...
She hung up, relieved to end the conversation, and decided to spend what remained of the evening in her cabin.
Maybe she would ask a couple of the other teachers on the liner—young girls, like herself—to have something to eat with her in the cabin, maybe play cards and joke about some of the passengers, who mostly reminded her of her parents. Free-spirited ageing hippies, into all sorts of weird and wonderful arty pastimes and hobbies.
Tomorrow, she would be back to teaching, and she had a full schedule ahead of her...
* * *
Daniel stretched. Peered through the porthole to a splendid view of deep blue ocean. The night before he had enjoyed an expected below average meal—though not sitting at the captain’s table. That sort of formality didn’t exist aboard this liner. It seemed to be one big, chattering, happy family of roughly one hundred people, of varying ages, and fifty-odd crew members who all joined in the fun. He had mixed and circulated but he knew that he’d stuck out like a sore thumb.
Now, breakfast...and then he would