.
you come with me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘When?’
‘When you’ve left me alone so I can get up and get dressed. Go and put the kettle on and I’ll be down. Put some toast on too.’
Abi gave him a hug. ‘Thanks, Cuz.’
In the kitchen she found her father.
He smiled at her. ‘Good morning, darling daughter. You’re up early this merry morning.’
‘Stop with the sarcasm, OK.’
‘Well, it is only ten forty-five.’
‘Stop having a go at me.’ She glared at him and he continued typing one-handed on his laptop. ‘I’m, like, gonna look for a job … to pay for my birthday party, since you won’t, ’cos you’re too mean.’
‘Correction: I’d happily pay for the usual party in the garden. I’m not happy to pay for a load of drunken teenagers I don’t even know.’
‘I’ve told you I don’t want party games in the garden eating your horrible barbecue sausages. I want a proper party on the beach.’
‘Then you must pay for it.’ Greg snapped shut his computer, stood up, ruffled her fringe and went off towards the garden.
‘Arsehole,’ muttered Abi after him.
Greg reversed through the kitchen door. ‘I heard that.’ He turned to face her. ‘Tell you what – any money you manage to raise, I’ll match it. OK?’
‘Really?’ asked Abi.
‘Yes. Really. That way you’ll learn the value of hard-earned cash.’
‘I know the value of money.’ She sighed theatrically.
‘No you don’t. But you soon will, once you’ve worked eight hours for a tenner.’
*
Trevay was humming with holidaymakers, holidaymakers’ kids and holidaymakers’ dogs. It was just after midday and the cafés and takeaways were doing a roaring trade.
Jem and Abi tried to ask about casual work in three or four places, but the harassed staff simply shrugged their shoulders and either told them that there were no jobs or to come back when it was quieter.
They walked up to the Starfish Hotel but didn’t get beyond the receptionist, who directed them to the hotel website where job vacancies were advertised, but warned that there was nothing going at the moment.
They wandered limply down to the harbourfront and sat on a bench.
‘Fat lot of good that was,’ huffed Abi.
They sat and watched the boats in the harbour. Several motor yachts had strings of washing tied to the rigging, others were languishing empty, waiting for their owners.
There was a brisk trade in speedboat trips. Apprehensive children with eager dads were queuing up to take the high-speed trip around the coast, leaving exhausted-looking mums on the quay, keeping an eye on their over-packed buggies.
A bigger boat, the Puffin Boy, slowly entered the harbour and tied up, disgorging its sunburnt passengers.
One of the crewmen was helping some elderly ladies and a woman with a baby in a pushchair, on to the safety of dry land. Once everyone was off, he put out a sandwich board on which were the departure times and details of the next sailings.
He started calling to passers-by: ‘One-hour trip around the bay. You don’t come back, you don’t pay!’
A young couple and their two children stopped and had a conversation with him. After a few moments, they climbed aboard. The crewman started again.
‘See the dolphins and the seals round our beautiful coastline. One hour’s trip. Refreshments served on board.’ A large family group stopped, spoke to the man, then embarked, smiling, making their way to the open seats at the back of the boat.
Jeremy and Abi watched with fond memories. ‘Remember that trip we took on Puffin Boy when we were little? I was sick all over Dad,’ laughed Jem.
‘God, yes! Mum and I threw up over the side, but only because Dad held our heads down so we wouldn’t vom on his new deck shoes,’ Abigail remembered, giggling.
‘I’d never do it to my kids,’ said Jem.
‘You’ll have the Dorothy by then, though, won’t you,’ Abi stated.
Jem looked at his cousin’s sad face. ‘Look, whatever Mum and Auntie Connie inherit from Poppa, we’ll share. Shake?’
He put his hand out. Abi smiled at him. ‘Do you mean that?’
‘Yep. Let’s you and I make a pact that when they’ve dropped off the perch and we are grown up, we’ll share everything out between us.’ He put his hand out to Abi, who took it and shook.
‘Deal.’
Jem stood up. ‘I wonder if there are any jobs going on Puffin Boy.’
The crewman was only too pleased to hear that Jem wanted a job. ‘Got any experience of being at sea?’
‘Yeah. My grandad has a boat: the Dorothy.’
The crewman was impressed. ‘You mean the Riva? Mr Carew’s boat?’
‘Yeah.’
‘She’s a beauty. Worth a fortune. And he lets you drive her?’
‘Since I was twelve, yeah.’
The crewman considered this.
‘Can you shout loud enough to call the punters in?’
‘Er, yeah, I’ll, like, try.’
‘Give it a go then.’
Jem cleared his throat: ‘Roll up, roll up for the adventure of a lifetime. The good ship Puffin Boy is patrolling for pirates, dolphins and mermaids. Can you help us find them? Roll up, roll up.’
Abi was pink with embarrassment for her cousin but couldn’t stop giggling.
‘Right,’ said the crewman. ‘My name’s Robbie and you’ve got yourself a job. Thirty quid a day. Take it or leave it.’
Jem didn’t hesitate. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘OK. See you first thing tomorrow. Eight thirty sharp. Time and tide wait for no man.’
*
To celebrate, Abi and Jem cycled back to Treviscum, where Jem scraped up enough cash to buy them a big bag of chips from the burger van in the beach car park.
‘How come you find a job first go and I, who really need one, can’t find one?’ Abi licked her salty fingers.
Jem was in too good a mood to let Abi bring him down. ‘We’ll get you one too, don’t worry. And my birthday present to you will be two days’ pay towards your party.’
‘Would you really do that?’
‘Yep.’
‘How much cider will sixty quid buy?’
‘Almost enough for you. Don’t know about the others though,’ laughed Jem. Balling up his chip paper and searching in his shorts pockets for some more coins, he asked, ‘Want an ice cream for pudding?’
On the sand dunes above the beach was perched a gaily coloured caravan with an awning advertising Pearl’s Ice Creams.
Pearl was one of many young women who’d fallen in love while on holiday and decided to stay. Over the long winter, she and her coastguard lover had secured the rental pitch above the beach and invested two hundred pounds in a thirty-year-old caravan.
Gone were the Formica