The Last Lighthouse Keeper Read online

  “You’re not serious!” said Will scornfully.

  “Oh, I know he’s a bit of a rogue, but even rogues have a decent boat every now and then.”

  “In Gryler’s case I wouldn’t bet on it,” muttered Will, running his hand through his unruly hair.

  “Well, I know for a fact he got a new one in a couple of days ago. Told me it came from some old sailor who was devoted to it.”

  “Oh, I see. One careful lady owner – probably an ex-Wren – only ever pottered around the bay on a Sunday. Kept in a heated boathouse since new?”

  “You’re teasing me!” Primrose admonished him. “I’m only trying to help. I know Len Gryler isn’t the most reliable type…”

  Will raised his eyebrows.

  “…but you never know. It might be just what you want.” She went back to her newspapers.

  “Well, I might have a look on the way down.”

  “You’ve nothing to lose, have you?”

  “Only thirty thousand quid,” he said, under his breath.

  She looked up. “Pardon?”

  “I said, I’ll try an early bid.”

  Primrose eyed him suspiciously. She’d always thought he was such a nice, quiet young man, but she had now detected an element of spirit she hadn’t noticed before. She looked at him sideways. He wasn’t going off the rails, was he? Funny lot, lighthouse keepers. Loners most of them. Men with secrets.

  She snapped out of her reverie. “If you’re going down there, can you give these to young Applebee?” She fished Loaded and FHM from under the counter, slid them quickly into a brown paper bag snatched from a nail on the shelf behind her and handed them to Will. “I’ve put them in a bag to save any embarrassment.”

  Christopher Applebee was Gryler’s general dogsbody at the Crooked Angel, and clearly yearned for more excitement than he could find in Pencumow.

  Will slipped the bag between the folds of the Cormshman, realizing that he would now have to visit the boatyard whether he liked it or not. He made for the door.

  “Oh, and don’t forget to look in on the Roundhouse,” said Primrose, through a mouthful of crisps.

  “Mmm?”

  “The old capstan house. It’s being done up. Some artist is renting it.”

  “What for?”

  “As a gallery. It’ll make a change from all that junk the old woman from St Petroc has been selling in there for the last couple of years. I hope it’s a success, for the sake of the village. The Roundhouse has never been the same since they retired it from hauling the fishing boats up the hard, but it’s a lovely building. I’ve always thought of it as the heart of the village. It’s time someone brought it back to life.”

  “Yes.” But Will was miles away, his mind on the boatyard. He hardly looked round as he tossed a vague ‘Bye’ in Primrose’s direction. Nor did he notice, in the early-morning light, the shadowy figure through the window of the old capstan house as he walked past it towards the boatyard. But she noticed him.

  Two

  Longships

  The sign attached to the high granite breakwater certainly had romantic appeal. Its royal blue paint was flaking, but the words ‘Crooked Angel Boatyard’ were still visible in ornate, once-gilded script, coupled with the additional information, ‘Berths and Servicing’. A crudely painted, lopsided figurehead of a seraph, plundered from the wreck of some ancient schooner, was bolted to the wall above the sign, and another piece of wood tacked beneath it proclaimed ‘Boats for Sail’.

  Will was unsure whether this betrayed an aptitude for puns or ineptitude in orthography. He sighed, took a deep breath, and went through the solid blue gates fastened back against the walls into the boatyard.

  It was a modest marina, but then it probably had a lot to be modest about, he reflected, as he looked at the motley collection of vessels that creaked and groaned alongside the half-dozen wooden pontoons.

  But in spite of its general air of decay the place was not unappealing. Funny, he thought, that what in a town or city would be looked upon as ramshackle and down-at-heel was regarded on the coast as charmingly rustic. Add water, stand well back and you had allure rather than atrophy. The Crooked Angel Boatyard was undoubtedly picturesque in a tumbledown way, from the robust wooden piles that penetrated deep into the Cornish mud, to the limpets and lime-green seaweed that festooned them.

  Even the boats – mostly old and worn – had an air of contentment about them. About a dozen and a half were scattered across the still, dark grey water, straining gently at their mooring warps as the effects of the tide disturbed the water. They came in all shapes and sizes, from small, brightly painted fishing smacks filled with tangled skeins of line and tethered while their owners took breakfast in the Salutation, to larger ‘Tupperware’ boats of uncertain age. Nothing here to inspire a millionaire intent on finding a gin palace, thought Will.

  There were boats with tattered canvas cockpit covers, and boats with punctured white plastic fenders and the occasional car tyre slung over the side to protect once-pristine paintwork from the ancient cobbled jetty. Masts towered above him, their frayed burgees lifting gently in the breeze, with the occasional ting-ting of a halyard as it rattled against hollow alloy.

  The boatyard was barely a couple of miles from the lighthouse, as the fish swims, but Will could not recall ever having set foot in it. Most of the locals disapproved of Gryler, and Will had never needed to come here. It was hot a public marina, more a nautical builders’ yard.

  Several small motorboats of relatively recent vintage bobbed alongside larger ones of greater antiquity and ugliness, and one or two of the ancient wooden vessels clearly owed something of their ancestry to Noah. Their names were as varied as their condition. Will walked down one of the pontoons, past Racy Lady and Pinch of Thyme, Ukra Vires and Sokai – perhaps the owner had Japanese associations. Beneath his feet, the water made glooping noises as the floating pontoon rose and fell gently, anchored by robust yet rusty fixings to the tall piles that towered eight feet above him on the falling tide.

  “Can I help you?”

  Will turned at the sound of a youthful voice. Its tone was neither solicitous nor aggressive. Before him stood a tall, scrawny youth of nineteen or twenty, a lopsided mop of sandy hair falling over his eyes. He wore a paint-spattered sweatshirt that had once been navy blue, and a pair of jeans with more holes than a colander, though less symmetry in their layout. There were two rings in his left ear. He looked like a latter-day pirate.

  “Oh. You’re one of the lighthouse keepers, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Chris Applebee. I work here.”

  “In that case I’ve got something for you.” Will pulled out the bag with the magazines from the folds of the Cornishman and handed them to the lad. “Primrose sent them.”

  “Oh, thanks.” The youth looked up at Will with a grin. “I bet she’s read ‘em both!”

  “More than likely.”

  “We’ve never seen you here before, have we?” asked Christopher Applebee, tucking his magazines under his arm.

  “No. I’ve not got around to it until now.”

  “Plenty of time now, eh?”

  “Yes.” Will was unsure whether he detected a note of mockery in the lad’s voice, but chose to ignore it anyway. “I hear you’ve a new boat in for sale.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. But you’d better see the boss, not me. I’ll go and fetch him.” He turned and walked down the pontoon towards a peeling, blue-painted shed on the jetty.

  “Where is it?” Will called after him.

  He didn’t look back. “Pontoon number three.”

  Will looked up at the white numbers painted on the piles at the end of each pontoon. He was standing on number one. Number three was in the central part of the small pool, so he retraced his steps and walked back towards the main jetty. He turned left past the shed which he could now see was in the terminal stages of collapse. In this part of the world that probably meant it would last another twenty y
ears.

  As he passed the door, a short, round, oily man bounced out of it. “Mornin’,” he growled, and offered a fat, greasy hand. “Len Gryler.” The oily fist gripped Will’s.

  Len Gryler looked as if he was of Italian ancestry. He was balding, but the hair that remained on his spherical head was black as pitch and joined to the dusky stubble on his chin with long sideburns. He wore a dark blue one piece overall, a stranger to the laundry, and carried in his left hand a monkey wrench. “So you’re after a boat?” He wiggled the wrench.

  “Well, yes. I hear you’ve got one for sale, but I’m only in the early stages of looking. Nothing’s certain yet.” Will was anxious to cover himself.

  “Oh, don’t you worry. You’ll love this little beauty.” Len Gryler slid effortlessly into his sales patter. He was a born trader. Here was a man who could not only sell ice-cream to Eskimos but a deep freeze to keep it in. He put his hand gently in the middle of Will’s back and propelled him in the direction of pontoon number three.

  A couple of small day-boats were bobbing at the end nearest the jetty on which they stood, and on the pontoon’s starboard side, at the far end, lay an old, green-painted Cornish yawl, perhaps fifty-feet long, with the name Florence Nightingale carved into her gunwales. She had a squat wooden cabin amidships, behind the varnished wooden mast, and was littered with an assortment of nautical paraphernalia from an old brass binnacle to lobster pots in the process of repair, voluminous coils of old rope and assorted pieces of timber.

  Will took to her immediately. “Very nice.”

  “No, not that one. That’s Aitch’s boat. This one.”

  Gryler pulled Will by the arm so that he faced the port side of the pontoon. There he beheld an altogether different vessel.

  It was an ageing motor yacht, rather shorter than the sailing boat, with a row of portholes running from six feet abaft the bows to somewhere amidships. She was clearly a pre-war vessel, with wooden wheel-house and aft cabin, once-varnished rails and two wooden masts, from which hung rotting ropes. She had once been someone’s pride and joy, but those days were long gone.

  “Ah,” said Will. “She’s a motor launch. I wanted a sailing boat. Stick and rag man, I’m afraid.” He offered Gryler an apologetic look, but before he could make his escape, the man blocked his path.

  “She’s got two masts,” he countered, defensively.

  “OK, so they’re not what you might call powerful sails but look at the workmanship. Pitch pine on oak. Built in nineteen thirty-one by Staniland and Company in Yorkshire. On the River Ouse. Wonderful lines. Piece of history.”

  “But the engines – ”

  “Work of art. Twin diesels, Perkins M30s, recently reconditioned. And I’m going to have a look at them meself.” He waggled his monkey wrench again as if to emphasize his skills. Realizing he had more work to do on this particular customer, he moved into second gear. “I dunno. These sailors. Make such a fuss about motorboats, rave on about the joys of ‘proper’ sailing then spend three-quarters of their time battling against the tide on a windless day with a piddling little engine that just about stops them going backwards. You’ll be able to move in this one whether there’s wind or not.”

  Will tried to interrupt, but Gryler was in full flow. And although the villagers considered him a rogue, he sounded as though he knew his boats. “A gentleman’s yacht, without a doubt. Length overall thirty-six feet, beam nine foot six, draught two foot six – get you well up any estuary, that will.”

  “But what about her sea-keeping qualities?”

  “What do you want her for? Crossing the Atlantic? All right, so I wouldn’t recommend her to Sir Francis Chichester, but for estuaries and inshore waters she’ll be fine. Built to last. Very sea-kindly.” He slapped at her bulwarks and dried white paint fluttered off like a flock of miniature doves.

  Again Will tried to protest.

  “I’ll tell you what, just look her over. I won’t hassle you. I’ll go and put the kettle on. The cabin door’s open so hop aboard and see what you think. Needs a bit of work, I know, but for someone with time on their hands…” He paused to let the point sink home. “She’ll repay any work that’s put into her. Great live-aboard. For one.” He looked up with a twinkle in his eye. “Or two. She’s a little cracker, even if she has got a man’s name.”

  Will looked at the bows of the old motor yacht and saw the engraved board fastened to the gunwales: Boy Jack, it said.

  How can you call Boy Jack she? thought Will. He looked at her, or him, frowning, and opened his mouth to decline the offer, but Gryler was already at the end of the pontoon, heading kettlewards.

  “Oh, well,” he muttered to himself, and stepped up on to the deck. It was the first step in his ensnarement.

  The mooring warps chafing against the fairleads caused the boat to let out a sound that was not so much a creak or a groan, more a sigh. “Yes,” said Will, half aloud, “I’m not surprised you’re sighing. Look at the state of you.”

  The deck was littered with herring-gull droppings. One of the culprits shrieked from the masthead and took off angrily. Will nibbed his hand along the timber, and remnants of varnish came away in crisp, translucent flakes. But the timber itself seemed sound. He looked at the decks. Plenty of green algae, especially on the shaded areas. He glanced about to see that the coast was clear, took out his penknife and sank it into the planked decking in a particularly damp spot. Surprisingly it was hard and unyielding.

  He leaned over the side to look at the hull. The seams between the planks were cracked. There would be plenty of recaulking needed if she were not to leak like a sieve. He hopped off again to see how the hull lay in the water. Quite evenly. A second surprise.

  Will scolded himself for bothering to go through all these checks. He wanted a sailing boat. A Cornish yawl like the one in the next berth would do him nicely. He did not want a pre-war motor yacht. He made scale models of Cornish cobles, not motor boats.

  Yet he climbed aboard once more and walked around the deck, past the old anchor winch at the bows and the iron jack-staff atop the stem. Well-balanced lines. He walked astern. She had plenty of deck space and the stanchions seemed well anchored to the topsides. He turned and pushed open the cabin door. It wouldn’t budge. Gryler had said it was open. He put his shoulder to it and it yielded with a crack followed by a loud creak as the old brass hinges reluctantly turned on their spindles.

  He stepped down into the wheelhouse, where the smell of mildewed carpet and cloth hit him. A thick layer of dust had settled on every surface, except where it had been recently disturbed, clearly in bringing the vessel to its final resting place. Black mould speckled timber and fabric alike. A small galley with a filthy porcelain sink was built into the starboard side. It was unclear whether the metal fixtures and fittings, from taps to knobs, portholes and the cabin-door lock were of brass or base metal, so dark and dull were their surfaces.

  He tugged at a curtain to let in more light, and a swatch of rotten brown cloth came off in his hand. He pulled it away until the morning light beamed in diagonally, highlighting the dust motes that hung in the air. Will sneezed, and blew his nose.

  The wheel was of the traditional type – wooden spoked and varnished. There were aged instruments on the fascia and a tarnished bell hanging from the bulkhead. Will resisted ringing it in case it summoned the boatyard owner.

  Instead he searched for the entry to the engine room. Under assorted lumps of rotting carpet, he discovered a metal ring, and found that the hatch came up quite easily. He removed it and stood it to one side before lowering himself into the bowels of Boy Jack.

  He had no torch, but the hatchway was large enough to let in sufficient daylight for him to be able to inspect the two Perkins engines. They were not in the first flush of youth, yet were excessively oily, rather than rusty. Will dredged up from the back of his brain the information he’d digested on a marine diesel-engine course a couple of years ago and married it to his knowledge of the generators at the l
ighthouse. He was relieved that the engines were not petrol-driven: diesel was far safer, and low-horsepower engines like these, could go on for a long time – if you looked after them.

  He spotted a loose wire here, a leaking pipe there, but not the seized-up piles of rusty metal he had expected. He put his hand down into the bilges. About an inch of water. He licked his finger. It was fresh water, not salt. That boded well. Then, again, he chastised himself for going through all this rigmarole, even if she was a boat with character. He heaved himself up from the engine room, and replaced the hatch.

  Three steps led down into the aft cabin where he discovered a double berth with a damp, stinking mattress that sported a number of unidentifiable stains, and a wooden-doored cubicle that contained a small marble basin, an antique-looking hip bath, and an old lavatory – a Blake’s head of the sort with two hand pumps, one to pump in salt water, the other to let it out. He pumped at the latter and was rewarded with a loud gurgle and a vile stench. He turned on his heel and moved through the wheelhouse to the fore-cabin, lit by several portholes and a deck hatch.

  He fought with the catch and finally succeeded in pushing it upwards and outwards. Light streamed in and he gulped at the fresh air.

  The forward cabin was longer than he’d expected, and quite narrow, with one curving berth to port and another to starboard. Lockers filled the space between the hull and the inboard side of each berth and he opened them to take a look at the state of the boat’s planking. Some of the caulking was coming away and he could see faint signs of moisture. The timbers were clearly not the originals: the boat had been restored and the hull replanked within, he guessed, the last twenty years. The pitch pine was in good condition, and many of the original mahogany stringers had been replaced with new.

  The locker beneath the berth on the starboard side was empty, except for a few 1960s newspapers, old beer cans and some rusty spanners. He opened the locker on the port side to make a similar inspection and found a pile of sacking. He tugged at it and it fell out with a hefty thump. He picked it up and a hessian-wrapped lump dropped on his toe. “Bloody hell!”