Page 19 of One Summer

‘Do you have any credentials?’ I say and he looks confused.

‘I can show you my driving licence,’ he says, taking it out of a very battered wallet. He hands it to me.

It says his name is William Bound.

‘Call me Billy,’ he says.

Good old Billy Bound.

I take a photo on my phone.

‘I’m sending this to my emergency contacts,’ I say, forwarding it to my mum, who replies instantly with a series of question marks.

I don’t reply to her question marks and my phone begins to ring. I put it on silent.

‘Very sensible. Never trust strangers,’ he says. ‘Can I see some ID from you?’

Quite surprised by this request, even though I’ve just made the exact same one, I flash him my licence and he mouths my name, as if committing it to memory. Impressively, he manages to pronounce my surname correctly.

‘Now to the matter of payment. I do have some business on Loor, as my son lives there and I’m due a visit, so I won’t charge you full whack.’

‘How much is full whack?’

‘Hundred pounds.’

‘What? It’s twelve miles offshore. The ferry was only £89 for a return.’

‘They have more passengers to make it worth their while. I’ve only got you and the cat, and I assume the cat isn’t paying.’

We both look at Nemo, whose miaow gains considerable volume with the addition of an audience.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, panicking. ‘It’s just that I don’t have much money on me.’

Once I paid out the rest of the year’s rent, so that my flatmates weren’t left footing the bill, I had almost nothing left.

He points across the dock. ‘Cashpoint is right over there.’

‘I don’t have much in my bank account either.’

He ruminates on this. ‘One hundred pounds is my price, but for you, I’ll do it for ninety.’

‘Can you go any lower?’ I ask. ‘Because I might seem like a tourist, but I was born in Cornwall and I’m absolutely skint.’

‘Oh, you’re a Cornish maid? Whereabouts were you born?’ he says, brightening at once.

‘Newquay, then we moved to Mousehole. My parents still live there.’

I make sure to pronounce it correctly in the Cornish way, MOWzel, so he knows I’m serious.

‘In that case, let’s call it twenty-five pounds.’

That’s one hell of a locals’ discount. Still, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

‘Twenty-five pounds it is,’ I say, shaking his hand to seal the deal.

‘I’ll just eat my breakfast,’ he says, going to his van. It has a number plate that says PA57Y, which makes me smile. I appreciate the gastronomical delights of a Cornish pasty as much as anyone, but I’m not sure I’d want it on my number plate.

He reaches into the footwell of the passenger side and takes a polystyrene container out of a brown paper bag. As soon as he opens the lid, I’m hit by a waft of sugary sweetness.

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