Page 17 of The Island Girls

‘Where does she stay?’ asked Paul, looking up the stairs with a frown to where Rebekah had told him there was only one bedroom.

‘He– his name is Michael – chooses to camp out instead of enjoying the luxury of my humble abode. It’s only one night, and he brings everything he needs in a pack on his back. His choice, of course – I should really vacate the cottage for him at the weekends, but as I don’t have another base in Poole and he would rather camp anyway, it works perfectly for both of us,’ she said as she cracked eggs and beat them into a basin. ‘I like coffee with my breakfast. Can I interest you in one or are you strictly a tea man?’ she asked as she put a filter paper into her coffee machine.

‘I’d love a coffee, thank you. This really is first-class accommodation, Rebekah. You’re something of a threat to the hotel, you know,’ he said with a wink.

‘Talking of the mainland,’ she said, grating cheese into the eggs as they bubbled in the pan, ‘what do you do when you aren’t spending unexpected nights on islands in the middle of Poole Harbour?’ she asked, surprised to realise she hadn’t asked him that last night. They’d talked about Brownsea, and Poole, and the ferries, and her job as ranger, and where they’d both been born, and how much he’d always wanted to visit Australia, but somehow, they’d not gone into the details of his life or his job.

‘I’m a professional historian,’ he said, taking a big breath, and Rebekah realised her face must be telling him she needed much more information than that. ‘I work freelance, sometimes for museums or government agencies on particular projects as they come up, but often in the corporate world. I’m in Poole to work on some artefacts at Poole Pottery. It’s moving away from its original site on the quay, and I’m working through thearchives. The ultimate aim is to create a written history of the pottery, but for now, I’m employed to ensure we save everything with important information that might be helpful in future.’

‘You know, I don’t think I had any idea what kind of job you might have, but if I’d had a million guesses, I bet I would never have come up with that,’ she said as she poured them both coffee and went back to the stove to finish the omelettes.

‘Well, I did have a bit of an advantage on you – finding you here doing your job as I did. If you’d first met me while I was doing mine, you would have had a much better chance of success. If, for example, I’d met you while you were looking around the showrooms at Poole Pottery, what chance would I have had of guessing you were an Australian trained conservationist working as a ranger for the National Trust on Brownsea Island?’ he asked with a chuckle, and she laughed.

‘I think I would have guessed you were an accountant. Or a banker,’ she said, thoughtfully.

‘And what is it about me that says I would be remotely interested in adding up profit and loss sheets?’ He laughed, and she joined in.

‘I can’t say. I suppose you just seem very professional, and that’s what came to mind.’

‘I am – I hope – very professional. But as a historian, I’m much more interested in people than facts and figures, though of course there are plenty of those to account for as well.’

‘And I’m sure there are plenty of interesting characters buried in the history of Poole Pottery,’ said Rebekah as she plated up their omelettes and carried them over to the kitchen table. Paul poured the coffee and sat down opposite her.

‘There are some incredibly interesting characters. Did you know that the pottery more or less closed down during the war and became the security and customs offices for the flying boatport here in Poole?’ he asked as he took a forkful of fluffy omelette and made appreciative sounds.

‘I did not know that – but I’m not exactly a Poole local so there are all kinds of details that others would probably know.’

‘The owner of the pottery, a Mr Carter, was given a military position and became Major Carter – head of Field Security in the harbour, possibly owing to his previous army service during World War One. But still, that was probably quite a shift from managing staff and clay purchases, don’t you think?’ asked Paul.

‘I’m sure it was. Did you know about the old pottery here on the island? The whole beach down there at the western end is still littered with bits of clay pots and pipes, and some ruins of the pottery building are still there if you look for them, though much of it was destroyed in the war apparently.’

‘Yes, that’s one of the reasons I came over here actually: to have a good look at the pottery. But I’ve read that there was no connection at all.’

‘That’s right. One of the owners of the island found that there was clay here and set up the pottery intending to make a real go of the business. They invested everything they had, and employed dozens of people, but it turned out the clay wasn’t good enough quality for fine china. In the end, the business failed but there was such a thriving community on the island that farming took over – and daffodils became the centre of business for a while,’ said Rebekah, watching Paul clear his plate and dab his mouth with a napkin.

‘Mmm, that was delicious, thank you,’ he said.

‘And what does a professional historian do on a Saturday when they’ve woken up in the wrong place?’ she teased him.

‘I’m supposed to be going into the pottery offices to do some more work for a few hours. It’s easier to get at things when the office staff aren’t all there. But I don’t need long. There are a few more files for me to go through before I head back to Londontomorrow,’ he said, and he seemed to have caught the brief look of sadness that Rebekah had tried to hide. She paused and looked into her coffee for a moment before taking a breath and voicing the suggestion that could go one of two ways.

‘I have to go into Poole today myself, to pick up some groceries and get a few jobs done. Perhaps we could catch the same ferry across?’ She couldn’t explain why she felt like holding her breath, or why she cared if she never saw this stranger again.Come on, Rebekah, remember who you are. You don’t do relationships. Not any more. This isn’t going anywhere. But then he smiled at her so broadly and with a sigh that she was sure meant relief. And hope.

‘I’d love that, Rebekah. Let’s spend the day together.’

11

POOLE HARBOUR – FEBRUARY 1941

When Peggy arrived at the harbour master’s office the next morning, she was surprised to find Charlie there waiting for her by the fire.

‘Morning, Miss Symonds.’ He smiled brightly, and Peggy thought she heard a quaver of nerves in his voice. ‘Miss Foster asked me to wait here for you this morning,’ he said, nodding in the direction of Pat’s office.

Peggy raised an enquiring eyebrow to Pat as she went in to collect the launch key.

‘I met him yesterday afternoon, Peggy. I sent a note round to his lodgings and he got it when he went home for dinner, then he came in to see me late in the afternoon. He seems to know the ropes pretty well, so I thought the best thing was for him to spend a day with you and you can work out what he’s capable of,’ Pat explained.

‘No problem, Pat, I’ll take him with me now. Later today, I have to do some driving deliveries so he might come with me then too. Will you organise that with Rose Stevens, or shall I leave him behind?’

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