Chapter 10

10

brOWNSEA ISLAND, POOLE – JULY 1998

Rebekah began to stir, and in the space between sleep and waking, she heard the sounds of gentle summer rain splashing on the roof and gurgling from the gutter down the drainpipes. The rain brought the scent of the woodlands into her bedroom and for a few moments, she enjoyed the luxury of having woken naturally before her alarm, knowing it was Saturday morning, so she relaxed and enjoyed the softness of her pillow a while longer.

The tap on her door was brief and hesitant, and barely loud enough to wake her from the doze she had fallen into. The second knock was a little more insistent but accompanied by a shy cough, which brought back all her memories of Paul from the night before. When she came to her senses and realised it was Paul knocking, she jumped up and opened the door. But he wasn't there. She looked around and found a cup of tea waiting for her on the landing table.

Perhaps it would be a bit too much to greet him this early in the morning, and at her bedroom door. She took the cup of tea back to bed and sat up, nestled amongst her pillows, to enjoy it. For the first time now, she wondered at the wisdom of letting him into her home last night, this man about whom she'd known nothing. She had known Andy for over a year before they had meandered from friendship into a relationship, and she thought she knew him completely until his controlling side had come out. What if Paul was someone with a dark and crazy side too? Strange how she felt she could trust him, despite what her head told her now. And he'd made her a perfect cup of tea. He'd certainly had chance to learn how she liked her tea after they'd had three cups together last night, in the end. It had been after two in the morning before she had finally said goodnight and climbed the stairs to bed while Paul settled down on the settee.

And when, as they had said goodnight, he had leant in to kiss her warmly on the cheek, and touched his hand to her shoulder as he did so, there'd been nothing even strange about it. They seemed to know each other so well by then. Nothing strange at all, except the way her cheek and shoulder had tingled all the way up the stairs, and she had lain awake in bed with her hand to her cheek, while she pictured him downstairs, slipping off his T-shirt and lying down, bare-chested, on her settee for the night.

The idea of Paul now filled her with warmth and an excitement that she couldn't explain, so when she heard the front door open and click shut again shortly afterwards, the sense of panic that he might be leaving without saying goodbye, and that she might never see him again, filled her with an unexpected rush of dread that frightened her. Why should she even care whether he was here or not? Rebekah knew that she had never needed a man in her life, just like her strong mother and Aunty Peggy had been perfectly happy alone. A woman should be strong enough to cope on her own and not need the fluff of romance in her life to make her happy – especially when a man could bring the kind of horror that Andy had, and that she remembered her mum had suffered at the hands of her father. But what if, even though she knew she didn't need to know Paul, she wanted to anyway?

She leapt out of bed and ran down the stairs two at a time, pulling on her robe as she went, and reached the front door in a matter of seconds, flinging it open and rushing out into the light rain, down the cottage garden path. He was nowhere to be seen and she could see a good hundred metres in every direction. How could he have gone so far, so fast? Had he run? Had he developed an urge to get as far away from her as possible?

‘Are you okay, Rebekah?' asked the voice that had become so familiar to her in the middle of the night. She spun around and there in her open doorway stood Paul, a look of deep concern on his face. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Oh, Paul, you're still here! I…' she began, then ran her hands through her hair and tied her silky bathrobe around the middle, catching her breath and taking the moment to calm her thoughts. ‘I thought I heard you leaving. I heard the door,' she added, waving vaguely in Paul's direction.

‘Oh, sorry. I opened it to have a look outside and see what the weather was doing. Quite a heavy rain shower – and I'm so glad I didn't wake up drenched on that heather this morning.' He grinned, looking to the rumpled blanket on the sofa where he'd slept. ‘I've been waiting for you to wake up.' He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Did you find your tea?' He held the door open for her as she slowly walked back inside.

‘Yes, thank you, I did. And I believe I promised you breakfast in return,' Rebekah said, going to the kitchen and taking out eggs and a pan, and trying to look a little less ruffled. ‘Would you like an omelette?' she asked.

‘That sounds perfect, but I don't want to keep you. It's already eight o'clock. When do you have to start work?' he asked with concern.

‘It's Saturday. I don't have to start at all. There are staff to run the island reception, and plenty of volunteers to help, and a weekend ranger will arrive on the first ferry this morning,' she explained.

‘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 the archives. 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 boat port 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 London tomorrow,' 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.'