Chapter 12

12

POOLE – JULY 1998

By the time they boarded the bright-yellow ferry from the island to Poole Quay on the mainland, the early-morning rain had cleared and there were even a few patches of blue sky showing between the clouds, so Rebekah showed Paul up to the top deck where they could take in the full view of the harbour. He pointed out where he believed the runways had been set out for the flying boats during the war, and she showed him where his hotel sat, high on the hill, looking straight out towards Brownsea Island.

‘Why is the island called Brownsea, do you think? The sea in the harbour isn't particularly brown,' Paul said.

‘Interesting question, and it has nothing to do with the colour brown. The archaic name for the island and the castle was Branksea, and with the Poole accent like it is, I think the locals must have gradually morphed that into Brownsea. But even Branksea apparently wasn't the original name and may have been a variation on the Old English Brunoces , which means Brunoc's Island. It's been an important place for over a thousand years, when some monks built a chapel and hermitage. Language has changed a bit since then,' Rebekah explained.

‘It sure has, and that makes sense. I'm glad to hear you're so interested in the history,' Paul said with a smile.

‘What do you need to do first, when we get back to the quay?' Rebekah asked him. ‘I'm free as a bird all day, and as long as I get back home before the last ferry this afternoon, with some groceries to eat for the week, I can fit around you.'

‘To be honest, I think the first thing I should do is drive up to the hotel, have a shower, and put on some fresh clothes. These ones will need peeling off me soon,' he said with complete innocence, then blushed when Rebekah laughed and looked away.

Paul had left his car parked near the shore so they strolled that way along the quay and past the old lifeboat museum, and then Rebekah showed him the way to drive through Poole Park to get to his hotel. In the two years since she had been in Poole, Rebekah had mainly lived on Brownsea Island. But she had arrived with all sorts of local knowledge that her neighbour – whom she still sometimes thought of as ‘Aunty Pig'– had shared with her over the years, and she had set about discovering all the places she had recommended.

Rebekah had spent her first few nights after she had arrived in Poole staying at the Harbour Heights Hotel herself, before finding a somewhat more economical option until the ranger's cottage became hers. She had hired a car for her first couple of weeks, intending to buy one. But when she got settled on the island, she realised she would hardly need one. And as her life centred around Brownsea, Poole Quay, and one or two other places she could easily reach on a bus or train, she hadn't missed it yet. But those first two weeks with a car had been helpful in learning her way around, at least.

‘Watch out as we go under this little bridge here, Paul. It's tiny and only fits one car at a time. Slow right down and check there's nothing coming the other way,' she said, and he nodded his thanks.

‘This is certainly a different route to the main road. Is it much faster?'

‘Not really, especially as we have to slow down through the park. But I love the scenery this way, and I always think a journey – however short and necessary – is better if you can take the scenic route, don't you?'

He said that he did. Though for someone who usually drove around London, she guessed it wasn't often a luxury he could enjoy.

At the hotel, she hesitated, wondering if she ought to wait in the car. Suddenly, it seemed strange to assume she should follow this man she'd known for less than twelve hours up to his hotel room. Twelve hours. But it felt more like twelve days already.

‘Come on up and enjoy the view while you wait, Rebekah. It really is wonderful,' he said without a hint of embarrassment or any inuendo intended, and a sixth sense told her she was safe.

The room was quite magnificent – definitely a more deluxe version than the one she had stayed in, this one being more of a honeymoon suite than a simple room. The picture windows were full of Poole Harbour. She could see lots of recognisable details on the island, as well as all the way across the harbour to Studland and beyond. Rebekah pointed out Corfe Castle to Paul.

‘Is it somewhere I could visit?' Paul asked. ‘I've seen it and wondered how to get there. It looks a long way from here.'

‘Oh yes, very easy to visit. The best way from here is to go across the chain ferry and through Studland. It makes for a beautiful day out. It's owned by the National Trust too, just like the island. Do you have membership?' she asked.

‘No, but I'm really starting to think I should. There are so many wonderful places to see once you get out of London. It's well worth the cost, I'm sure,' he called as he went into his bathroom and shut the door. Rebekah took a seat by the window to enjoy the view and tried not to imagine Paul undressing in there or picture him when she heard the shower water running. Honestly, he was very friendly and kind but as she knew well, he was only here on business for one more day, and besides – as she had reminded herself every time she'd ever found feelings like these rising – she was better off alone. If only he wasn't so easy to spend time with. To chat to. To look at. She laughed at her own immaturity and tried to rein in feelings that were in danger of getting her into trouble, or leading her back to pain.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, she was relieved to see he had already dressed and she didn't have to face the reality of him wrapped in nothing but a white towel – an image she'd been somewhat too focused on moments before. He was instead wearing navy shorts and a pale-blue shirt and was rubbing his wet hair with the towel.

‘I think I could look at this view for the rest of my life and never tire of it,' he said as he watched Rebekah gazing out of the window.

‘It is glorious,' she said dreamily, finding it hard to take her eyes off the view of Brownsea from up here. Then she snapped herself back to the more pragmatic and sensible Rebekah. ‘So, what do you need to do first, Paul? You mentioned some work at the pottery.'

He sighed. ‘Yes, there is that. But it should only take me a couple of hours. And it isn't even midday yet. It's not exactly a beach day, but it isn't raining any more. Why don't we go for a walk along the beach at Sandbanks?' he asked her.

‘That would be lovely. A good stretch of the legs and perhaps a cup of coffee somewhere.'

They walked down the hill from the hotel to Shore Road, where the wide sweep of Whitley Lake lay bare to the low tide. Rebekah pointed out some of the birds she knew, having learnt of them in the hides on Brownsea Island. There were godwits, oystercatchers and curlews, she told him.

‘We have a curlew back home in Australia too, which looks very similar, but they're only cousins. These ones don't holiday down under,' she told him.

‘This bay must be very shallow, even when the tide is in,' Paul commented.

‘Yes, it is. You probably wouldn't get more than waist-deep until you almost reach the main channel out there. But when the tide is in, this area is full of windsurfers. It's a great spot for them.'

They walked on past the Sandbanks Hotel and onto the beach, each taking deep breaths of the fresh sea air that came in on the breeze as they paused to take in the view of the expanse of beach to the left and right of them.

‘Which way shall we walk? Left towards Bournemouth, or right and along the peninsula, down to the Haven Hotel at the harbour entrance? Lovely spot for a cuppa or even a glass of wine in the hotel if we go that way,' Rebekah suggested.

‘That's me sold! Lead the way Haven-wards, Ranger Rebekah.' He grinned, and she laughed in response.

As they walked, Rebekah told him more about her childhood in Australia, and how the native wildlife where she grew up in Brisbane had inspired her to lead the life of a conservationist.

‘But why learn all about Australian ecology and then come here to England? Do you have family here?' he asked, knowing from various of his historical studies how many Australians had British roots.

Rebekah flinched as the pain flared in the deep scars left by her father and then Andy. The idea of coming to Poole and Brownsea Island had begun in her innocent childhood, but the trauma caused by Andy's abuse had been the hinge on which her life had pivoted, sending her across the world to escape him and the memory of fear and pain.

‘Not family, no. But my next-door neighbour grew up here in Poole.'

‘But she's not here now?' he asked.

‘No. She went over to Australia after the war and became like a grandmother to me as I grew up. We lost Peggy to cancer not long before I came over here to live,' she said.

‘Oh, I'm sorry,' he said with such feeling that she paused to look up at his face. He had a kindness in his look, all the time, but at this moment, he seemed to be reaching out to her with his eyes. And she was grateful for that extra connection. She lived a lonely life on the island by choice, but this moment made her realise that perhaps it was a little too solitary.

And before she knew how she'd really begun, Rebekah was telling Paul all about Peggy, the neighbour who had helped her mum to raise her. ‘She was there through the worst of my life, and the best of it. At my graduation ceremony from university – that's when I first realised something was wrong. That first hint that she wasn't as well as she normally would have been,' Rebekah said.

She told Paul how, at the ceremony beside the river on Brisbane's South Bank in the winter of '88, she'd first seen Peggy resting in the shade and feeling unwell, when normally she would have stood through an afternoon like that and loudly cheered her on.

Earlier, Rebekah had taken a few minutes, before she had to get gowned up and find her seat, to look at the little section of rainforest that had been created there on the banks of the Brisbane River especially for the world expo display. It was an amazingly good replica, with a running creek and sprinklers that made a realistic wet rainforest environment for the frogs, and the few minutes she'd spent there had helped Rebekah solidify her plans for the short break she had before she went off to start her new job in the new year.

Rebekah told Paul how she had always been hoping for a job in a national park around Brisbane – perhaps Lamington, in the rainforest she loved so much. But first, she had ended up doing some work on wetlands conservation right in Brisbane, at Boondall. And all of this was just a precursor to the big plan: the world-wide travelling plan. The plan to graduate, work hard, learn lots more about Australian ecology, save enough money to travel, then head off to England to learn about the ecology of the British waterways and woodlands, and specifically those in Poole Harbour and on Brownsea Island.

Ever since Rebekah had been a little girl and Peggy had told her stories of her life in Dorset – the harbour, the beaches, the limestone hills and cliff faces and especially the island – she'd dreamed of visiting. For the whole of her life, Brownsea Island had been owned by the National Trust and Peggy had helped Rebekah to stay up to date on the news of what was being done to return it to its natural state, after years of farming and then neglect. She had books and news clippings and photos that had been sent out by Peggy's friends and relatives, who were working on the island as volunteers. And when Rebekah discovered that the island had its own rangers, she was hooked on the idea of visiting and becoming part of the place of her dreams. But first, there had been qualifications to earn.

‘After my grad ceremony, when I found Mum, I saw that Peggy was still sitting in her chair in the shade. She was holding out a small bunch of lovely native flowers – red callistemon and pink grevillea, yellow banksia and grey-green eucalyptus leaves – all wrapped in brown paper and tied with a raffia ribbon,' she said. ‘I remember so many details that I hadn't realised were important to me, but Peggy and I shared such a bond over native flora. It was the only choice of flowers she could ever have made for me. I bent down to give Pig a hug and heard her wince slightly. I didn't know then, but I soon found out. She was already in the late stages of cancer.'

Rebekah walked on in quiet thought for a while, and Paul gave her the space she needed for her memories.

Up until then, she remembered, she'd never thought of Peggy needing a man in her life, but it had suddenly occurred to Rebekah that Peggy might have been better off with a partner to care for her. She'd had Mum, of course, and Rebekah was there through the worst of it, but she had realised at that moment how nothing was quite the same as a lifelong mate. She thought again now that though being a strong, independent young woman was one thing, old age and sickness was something else altogether. Rebekah wondered now, for the first time, if it weren't true that everyone needed someone to spend their twilight years with.

And now here was this strangely kind and warm historian: Paul. She knew she'd probably only have a few more hours of his company before he disappeared back to London, probably forever, but something in her heart said that was wrong. That couldn't be.

Within half an hour, they'd reached what Paul had assumed to be the end of the beach as they approached the rocks that were laid as a sea defence all around the harbour entrance and a gate into the hotel that was marked, Private Property: Hotel Guests Only .

‘Do we need to turn back to reach the hotel from the road?' he asked her.

In return, she just smiled and winked.

‘Follow me, if you're feeling adventurous!' she called as she climbed and picked her way along the rocks at the water's edge, looking back over her shoulder to check he was following her. Rebekah nimbly led the way around the rocks beneath the wall that surrounded the hotel, and past a couple of fishermen who stood with lines taut in the rush of the outgoing tide at the harbour entrance. When she reached the metal ladder that led up the wall to the front of the hotel, she checked that Paul was still with her. She was surprised to see he'd paused and was studying one of the stones that made up the rock wall, so went back to see him.

‘Look at this, Rebekah! It's a whole hand, carved into the rock,' he said as he felt between the fingers of the huge print that must have been carved in the stone right here. She reached his side and explained.

‘There's a face over there too, see? I'm not sure who carved them, or how long they've been there but this is Purbeck stone – quite easy to carve as the stonemasons of some of the country's finest cathedrals would tell you. If you'd had time to visit Corfe Castle, you'd see plenty of it there. The whole village is made of it. It's the prettiest place,' she said standing to wave in the general direction of the Isle of Purbeck. ‘This is where you'd take the car across on the chain ferry, through Studland and on to Corfe.'

‘Did anyone ever tell you that you'd make a good saleswoman, as well as a ranger? You're making it very difficult to leave Poole tomorrow morning and miss out on all this back in London,' he groaned.

‘Actually, there's plenty of Purbeck Stone in London too, if that helps. There's even some at the Tower of London, I believe,' she said brightly before heading back to the ladder that rested against the wall and climbing swiftly up to the car park with Paul following on behind.

‘Here we are: I give you the more conventional entrance to the Haven Hotel, though I must say I prefer our route for getting here,' she said as she led the way into the hotel foyer.

They ordered two glasses of wine from the bar and sat on the wide patio in the sunshine that had finally burned through the clouds.

‘So that's Brownsea Island, just inside the harbour there?' he asked, pointing towards the castle that faced them and out in the channel.

‘Yes, and just beyond the slipway to the chain ferry, at that jetty you can see, there's another ferry that takes this shorter route to the island. That's where most of the staff on the island catch the ferry,' she said.

‘But you prefer the other ferry?' he asked, intrigued.

‘They all have cars that they park here, and the Enterprise – that's the name of this ferry – is a much faster boat as the distance is so short. But as I don't have a car, and most of what I need to do is in Poole town centre, the Island Maid ferry to the quay suits me best. The only downside is that the last one of those runs at half past four in the afternoon,' she explained.

‘And what happens if you miss that? Do you get stranded on the quay?'

‘Hopefully not! There's another boat, run by the castle, called the Castello , which is bookable by castle guests and island residents like me. In the summer, it goes to and from Poole Quay several times a day. And I could always catch a bus or even a taxi round here and get on the Enterprise , which goes until late at night in the summer.'

Just then, a waiter walked by, his arms laden with plates full of divine-looking dishes of culinary creations.

‘The food here smells wonderful. It will be one o'clock soon. Shall we ask for a menu?' Paul asked, looking around for a free waiter.

‘It's a bit expensive actually, and I think you have to book for a meal,' Rebekah said hesitantly.

‘Rebekah: I owe you for my night of unplanned accommodation on your most comfortable settee, the amazing meal you gave me when I arrived in the middle of the night, and the perfect omelette you cooked me this morning, not to mention the tour-guiding so far today.' He held up his hand with mock severity to stop the protestations she was about to emit. ‘Please, it would be my privilege to buy you lunch. May I?' he asked her as he caught the eye of a waiter, who brought them each a menu.

Rebekah smiled her thanks and marvelled at how differently this day was turning out from her usual Saturday plans: a visit to the library to change her books, a quick dash around Sainsbury's, a treat of fish and chips on the quay and then the ferry ride home to Brownsea and Rose Cottage. As she sipped her wine, ordered a luscious meal, and watched Paul watching the boats coming and going through the harbour entrance, she decided one thing: it was time to stop expecting anything to be normal, ever again.

Lunch turned into coffee and somehow time seemed to stay still, while they'd been sitting there for well over two hours together, talking, eating, laughing. Rebekah glanced at her watch as she noticed the waiters seemed to be clearing up around them as all the other lunch guests had left.

‘Heck, look at the time! We'd best get a move on if I'm going to get my groceries bought and make it onto that ferry home. And don't you have work to do?' she asked him, feeling a little panicky at how dependent she now realised she was on Paul to drive her back into Poole.

Paul studied his watch and seemed to be mulling something over. Rebekah saw him glance towards Brownsea and westward to where she'd pointed out Studland earlier.

‘You'll never make it, not comfortably, anyway,' he finally said, resting back in his chair and folding his arms decisively.

‘What? Why not?' Rebekah cried, noticing the higher pitch in her own voice.

‘We have a half an hour walk back to the hotel, then once we get into Poole, you won't have enough time to shop and do all your errands and still get back to the quay by half past four,' he explained.

‘Oh, it's okay – I really don't need much and I'm quite good at flying around Sainsbury's in a hurry,' she spoke quickly, beginning to feel a little breathless now.

‘And your library books?' he asked with an arch to his eyebrows that told her he was enjoying this. She had forgotten that she'd left them in his car.

‘Ah, yes, I forgot about those. Oh, damn it. I really did want to change them,' she mused, biting her lip as she thought about it.

‘I tell you what,' said Paul, folding his arms and leaning them on the table as he bent closer to Rebekah. ‘Let's say we forget all about trying to make it in time for that early ferry. I'll help you get your errands done, and then we can spend the evening together. Have dinner somewhere. Perhaps even take a drive out to this castle and its village you think I should see. It will be light until nearly ten o'clock tonight. Then you can take the later ferry from here on the – what did you call it – the Enterprise ? – and still get home to bed in Rose Cottage before you turn into a pumpkin.'

Rebekah realised she was staring at him with her jaw hanging open. His eyes were studying her face and she felt her lips tingle when his gaze lingered on her mouth, which she shut with a snap. Everything he had suggested sounded perfectly reasonable. And wonderful. But she had only met him fifteen hours previously. And was there something just a bit too close and personal about him wanting to spend so much time with her when he'd only just met her? What if he had that strange controlling gene she'd only seen too late in Andy?

She could just decline his lovely offer, ask to be dropped at the supermarket and let him drive away, never to see him again. Or, she could take a deep plunge and trust him. She felt the weight of two possible and polar opposite outcomes teetering in the balance, and took a deep breath before replying.

‘You know, for someone whose Friday evening plans went so incredibly awry, your ideas for Saturday evening are pretty spectacular, Paul. Count me in,' she said with a smile, realising this was probably the most daring and trusting thing she'd ever said to a man before – particularly one she found incredibly attractive. There. She'd admitted it. He was divine to look at, and he had an easy way to him that made her feel like she'd known him for months rather than hours. She was loving every minute in his company.

‘But we should still head off now, I think. These waiters are wanting a break before their dinner rush starts,' she said looking around the patio where they were the last guests remaining.

Paul went to pay the bill while Rebekah walked over to the Enterprise jetty to explain to the ferryman to expect her on the last ferry of the day at 11p.m., if he didn't see her any earlier.

‘Rightio, Bek,' said the boat's captain, who had always shortened her name without checking whether or not she approved – she didn't. ‘And if you don't turn up for the eleven o'clock, what should we do? Don't want you stranded here, love,' he said, and Rebekah noticed that he was looking over her shoulder with a frown. She turned to see Paul approaching, tucking his wallet into his back pocket.

‘It's all right, Bob, I'm sure I'll be here by eleven. And if I'm not going to make it, I'll let you know,' she assured him.

‘Let's take the road way back to the hotel, shall we?' Rebekah suggested to Paul as they walked away from the ferry jetty. ‘It runs all along the peninsula on the inside, so I'll be able to show you more of the harbour that way.'

Rebekah led the way down Banks Road and pointed out some of the most expensive property in the world. ‘John Lennon bought a house for his Aunty Mimi just around the corner, you know,' she told him.

‘That would have been a bit different from her place in Liverpool, I'm sure.'

‘Apparently, John loved the peace and quiet here. And he was right, don't you think? It really is one of the most beautiful places in the world to relax,' she said.

‘If you couldn't have your little cottage on Brownsea Island, then I suppose one of these mansions would do.' He shrugged and shot her a quick smile. ‘But I much prefer the real deal. Your place is perfect.'

‘Yes, if only it really was mine. It's just the accommodation that goes with the job, but wouldn't it be lovely to have a permanent home somewhere so magical as Brownsea?'

As they made their way out into the open of the peninsula road, the ferry to Cherbourg was chugging out of the harbour and seemed to tower above all the smaller boats around it.

‘From what I've learnt about the flying boats that were here in the war, that ferry is charging straight down the main runway,' Paul said thoughtfully.

‘Are you particularly interested in the war?' she asked.

‘It's intriguing. I came here to gather information and sort through archives on the pottery, thinking it would be all about business transactions and staff members, but I had no idea what an important role the pottery played as part of the flying boat service during the war. Did you know that they used the Harbour Heights Hotel for their guests?' he asked and Rebekah shook her head gently. ‘If they had to overnight before an early-morning flight, they'd stay at the hotel then be driven down to the marina at Salterns. Most of the male staff from the pottery were called up and went away to war, but some of the women were retained to work for BOAC – the British Overseas Airways Corporation. It became British Airways in the end.'

‘Really? I had no idea about that part.' Rebekah was stunned. She knew that Pig had some memories of flying boats in the war, but Pig was just a fisherman's daughter. Perhaps she'd not known the full extent of this civilian service.

‘Poole Harbour was one the first places in the world to be called an "Air port ",' he said, with emphasis. ‘Up until that time, the few planes there were in the 1930s were just based on random small landing strips around the country. But with the war and the sudden growth of the RAF fleet, all of those airstrips became RAF bases for the fighter planes and bombers, and the flying boat services were all moved from Southampton to Poole where it was thought it would be safer. So, for a short while, Poole Harbour was the only international civilian airport in the country – port being the operative word, of course, for the flying boats .'

Paul regaled her with the fascinating history he'd learnt all the way back to the hotel, where they picked up his car and drove back into Poole town centre again.

He found an empty space in the Poole Pottery staff car park.

‘I'll go inside and see to a few things while you get your odds and ends done. Meet you back here about six o'clock?' Paul suggested. ‘I'll leave this side door ajar, so you can just come up the back way to find me.'

Rebekah picked up the backpack that held her library books and headed up the High Street before she realised a flaw in their plan: she couldn't buy refrigerated groceries and have them hanging around for several hours in Paul's car while they went on a tour of the Purbecks. She glanced at her watch – 3.50p.m. Just enough time if she was quick. She dashed around Sainsbury's and collected all the basics she might need for the next week, then hurried as fast as she could manage with her heavy bags back down to the quay. She reached the ferry just as the last passengers were boarding the final trip around the harbour for the day.

‘Sorry, Phil, I've not managed my time very well this afternoon,' she explained to the ferry's deckhand. ‘Can you please take these for me and get them into the Brownsea reception? There's a bag here that'll need to be popped in the fridge. I'll pick them up when I get home on the Enterprise later,' she said.

‘Right you are, Rebekah, not a problem. Lovely evening. Doin' something nice, are we?' he asked with a smile.

‘I hope so,' she called back over her shoulder. Relieved of the heavy grocery bags, Rebekah enjoyed the walk all the way back up the High Street to the library where she had just enough time to return her books and pick out a selection for the next few weeks: the latest Harry Potter , Helen Fielding's first novel – the serialisation of which in the national newspapers had been hilarious – and Thomas Hardy's Wessex Tales . Something fantastical, something to make her laugh, and some gritty Victorian realism set firmly in the heart of Dorset.

Rebekah made her way back to where she'd agreed to meet Paul at six o'clock and pushed open the door he'd left ajar for her. She found herself in a back corridor of the pottery offices. All was eerily quiet. The factory floor probably didn't operate on a Saturday anyway, but she knew the showroom and café did, as she'd been in there herself for a cup of tea several times, but they would be closed for the day by now. She made her way along the corridor in the rough direction she thought she might find Paul but was soon distracted by all the historical photos that lined the hallway. Some were in colour and showed the various pottery collection designs through the latter part of the twentieth century, but others were black and white.

There was one of the paintresses, all sitting in rows. Judging by their clothes, it must have dated from the 1930s. And then one caught her eye as it seemed to have nothing to do with the pottery at all. The photo had been taken on Poole Quay, and there were several women wearing dark uniforms of slacks and jumpers and matching caps with an insignia. A lone man was pointing out into the harbour and the women followed his gaze. It was obviously a staged photograph and looked to date from the Second World War. One of the women was strikingly beautiful. She had fair hair that curled under her cap, and high cheekbones. Something about her was familiar.

Rebekah read the inscription printed beneath the photo. The date was 1943 and it read:

Bosun Frank Hewitt points the way to a flying boat from Poole Quay, watched by British Airways Seawomen, Nora Bevis, Eileen Wigg and Margaret Symonds.

She wondered if Margaret might have been related to Peggy, but it was unlikely. The name Symonds was fairly common, after all. But the faraway look on that one woman's face – she presumed this was Margaret from the order of the names in the inscription – drew her in to the picture. Why did she not look as though she was giggling, as the other girls were? She was probably the same age, but something about her expression made her look older. Wiser. Deeper.

‘Fascinating, aren't they?' said a deep voice that gently brought Rebekah back to the present.

‘They're beautiful. And they must have been very skilled, too.'

‘There's very little detail about them that I can find – and I've tried to look. Just their names and addresses, their roles, and their pay rates recorded in a random book I found. They weren't part of the pottery business, but the connection was strong between the pottery and BOAC.'

‘It would be wonderful to find out more about these women. Who were they, do you think? And what happened to them?' she mused, but Paul had no answers for her.

Paul led the way up to the office along the corridor, where he was just packing up his things.

‘I heard the door open and guessed it was you,' he explained. ‘I just need to pack up and then we can set off. Did you get everything done?' he asked her.

‘Yes, thanks. Even sent my groceries home on that last ferry to the island. What about you?'

‘I think I've got as much sorted as I need to from this end now. I shouldn't need to come back here to the pottery to do any more on this job. Back up to London tomorrow, for me,' he said, then turned away from the desk and picked up his bag, addressing Rebekah as he straightened. ‘So we have the rest of this evening for you to show me everything you think I should see.' He smiled.

‘That's not very long to show you the best of the most beautiful county in England, but I do like a challenge. I would love to show you the other side of the harbour, and it's a perfect evening for a drive. We won't get inside the castle as we're too late, but we can drive around the Wareham way, have a walk around Corfe in the evening sun, and then have a pub dinner. We'll come home the Studland way to make it a circular drive and back over the chain ferry, then you can leave me in the safe hands of the captain of the Enterprise ,' she explained as they walked out to the car.

‘Captain Kirk? I've always wanted to meet him,' he said with a grin.

‘Do you know, I've never even thought of that connection before! Now I'll never be able to think of Bob in any other way.' Rebekah laughed.

As Rebekah directed Paul along the quay, across the Hamworthy lifting bridge from one quay to the other, and towards Wareham, she relaxed into the delightful knowledge that she'd be with him for at least another four or maybe five hours. And, she thought to herself as she took a shy glance at him driving now, she was going to make every minute count.