The happy, busy sounds lifted into the warm sea-salted air, confirming what everyone already knew: summer was here and Clove Lore was thriving again.
On this particular Saturday afternoon, pleasure boats criss-crossed the harbour mouth, where a smart cruiser was coming in to dock alongside the Siren’s Tail. Sleek and long, its prow was blazoned in deep-blue lettering, letting the locals know this was theLucky Boy.
Once its mooring rope was tied and its engine cut, a figure emerged from the glossy white of the cabin, drawing quite a crowd of intrigued onlookers.
‘Aye aye, Clove Lore!’ the jolly man called out, clambering up the stone steps and onto the sea wall, more sprightly than most of the younger men who worked in the harbour, even though the gold button of his navy blazer, glinting in the sun, was under quite a bit of strain over his rounded tummy.
Pulling off designer shades, his cheerful, crinkled, icy blue eyes caught the light. Even with the tan lines around his lids, he’d be described as handsome by anyone watching his arrival.
Some of the old-timers who smoked pipes and sipped pints on the pub’s harbour-side benches greeted him, even though he was a stranger to them all. As soon as he was out of earshot they turned to each other to discuss him.
One pronounced him, ‘No spring chicken.’
‘Bit flash, in ’ee?’ said another.
‘One of them millionaires from Salcombe, I’ll wager,’ spoke a third.
‘S’long as ’ee’s got money to spend, we’ll allow it,’ the first added wickedly, and they laughed in the wake of the self-satisfied captain, who was occupied in surveying the harbour, his chest expanding proudly as though he’d just bought the entire place.
Raking a tanned hand through sleek lengths of white hair, he bit a cigar between teeth as white as his crisp shirt collar.
‘It’s a fine day for adventuring!’ he announced loudly to nobody in particular, striding along, his shiny shoes clacking on the sea wall. ‘An ice cream’s in order, that’s for sure.’
Rubbing his hands together delightedly, he turned heads all the way along past the lime kiln and onto the slope, where he took in everything with an interested eye. ‘Oh yes,’ he told the air, laughingly, ‘I’m in the mood for something sweet!’
‘There!’ Mrs Crocombe was telling the deep-freeze as she sealed the door upon her latest batch of wedding ice cream. It had taken the best part of the afternoon to make it and Bovis had only interrupted her five times to ask how to open the till so he could correct someone’s wrong change.
She’d tried to be patient. He was, after all, only learning, but by the time the gooseberry syrup – to be syringed into each sphere of ice cream upon serving at the wedding – was cooling and capped in jars, Bovis was calling for her once more.
When she emerged from her shiny new kitchen at the back of the shop, Bovis was frowning more than usual. This time it was aimed at the gentleman in the white captain’s hat and epaulettes, whose grin seemed to be taking up most of the shop. Or at least that was Mrs C.’s first impression as she emerged through the rainbow ribbon curtain.
‘Problem?’ she asked Bovis, who kept his eyes fixed on the stranger.
‘Fella here wants to know if there’s real rum in the rum ’n’ raisin.’
‘’Course it is, best Devonshire rum.’
‘’Course it is,’ Bovis repeated, his words aimed straight at the man who he’d clearly taken a dislike to. ‘What a daft question.Is it real rum?indeed.’
‘You didn’t seem to know a moment ago,’ the customer reminded Bovis, with a jovial laugh, never once taking his eyes off Mrs Crocombe. ‘You’ll forgive me asking, Miss, only I can’t take alcohol when in charge of my yacht.’
Mrs Crocombe, who was used to odd characters breezing in and out of the harbour, didn’t bat an eyelid and offered him her dark chocolate and mint crème as an alternative, sensing he was the sophisticated type.
She could usually tell what folks were going to order. When she first opened her shop thirty years ago it hadn’t taken her long to figure out that many customers, probably subconsciously afraid of dripping, matched their ice cream to their outfits. This fellow though, looked cultured and adventurous. There was no way he was going to drip.
‘Perfect!’ he told her. ‘You read my mind.’
Bingo!Mrs Crocombe smiled as she rolled a silky scoop.
Bovis watched on, his eyes narrowed like a Victorian maiden aunt chaperoning at a country dance.
‘So many beautiful things to taste,’ the man continued. ‘I could be tempted to extend my visit until I’ve tried every flavour,’ he told her as he took the cone from her hand and pulled a twenty from a thick roll of notes drawn from his trouser pocket.
‘You’re not docking overnight?’ she asked, sorting his change with efficient hands.
‘Hadn’t planned to. In fact, I was going to take in some more of the coastline, but I think I’d like to see more of Clove Lore. It does seem…’ His gaze fell coyly to the cone below his lips before flashing brightly back to her stunned face. ‘Enchanting.’
His eyes sparkled in the lights above the counter and reflected in the chrome surfaces and mirrors all around the shop. For a millisecond there was nothing but dazzling blue irises and perfect white teeth.
