Page 51 of Pull Me Under

Cal leans against the wall, weathered hands wrapped around his mug. His face is grey beneath his tan – it’s the shade of grey that comes from running on adrenaline for an hour and then crashing hard when it’s over.

Tom’s there too – although not on today’s call, he’s been scaling back this past year, since his dad announced his slow retirement from the Darcy Vet’s practice. In this village time spent on the crew earns you a permanent seat whether you’re active or not.

‘Right,’ Cal says finally. ‘We need to talk about crew.’

No one argues. We all felt it out there today – how understaffed we were, how close it came to going sideways when that young lad panicked.

‘We’re two down,’ Cal continues, voice rough. ‘Peter’s been gone six months. Kit’s in New York for – what, another month?’

‘Five weeks,’ I say. Five weeks until my brother gets back and I can stop running his business and covering his RNLI deputy duties and pretending I’m not drowning under the weight of all the things Kit does better than me.

That’s not fair. Kit didn’t leave. Kit’s supporting Isla – she got offered six weeks on Broadway, and of course he should go, of course he should be there for her and Maisie, and I told him to go, and I meant it.

I just didn’t expect it to feel like this.

‘Five weeks,’ Cal repeats. He sets his mug down on the bench with a decisive thunk. ‘We can’t keep running calls like this, lads. Today was too close. If that skipper had gone over the side, if that young one had dragged Bill under⁠—’

‘I had him,’ Bill interjects quietly, but there’s no heat in it. We all know how fine the margins were.

‘You had him because you’ve got good instincts and more nerve than sense. But what about next time? What if there’s three in the water instead of on deck? What if the conditions are worse?’ Cal crosses his arms. ‘We need another crew member. And we need a proper mechanic. Yesterday.’

Tom rubs the back of his neck. ‘I’ve been covering the engine checks, but I’m a vet, Cal. I know enough to keep things running, but if the engine fails out there⁠—’

‘Exactly.’ Cal looks around the room. ‘We need someone who knows what they’re doing with an engine. Not making do. Actually qualified.’

The silence stretches. We all know he’s right. We also all know that finding someone in Sea Salt Bay with offshore experience and the willingness to commit to lifeboat duty is like finding hen’s teeth.

Bill clears his throat. ‘Saw the Trelawney girl this morning. Down at the harbour before dawn, working on that trawler she picked up.’

My stomach flips.

‘Walter’s granddaughter?’ Cal asks, eyebrows rising. ‘Thought she’d gone to Australia or somewhere.’

‘I doubt it was Australia, but she’s come back,’ Bill says. ‘Inherited the cottage and the business. Been here a few days now, back in the shed and working on a boat, from what I gather.’ He pauses. Takes a sip of his tea. ‘If Walter shared half of his knowledge, she might be what we need.’

‘Right,’ Cal says slowly, thinking it through.

‘Only.’ Bill shifts his weight. Sets his mug down carefully, the way he does when he digs in. ‘We’ve never had a woman on this crew, Cal. Not in forty years. And she’s – well. She’s young. And she’s been gone twenty years. Can you really call yourself local if you left when you were seven?’

There it is. I watch Bill’s face – not unkind, not malicious. Just calcified. He’s a man who’s been doing things one way for so long that a different way feels like a threat.

‘She’s got skills better than half the people in this room, Bill.’

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

All three of them look at me. Cal with interest. Bill with surprise. Tom with a steady look that means he’s already decided you’re worth backing, or saving.

‘I’ve seen her work,’ I continue, because apparently my mouth has disconnected from my brain and is operating independently. ‘Her work ethic is insane, she was out there in the dark this morning, doing her own engine overhaul – not paying someone, doing it herself, and doing it properly. She trailered a day-trawler from Plymouth and had it on blocks in the shed inside an hour, without letting me lift a finger. And she’s not just some blow-in – she’s a Trelawney. Her grandad built that shed. Her family fished these waters for generations before⁠—’

I stop. Hear myself. Close my mouth.

Cal’s watching me with an expression I can’t read.

Bill’s watching me with one I can.

Tom’s studying his tea.

‘You seem to know a fair bit about her capabilities, lad,’ Cal says, eyebrow drifting up his weatherworn forehead.