Page 52 of Pull Me Under

‘Small village,’ I manage, grinding the toe of my boot into the cement floor. ‘Hard not to notice.’

‘Mmm.’ Cal uncrosses his arms. ‘What about the water knowledge? Bill’s right that she’s been gone twenty years. She won’t know the currents, the shoals, the way the swell runs off Pencarrow⁠—’

‘That’s what training’s for,’ I say. The exact thing I should not be saying. ‘She knows boats. She knows engines. She’s got nerve – I’ve seen her haul gear in weather that would send most blokes running for the pub. The local stuff she can learn. You can’t teach someone to be calm in a crisis. She already is.’

Another silence. Longer this time.

‘Well,’ Bill says, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘That’s quite the character reference.’

I close my mouth. Too late.

Cal pushes off the wall. ‘Here’s what I think. She’s got the qualifications. She’s got the engine skills, which we’re desperate for. And she’s here, which is more than anyone else has offered in six months.’ He looks at Bill. ‘We operate on competence, not on whether someone’s a man or a woman. If she can do the job, that’s what matters.’

Bill grumbles into his tea but doesn’t argue. He’s a good man, Bill – once he sees someone prove themselves, the old-fashioned nonsense falls away. He just needs to see it.

Cal turns to me. ‘Now. She hasn’t agreed to anything yet. She might not want to. She’s got enough on her plate with that trawler and the cottage.’ He pauses, and there’s amusement in his eyes. ‘But you seem to be the expert on what she can do, Harding. So you can be the one to recruit her.’

‘Me?’

‘You. Walk down there, make the pitch. Tell her what we need, what the commitment looks like, what the assessment involves.’ He reaches for his jacket. ‘And if she says yes, you’ll run her assessment. Thursday afternoon. Water rescue scenarios, equipment checks, knot work, the lot. You’re acting deputy while Kit’s away – it’s your call whether she’s ready.’

‘Cal—’

‘And if she passes, you train her. Weekly sessions until Kit’s back and we can reassess the rota.’ He claps me on the shoulder. ‘I know there’s history between your families, Jude. Old blood and old grudges.’

‘There’s history,’ I say carefully. ‘Even if I don’t know the half of it.’

‘Don’t need to know the half of it. Just need to know she can do the job.’ His gaze is steady. ‘This crew operates on competence, not on who someone’s grandad did or didn’t like fifty years ago. Your dad doesn’t run this station. I do. We clear?’

‘Crystal.’

‘Good man.’

He disappears through the door, footsteps echoing down the corridor. A moment later I hear the exterior door bang shut.

Bill follows, clapping me on the shoulder as he passes. ‘She’s got good certs, I’ll give her that. If she can do the job, she can do the job.’ He pauses at the door. ‘Just don’t let old Reuben hear about it from someone else. Tell him yourself. He’ll take it better.’

Fatherly advice from a man who doesn’t know the half of it. I nod. Bill leaves.

Tom’s still there. Quiet. Methodical. Rinsing his mug at the small sink in the corner, taking his time about it.

‘You all right?’ he asks, without turning around.

‘Fine. Just tired.’

‘Mm.’ He sets the mug on the drainer. Turns. Leans against the counter and looks at me with that steady, patient expression – the same one he uses on nervous animals, probably, and it’s annoyingly effective on humans too. ‘That was quite the speech.’

‘It was a pragmatic assessment of available resources.’

‘If you say so.’

He heads for the door. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t deliver a warning or a lecture. Just says, over his shoulder, quiet enough that I could pretend I didn’t hear it:

‘She seems good, Jude. Be careful with it.’

And he’s gone.

I strip out of my waterproofs in silence, hands moving through the familiar motions. Hang the gear on the drying rack. Stow my helmet. Lock my personal items back in my locker.