Durante: Walking a neighbour's dog helps us.

Durante: Walking a neighbour's dog helps us.

By oggbashan©
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Copyright Oggbashan January 2017

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

This story is set in a mythical area of coastal England during 1956 and 1957.


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It was pointless to call the dog back. He was a hundred yards away on the tidal flats bounding along with an effortless stride chasing seagulls he knew he'd never catch.

He rushed along the wet sand towards a group of seagulls who lazily lifted into the strong wind before landing again as soon as he had passed. I didn't mind. Durante is a large dog who needs plenty of exercise, and this Saturday exercising him was a pleasure. Eventually, he would turn and look at me, pleadingly. He'd come back if I signalled to him but he hoped I wouldn't, not yet. There were hundreds more seagulls to play with.

Durante, full name Jimmy Durante, is a massive mongrel weighing about 200 pounds. He had been intended to be a guard dog but he failed because he is slightly deaf. He is also too soft-hearted. He'd rather slobber all over an intruder instead of biting them. His owner, Mr Jefferies, thought that Durante had a mix of St Bernard and Irish Wolfhound in his ancestry. Durante was large enough, but his other most distinctive feature was his large nose -- hence his name.

Durante hadn't noticed another dog sitting on the hard on the other side of the estuary. If he had, he would have rushed across the sandbar, swimming if necessary, to greet that dog. Most other dogs find Durante's greetings a trial because he is the largest dog for miles around.

The other dog was watching someone working on a small boat pulled up by the work shed. I thought I knew who it was but at this distance I couldn't be sure. That hard is the only local place where a boat can land at any state of the tide.

I pulled my fob watch out of my pocket. It was inscribed for the 1951 Festival of Britain and had been a present from my grandfather for my 18th birthday that year.

I didn't need to look at it. Durante knows that means the end of his seagull-chasing. He chased one last group of seagulls and came bounding back, splashing through the wet channels in the sand. I'd have to hose him down before letting him into Mr Jefferies' kitchen where Durante would curl up in front of the Aga cooker to wait for his master's return.

Durante stopped a few yards short and shook himself violently before coming to my side. We set off together to walk back to the house, turning away from the estuary on a shortcut that would be impossible later in the year. The marshland would be flooded by October.

We had just reached the edge on my father's third-best orchard when I heard Emma shouting. She seemed to be shouting at Don. That was a mistake. Don is slow. Shouting at him makes him more confused. I broke into a run and Durante kept up with me easily.

Just inside the orchard Don was facing Emma Simkin. She had calmed down a little, perhaps because she heard us approaching. She was telling Don to put a knife away. He was standing about six feet from her with a small penknife open in his right hand.

Durante rushed up to Emma, his tail wagging furiously. She stroked him, trying to keep her full skirt away from his wet fur. Durante walked across to Don and sat down in front of him. Don closed the knife, put it in his pocket, and kneeled down to give Durante a hug. Durante's tail and rear end were wagging so fiercely that both of them nearly fell over. I would have watched more but Emma was giving me a bear hug.

"Thank you for coming, John," she said. "Don was upset. I don't know why. Something about I shouldn't have seen him and that was bad. He was waving the knife around. I didn't know that he was trusted with knives and I was worried he might hurt himself."

"But not you?"

"Don? Don't be ridiculous. Don wouldn't hurt anyone. You know that."

"I do. But does Don?"

"Yes. Look at him with Durante. They trust each other..."

Emma seemed to be about to add more but had stopped, looking intently at my face.

"...as much as I trust you, Emma?" I said cautiously.

"No. As much as I trust you, John."

Emma's hand stroked my cheek.

"Let's sort this out," I said, disentangling myself from Emma's hug.

"Don?" I asked. "What was the knife for?"

"To try an apple. Me Mam said to cut a piece and eat it. If it was not sweet, that's the sort she wanted. No one was to see me. But Emma did. That worried me."

"Emma's a friend, Don. That doesn't count. She's not no one. Nor am I. What your Mum wanted was cooking apples. We'll get some for you to take to your Mum. OK?"

Don was looking relieved. If friends didn't count, he hadn't disobeyed his Mum.

"Emma? Can you go to Mr Jefferies' stables? There are some cardboard boxes in the first loose box. I think we need one about this size."

I held my hands about a foot apart.

"OK, Alan. Back soon."

Durante was still trying to knock Don over, an impossible feat even for a dog that large. Don is a giant, a friendly amiable giant, but a man mountain. He works at our local coal merchant, loading and unloading sacks of coal. He earns his living and gets more money doing heavy work around the village. As long as the task was simple, preferably repetitive, and needed a good strong lad, Don was ideal.

Durante and Don were rolling around on the grass in a mock fight. Only someone as strong as Don would do that. They were enjoying each other.

As I waited for Emma I looked around the orchard. My grandfather had intended to grub out all these old overgrown trees and plant new ones. He had thought that 1940 would be a good year to do it, but the war, and particularly Dunkirk, had wrecked his planning. After Dunkirk the orchard was full of Army tents for the soldiers retrieved from the beaches. The Army hadn't finally handed back the land until three years ago, 1953, a year after my grandfather had died.

Sorting out grandfather's will and renovations elsewhere on the more productive areas of our farm had taken the next couple of years and too much money. Maybe next year we could replace the trees? But would we? The market for apples wasn't great and this orchard wasn't best placed to grow good quality apples. It flooded once or twice a decade, and apple trees don't like that.

Mrs Simkin's bungalow was a hundred yards away behind the wharf built during the First World War. It had been the Harbour Master's base when this area had been a 'Secret Port' for supplying the Western Front. We owned the land behind that bungalow but it was littered with abandoned railway tracks, foundations for Army huts and cracked roadways. It would take a substantial amount of money and time to clear that land to make it productive again. Like this orchard, it had never been prime farmland. It had been summer pasture for cattle.

The wharf extended along our frontage to the estuary but was useless there. The estuary had required constant dredging during the First World War. Now our part of the wharf had a depth of no more than two or three feet of water at high tide.

The wharf by Emma's house was scoured by every ebbing tide and was still usable for small coastal ships. None came because other nearby ports had better facilities. During the last few months a large motor yacht had used the wharf several times. The villagers had been curious about it. Mrs Simkin said the owners were considering whether it was possible to develop a yacht station.

All the local seafarers were dubious about such a development. Yacht owners wanted facilities and what did we have? The village Post Office with its small store and the local spit and sawdust Public House, The Wildfowler, were our only businesses. Neither would be attractive to yacht owners. The nearest railway station was five miles away.

Navigating from the sea into the estuary was tricky. Sand banks moved after every storm. Only locals knew the safe channels since the dredging had stopped in 1920, resumed for a few short weeks during 1940 during the Dunkirk evacuation.

Emma returned with a small cardboard box.

"This do, John?" she asked.

"Ideal," I replied. "We'll just fill it with cooking apples for Don's Mum..."

I hesitated.

"Could you take Durante to Mr Jefferies? And hose him down? I could go to Don's Mum. She'll be worried about him."

"I'm not dressed for hosing muddy dogs, John."

Emma twirled around, splaying her cotton skirt wide.

"You've washed Durante before. He likes it and he is very careful. He stands still while you do it, and then waits until you are some way from him before he has a good shake. Please?"

"OK, John. But if this skirt gets wet you'll be sorry."

I could tell she didn't mean it.

"Can you let yourself into the kitchen and put the kettle on? I'll be there shortly."

I held out the house keys.

"Keys?" Emma was surprised. "He keeps the back door locked? No one else does."

"Nor did he, until about a month ago he found that someone had been into the kitchen and searched it. He doesn't think they had taken anything. They couldn't get further into the house because he kept the door from the kitchen locked otherwise Durante sleeps on his bed. But the intrusion worried Mr Jefferies. He is away often, so he has kept the back door locked."

"OK, John. I'll put the kettle on. I want to talk to you. That's why I was here."

"Thanks, Emma. I'll be with you soon."

I walked over to Durante, holding out the lead so he could see it. He stood still while I attached it. I turned him to face Emma, and held out the lead to her so Durante could see it. She took the lead. Durante walked sedately beside her as they went towards Mr Jefferies' house. Emma had walked Durante many times and he behaves beautifully with her.

"Don, let's get some apples for your Mum."

We filled that box in a few seconds. Why not? There were tons of apples on the ground and more on the trees waiting for the pickers who would never come.

Don and I walked to the village and to the back door of his mother's house. She was peeling potatoes at the sink.

"Hello John," she said. "Why..."

"You wanted some cooking apples. Don got worried..."

"Emma saw me," Don interrupted. "You said no one must see."

"But Emma and I are Don's friends. We don't count."

I hoped Don's mother would take the hint. She did.

"That's all right, Don. They don't count. Could you fill the coal buckets for me, please?"

Don went out of the kitchen. His mother sat down on a stool, looking worried. She and I knew that filling the coal buckets was unnecessary at this time of year.

"Mrs Jones," I said. "If you want any apples from that orchard, you can have them. It doesn't have to be a secret. Don's not good at secrets, is he?"

"No. He's a good lad but..."

"But he's a friend. You have my permission to take as many apples as you want for your own use, whenever you want. I'll tell my father. He won't object. Why should he? We don't harvest those apples."

"Thank you, John. Thank Mr Oliver for me. I didn't want to send Don scrumping, but the shop had no cooking apples today."

"And I know why. What's the point of stocking cooking apples when there are tons of them lying on the ground a few hundred yards away? Don's not the only one who takes a few. We don't mind villagers doing that as long as they're not selling them."

"Thank you, John. That's a relief."

Mrs Jones smiled. She kissed me on the cheek.

"I know Don has friends. Sometimes I forget that he has them."

"And why not? Don will do almost anything for anyone who asks him nicely. He's an asset to all of us. The women mother him, the men know who to call for a heavy job, and the girls..."

"Leave him alone," Mrs Jones finished.

"They love him too, in a way. Don is safe from them; they're safe from him. Emma was worried about him earlier because Don had a knife."

"That knife? It was his Dad's. It's blunt. Don couldn't hurt himself with it. It would cut a slice from an apple but not cut string. Don's proud of having it."

"OK. I'll tell Emma. She's waiting for me."

"I know she is, John. The whole village knows she is. She doesn't look at anyone else. Nor do you. So when?"

"It's not me, nor really Emma. Emma's worried about her mother and what will happen if she gets married and leaves home."

"Mrs Simkin does very well, considering."

Emma's mother and mine had been ATS drivers during the war. My mother had died and Mrs Simkin's legs were smashed when the truck she was driving was thrown off the road by a near miss from a German bomb. Although Mrs Simkin could get around at home with two sticks, and had a hand-propelled invalid carriage to get to and from the village, we all knew that her condition wouldn't improve.

Emma's grandmother had looked after Emma and I while our mothers were doing war work. Grandmother Simkin, and now Mrs Simkin, had been the village dressmakers and seamstresses. My father and the village blacksmith had converted the Simkins' treadle sewing machine by adding a belt connected electric motor.

"Eventually..." Mrs Jones said.

"I know. We'll have to come to a decision. Meanwhile Emma is my defence against all the other women. I had noticed that I was very popular with mothers of daughters and widows."

Mrs Jones laughed.

"The widows have given up. Some of them hoped to be your step-mother, but your Dad loved your Mum too much to think of replacing her."

"I know, but the mothers of daughters are still a threat."

"And why not? You're heir to the largest farm around. With the money your grandfather left you..."

"Which I can't touch until I'm twenty-five in two years time, or married..."

"That doesn't matter. The money is there. But as you say, Emma is your defence. You're hers. She might need that from those motor boat people."

"Them? Why from them?"

"Emma has told you? One of the men has been chasing her."

"No. She hasn't said anything, but I know she wants to talk to me, now. I'd better get back to her. Don't worry about the apples."

"I won't, John. Thank you."

Mrs Jones kissed me on the cheek again before I left.

I was at Mr Jefferies' house in minutes. The kettle was just beginning to boil. A clean Durante was sleeping on his blanket in front of the Aga. Emma was sitting in one of the three armchairs. One was reserved for Durante even though he was really too large for it. I made a pot of tea for us because reaching over Durante needs long arms. I took some milk from Mr Jefferies' refrigerator, one of the only two in the village. My father's kitchen had the other one.

I handed a mug of tea to Emma, made exactly how she likes it.

"I can see your skirt didn't get wet," I said.

"No. Durante was great, as usual, the great hairy lump."

"But he's a friendly lump and knows you. So, what did you want to talk about, Emma?"

"My Mum. And the motor boat people."

"OK, Emma. What about your Mum?"

"She's thinking of selling the house to them."

"Them being the motor boat people?"

"Yes. I'm worried about it."

"I'm not surprised. Where would you live? Your house was adapted for your Mum. The village did it. You have wider doors so a wheelchair can get around, a ramp to the front door, and because it's a bungalow her bedroom and bathroom are on the ground floor. I don't know of any other house in the village that would be as suitable."

"Nor do I, John. She thinks she can live with us."

"With us? But..."

"I know. We're not married. We're not even engaged even if the village thinks we should be."

"And I haven't got a house. I live with Dad."

"She thinks WE could live with your Dad, and she could come too."

"In the farmhouse? That would never work. It's a medieval building with several levels on the ground floor. We couldn't make it suitable for her without tearing it down and rebuilding from scratch. Is she mad?"

"I'm beginning to think she might be. The boat people... No. I'll call them by their names. There are two brothers, Fred and George Smith, and their two cousins Bert and Archie, also Smith. Whether Smith IS their name? I don't know. Fred has been a nuisance. He has been suggesting that if Mum doesn't want to sell, and they have offered a lot of money, he could be her son-in-law. But I don't think he's the type to marry. He wants the house and I might be the way to it. He's a slimy..."

Emma doesn't swear but she came very close to it.

"What does your mother want you to do?"

"You know I have a power of attorney for her?"

"Yes. That's because she can't get to the bank. So what?"

"Fred has suggested that I go to their solicitors in London and hear what they are offering. Mum wants me to go. I don't want to go on my own. I want a friend with me -- you."

"Of course I'll come with you, if that's what you want. But why should you go to London? That sounds odd."

"It does. And they want me to take the power of attorney with me so that I can sign documents on Mum's behalf..."

"No!" I exclaimed.

"I don't want to, John. It smells fishy."

"I agree. I think you need legal advice. Have you got a solicitor?"

"No. Your Dad arranged the power of attorney for us."

"I think we need to talk to my Dad, and then our solicitors. They're near your work. Could you get an hour off during a day?"

"I think so. No. I'm sure I could. They owe me some overtime."

Emma works as a senior clerk in the department store in the nearby town. She commutes on her Raleigh moped. It is reliable enough to go the five miles and back every day down our country lanes. The bus service only runs on Market days.

"Access!" I said suddenly. "Have they or your mother talked about access?"

"I don't think so, John. Why?"

"How do you get to your house?"

"You know how. Along the top of the sea wall. I ride my moped along it. Mum propels herself along it. You and your Dad made it an even surface for her."

"And that's a public footpath, Emma. If PC Arkwright wanted to, he could make you walk with your moped, not ride. He won't but that's not the point. You couldn't drive a car or truck along it."

"Of course not. It's not wide enough."

"And when your Mum had a new bed delivered, how did it come?"

"Oh. Across your land. They had to open several gates."

"Which are usually locked. I had unlocked them in advance. The point is, Emma, that you and your Mum have a permissive right of access, granted by my grandfather. Your Dad signed a legal agreement which stated that the access was only by our family's consent, and each time that access was needed it had to be agreed between your father and my grandfather.

If grandfather had said 'No', or 'not today', your father had to accept that. We didn't bother to change it after your Dad was killed in Burma. But after grandfather's death, my Dad had the agreement rewritten. It now names your Mum and you, and only you two have permissive access, and again you have to ask us in advance -- 'us' being my Dad and me. If your Mum sells the bungalow, that access permission ends. The new owners could not bring a car or truck, or have furniture delivered, without seeking a new agreement with Dad and me. And why should we grant it?"

"And they want to build a yacht station, John. They couldn't, not without access."

"And land. Your bungalow has a large garden but it isn't large enough even for a car park, if cars could get there. Your only unlimited access is by water. No. I've just remembered. Water access is controlled by the Harbour Master. You live in the old Harbour Master's house, but your Mum isn't the Harbour Master. My Dad is. Grandfather bought the rights for navigation when the Army left in the 1920s."
"So their plan for a yacht station is pointless without involving your Dad?"

"And they haven't spoken to him, not even when they brought their motorboat in. If they had used anyone else but Jem as pilot, the local seaman would have consulted Dad first."

"Jem? That..."

"You don't need to swear. We both know what Jem is."

Jem Anson and his extended family are the blot on the village. He and his family describe themselves as General Dealers which is a cover for dealing in stolen goods, probably burglary, certainly breaking regulations about handling dangerous materials, and disruptive behaviour. Between them they have numerous minor convictions for theft and handling stolen property. The local pub might improve itself if the Ansons didn't make going there very unpleasant for anyone else.

I could see Emma was thinking. I sipped my tea.

"Deliveries?" Emma said. "The shop delivers. So do the butcher and the greengrocer. Their boys cycle down the seawall to us. I used to have to go in with the ration books. I put some shopping in my moped's panniers. Mum uses a box on the back of her invalid carriage. But... I should have remembered since we saw Don. He delivers our coal by rowing boat. He rows down and back at high water slack, heaves the coal up on to the wharf, and puts it in the coal bunker. It's only a couple of hundred yards by the estuary so he can do it easily if the tide is right."

"So they could bring things in and out by water. But why? And what? How far could they go with a rowing boat?"

"They have a dinghy with an outboard motor," Emma said. "It draws less water than Don's rowing boat. They could get all the way to the old Town Wharf if they judged the tides."

"And Jem would know exactly how and when..."

"Yes."

"But their idea of a Yacht Station is still nonsense. It must be. That would need land, road access, and facilities. They would need Dad to sell them some land and access rights. Yet they haven't spoken to him and still seem desperate to buy your bungalow. I think we need to speak to Dad, and then get legal advice. When do they want you to go to London?"

"This Thursday when the shop shuts for early closing. I have alternate Thursdays off in exchange for working some Saturday mornings. But next Thursday I would normally be working. I'd have to swap."

"Don't!" I said. "You need advice first."

I altered my tone.

"Miss Simkin, I would be honoured if you would accept an invitation for Sunday lunch with my father and I."

Emma blinked. I started to repeat myself.

"OK, OK. I get the message. Miss Simkin would be delighted to accept John Oliver's invitation."

She spoilt the tone by giggling. Durante stirred in his sleep, stood up, turned around and lay down again. That reminded me. I needed to put out some food for him before we left. I did while Emma washed up the tea things.

We locked the kitchen when we left. Once outside, Emma snuggled up against me to kiss my cheek. That kiss turned into the proper one we couldn't have done before because Durante gets jealous. He pushes his way in between us, and with his size and weight that makes kissing almost impossible.

I walked with Emma back to within sight of her bungalow. She kissed me on the cheek again, I presume just in case her mother was watching. I went back to the village to see Mrs Davis who cooks our Sunday lunch. I told her there would be three of us.

When I got home my father was just finishing a cup of tea. He uses Saturday to do the farm accounts unless there is other urgent work to be done outside. I told him that I had invited Emma for Sunday lunch and what we needed to discuss.

"John," he said, "Emma has no need to worry. I'll explain why to both of you tomorrow, but her mother can't sell the bungalow. Emma needs legal advice and I can arrange that, but the situation isn't what she thinks."

"But she's worried about the Smiths..."

"So am I, and Constable Arkwright. They're up to something but as yet no one seems to know what."

We left it there. Dad went over the recent accounts with me. We need capital to improve some areas of our farm, but apart from that we are better off than most locals. We were running a profitable business despite employing some of the locals when we don't need to. Getting Mrs Davis to cook some of our meals is an example. We could both cook, but her cooking is better than we could produce.

I tried to get my father to say something about Mrs Simkin's bungalow. He declined saying that he would tell Emma and me tomorrow.

+++

Emma arrived a few minutes early. She was wearing a headscarf because there was a strong wind blowing. She took it off in the lobby, shook her head to rearrange her hair, and hung the scarf on a hook. She was wearing another of her cotton dresses. I had difficulty keeping my eyes off her while we were eating. I could sense that my father was amused by my obvious love for Emma.

After lunch we sent to Dad's study with cups of tea. He sat behind his desk. Emma and I sat side by side on the old leather settee.

"John's been trying to get me to tell him what I'm going to tell you both now. He doesn't know the situation. I should have told him earlier but I thought it could wait. Now that the Smiths are trying to buy the bungalow I can't delay any longer.

Emma, you were a c***d when your father died in action and still young when your mother was injured. Your father had been renting the bungalow until early in 1939. He was given the opportunity to buy the bungalow with a mortgage. His death and your mother's injuries meant that she couldn't afford the repayments. What was worse was that the war meant the value of the bungalow was less than the outstanding debt. Even if the bank repossessed the bungalow, your mother would be left with a large bill to pay from no income. She would have been made bankrupt and homeless. She didn't know. She was still in hospital being treated for her injuries, and Mrs Jones, Don's mother was looking after you."

"I remember, Mr Oliver. Mrs Jones was very good to me."

"And she thought you were great with Don. But -- back to the financial situation. Two people decided that your mother shouldn't become homeless and bankrupt. One was my father, John's grandfather. The other was Mr Jefferies. Then, as now, Mr Jefferies was a barrister practising in property law. He should have retired by now but he is still a partner in the chambers in London and has gone back to work part time on a complex case. He acquired the dog Durante when he thought he had retired.

That's by the way. The thing that matters is my dad and Mr Jefferies went to see the bank's regional manager. They offered more than the bank would get in wartime if they sold a repossessed property but less than the outstanding debt. The bank would get most of its money back and your mother, Emma, would be free from an impossible financial burden she didn't know she had. Your father hadn't told your mother that he was buying the bungalow. She thought they were still renting. She wasn't and isn't very good with household accounts, is she Emma?"

"No." Emma said ruefully. "I soon found out I had to do them. Mum had no idea how much she earned, how much she spent, and she spent more than she earned. I had to deliver newspapers as a teenager, and take odd jobs around the village to make ends meet."

"And there was no bill for rent, was there?"

"No, Mr Oliver. I thought we owned the bungalow. I didn't know how. I didn't find any deeds, only old documents about the mortgage. I assumed that it had been paid off by insurance..."

"I wish it had, Emma. I wish it had. But the insurance your father took out specifically excluded death by enemy action. That was supposed to be covered by the government. It was, but the payment was less than ten per cent of the debt. The insurance money went towards adapting the bungalow for your mother."

"So who owns it now? And why aren't we paying rent if we don't own it?"

"I own it. Or rather John and I own it. After the war Mr Jefferies sold his half to my father who gave it to me. My father left his half to John, in trust until he is twenty-five years old or over twenty-one and married. Mr Jefferies and I had told your mother that she could live in the bungalow rent-free for the rest of her life. I don't think she took that statement in. Months after she was released from hospital she was still confused. She has a tenancy for life. When she dies it would revert to Mr Jefferies and me, or now to John and me."

"And I'd be homeless? Is that what you're saying?"

"I think that is very unlikely, Emma. Think about it. If you had just yourself to support, how far would your salary go? You could rent a flat, a house, or even buy a house with a mortgage. And John might have something to say about that too."

Dad looked at me pointedly. I was about to say something but Emma spoke first.

"You two own my mother's house. We're living on your charity. I didn't know. My mother should know but appears to have forgotten. That sounds as if you own us. I know the village expects John and I to marry but this makes it look as if I've been bought. I don't like that. Who else knows?"

My father was startled by Emma's reaction. He tried to reassure her.

"Emma! We don't own you. We own your house. No one except Mr Jefferies knows. Even John didn't know until now. No one need know. John loves you and I know..."

"...He'd like to marry me if only..." Emma interrupted. "But this is awkward for me. I know John loves me. I love him. We couldn't marry because of my mother. Now? The bungalow is another obstacle."

"It shouldn't be," my father said. "Your mother can't sell it to the Smiths. Your power of attorney means nothing. The Smiths can't force you or your mother to sell something you don't own. Fred Smith can't get the bungalow by marrying you. YOU can get the bungalow by marrying John."

"And live with my mother? No thank you. I want our own home, just for John and I and..."

Emma blushed. We both knew what she meant.

"OK, Emma. Let's work together. Our objects are first, to stop the Smiths annoying you and your mother and preferably get rid of them; second, to find some way of getting a place for you and John together without your mother, and third, to get a place for your mother that is as suitable as, or preferably better than the Harbour Master's bungalow."

Emma nodded as she listened to that.

"Emma," I said, "My father has made an assumption in his list of objects. That assumption is shared by the whole village but isn't yet true."

Emma turned to look at me. I slid off the settee to my knees.

"Emma Simkin? Will you marry me, please?"

Emma looked over my head at my father before looking straight at me.

"Yes."

That's all she said. 'Yes'.

She leant forward, put her hand under my chin, and lifted my face for a kiss. I heard my father open a drawer in his desk and riffle around in it.

"John?" he said. "I think you need this."

I broke from the kiss and turned around. My father was holding out a small black box.

"What is it?" Emma asked.

I opened it before answering.

"My grandmother's engagement ring. Will you accept it, Emma, please?"

"Yes."

That's all she said, again, just 'Yes'.

I fitted it on to her finger, and kissed her hand.

"Thank you, Dad," I said, before Emma kissed me again.

"I'll go and get some more tea," Dad said, "and leave the engaged couple to find out what that means."

He left. As the door closed Emma flung her arms around me and hugged me fiercely. She made up for her lack of words with multiple kisses.

+++

"Why did you say yes this time, Emma?" I asked when I could.

"You hadn't asked me for some months, John. When we sorted out Don and the apples we said we trusted each other. We do. I'd trust you with my life. I know you feel the same. It was a shock to find out that my mother doesn't own the bungalow. It could have made it difficult for me but I trust you. I trust your father too. He and your grandfather have been very good to the Simkins. If you are like your father and grandfather, and I know you are, then I want to be married to you. You've waited long enough."

"We've waited long enough, Emma. I'm happy that you have said you'll marry me but we've known for years that you would. The whole village has been saying not if but when John and Emma will get engaged. Now we are and you're wearing an Oliver family heirloom."

Emma lifted her hand to look at the engagement ring.

"Thank you, John. And thanks to your father too. Why...?"

"Why wasn't my mother wearing it? Simple. It was too large for her and couldn't be reduced in size without damage. I knew it would fit you."

"Your mother was small, wasn't she? I remember her dainty hands and slim fingers. But... How did you know this ring would fit? You hadn't measured my finger."

Emma expected an answer.

"That was simple. Remember last Christmas? I had a tawdry ring in my cracker. I passed it to you. You adjusted the soft metal to fit. After the meal you took it off and left it on the table. Later that day I checked that rubbish ring against grandmother's -- that one. They were the same size. If they hadn't been? I had your ring size so I could have bought a new ring to fit. But it wouldn't have been the same."

"I love this ring, John. And I love you..."

That started another bout of kissing that only ended when Dad returned with more tea.

"Do you know about the Saddler/Watt almshouses?" Dad asked.

"Yes," I replied. "They've got six small houses in the village square. They're tiny and two stories."

"They have more than that. The charity owns several pieces of land as well to help support the residents. Mr Jefferies is the President of the charity's board along with the Vicar, and me. The charity is building some old people's bungalows behind the Church, and has sold some land to fund the build."

"And?" I couldn't see what Dad was getting at.

"If and when they are built, Mrs Simkin would be one of the first people we would consider as a resident. The bungalows would be designed to be used by someone in a wheelchair with level access and a disabled bathroom and toilet, whatever they are. She could live independently right by the centre of the village..."

"And we could get married," Emma said excitedly.

"If your mother accepts the offer, when the bungalows are finished. That's at least six months from now."

"It might take me that long to persuade her," Emma said wistfully, "and nearly as long to arrange our marriage. The whole village will want to come to it."

"I think you are right, Emma, about your mother AND the wedding. But before then we have to find out what the Smiths are doing with their boat. Their idea of a yacht station is nonsense. I suspect they are doing, or planning, something i*****l, but what? Smuggling is the most obvious activity but if they are it can't be anything bulky nor people. Anything they bring in or out has to be moved in the dinghy. I think they want the Harbour Master's bungalow so they can work unobserved. It can only be seen from the estuary at high tide. At lower tides only the roof and the watchtower is visible. Have you any idea what they are doing, Emma?"

"I know they go to Holland. Some of their rubbish has labels in Dutch. It's a nuisance. They put it in our dustbin and I have to take the bin in a wheelbarrow to the end of the footpath. They make more rubbish than Mum and I."

"Can John and I take a look at the next dustbin? When is it collected? Tuesday?"

"Yes. I wheel it along Tuesday morning, walk back for my moped, and then do the same in reverse in the evening. Any time after seven in the morning until the collection at about ten the bin will be there."

"And the bin can't be seen from the bungalow?"

"Of course not. It's two hundred yards along a twisting path following the estuary and I leave it below the sea wall."

"Thank you, Emma. John and I will do some rubbish detection on Tuesday morning. Meanwhile, see if you can find out anything about what the Smiths are doing without being obvious about it."

"I'll try, but they tend to stop talking when I'm nearby. What about the Smith's request to see their solicitors' in London?"

"Accept but I'll come with you, Emma," I said. "You can leave the power of attorney at home. You won't need it. We might find out what they are really doing when they know you and your mother don't own the Harbour Master's bungalow."

+++

On Tuesday morning Dad and I rummaged in the Simkins' dustbin. We didn't learn anything we didn't already know. Some of the Smiths' rubbish was from Amsterdam.

+++

On Thursday Emma walked to our farmhouse. I drove her to London in my father's large Rover. I parked about one hundred yards from the Smiths solicitors' office. Neither of us were impressed by the location or the building.

As we were shown into the solicitor's room Fred and George Smith were there.

"What's he doing here?" Fred Smith asked aggressively.

Emma held out her left hand.

"John is my fiancé," she announced. "He is here because I want him to be here."

The solicitor calmed Fred down.

"Now, young lady," the solicitor said, "The two Mr Smiths want to make you and your mother a handsome offer for the Harbour Master's bungalow. I think you ought to accept. The offer is for far more than the market value..."

"She can't accept, whatever the offer is," I said bluntly.

"Keep out of it!" Fred Smith shouted.

"Mr Smith, please keep calm," the solicitor said. "Now, Mr Oliver, is it?"

I nodded.

"You have made a surprising statement. Why can't Miss Simkin consider any offer from the Smiths?"

"The answer is simple... Mr James, is it?" I said looking at the sign on his desk. He and the Smiths were annoying me.

"Mrs and Miss Simkin do NOT own the Harbour Master's bungalow so they can't sell it."

"Can you prove that, Mr Oliver?"

"I don't need to. A search of the property records will show who owns the bungalow. Perhaps you should have done that search before recommending an offer to the Simkins."

"Then who bloody well does own it, you young jackass?" Fred Smith shouted.

I sat back in my chair and smiled.

"He and his father do," Emma said sweetly. "My mother has a tenancy for life. I have no rights in the property at all."

"Why didn't your fucking mother tell us that?" Fred shouted.

"Temper, temper, Mr Smith," I said. "Mrs Simkin didn't tell you because she didn't know. She was told but that was when she was recovering from her injury. She doesn't seem to have realised her situation. Her solicitors could have told her but until now there was no need."

"Mr Oliver, Miss Simkin? Can I suggest a short break while I consult my clients about this unexpected development?"

I pulled out my fob watch.

"My fiancée and I will go for a walk and come back in half an hour. That do?"

"Yes, thank you." Mr James said.

"There don't appear to be any sights worth seeing in this neighbourhood," I said.

"If you turn right out of the front door there is a park about one hundred yards away."

"Thank you, Mr James. We will go for a walk in the park."

Emma and I left. The park was small but tidy. We sat on a bench overlooking a small pond.

"What will they do?" Emma asked.

"Not much. They'd have to buy from my father and me and they can't even if we wanted to sell."

"Can't?"

"I'll explain to Mr James. I hope he can keep Fred Smith in check. If not? I might think about punching him just for being a nuisance to you."

"You wouldn't, John!"

"I might. But not in a solicitor's office. I can behave when I need to. Or not."

I kissed Emma. She kissed me back before saying.

"We shouldn't! Not in public."

"We're engaged, Emma. Kissing is what engaged couples do."
We kissed again.

+++

When we were shown back into Mr James' office he was alone.

"I considered it better that my clients should not be present," he said.

I didn't comment.

"You and your father own the Harbour Master's bungalow?"

I nodded.

"Would you sell to the Smiths?"

"I can't. We can't." I said bluntly.

"Can you explain that?"

"Yes. Mrs Simkin has a tenancy for life. We wouldn't evict her. Even if she moved out we still couldn't sell. My father owns half of the bungalow; I own the other half but my half is held by a trust. That trust expires when I reach my twenty-fifth birthday or when I marry, whichever comes first. Until then the trustees couldn't and wouldn't agree to a sale."

"And when will you be twenty-five?"

"I'll be twenty-three next month."

"When will you marry Miss Simkin?"

I looked at Emma. She smiled at me.

"We haven't set a date yet. Next year sometime because it will be a big event for the village."

"I see. And when you are married, would you consider selling?"

"No. Apart from Mrs Simkin's tenancy, the bungalow is an integral part of our estate. There is something else your clients haven't considered. It is the Harbour Master's bungalow. The Harbour Master controls and regulates access to the estuary and river. Your clients have been navigating the estuary without the Harbour Master's consent. That is no great crime for a few visits by one vessel but if as they have stated they want to establish a Yacht Station they would need to negotiate with the Harbour Master. They haven't."

"And the Harbour Master is?"

"My father."

"Would he be interested in negotiating a deal for a Yacht Station?"

"What Yacht Station? The proposal is nonsense. Apart from by the Harbour Master's bungalow the estuary isn't navigable by any keeled craft. Even if it were, there is no land access to that quay except by a narrow public footpath. My father owns the land surrounding the Harbour Master's bungalow. Access for the Simkins is by specific consent by prior agreement on each occasion. That access is reserved for Mrs and Miss Simkin only. There is nowhere to build a yacht station; no access for the materials to build it; and no access for any users. As I said. It is nonsense."

"So my clients cannot proceed without the consent of you and your father?"

"They can't," I answered, "and even if we agreed to sell the bungalow, some more land, access and everything else, the Yacht Station idea wouldn't work. The navigation of that estuary is complex and dangerous. Unless, as the Army did during the two World Wars, they spend hundreds of thousands of pounds on repeated dredging no yachtsman in his right mind would use a Yacht Station on that estuary. And why would they? Ten miles up the coast is a perfectly usable facility."

"You suggest I advise my clients to drop the idea, Mr Oliver?"

"I suggest that what they want is NOT a Yacht Station. I don't know what they do want, but it isn't a Yacht Station."

"And whatever they do want, you won't help?"

"No. I won't. Why should I? Mr Fred Smith has been obnoxious to my fiancée. Apart from that the Smiths obviously want to do something other than their stated objective. What it is? I don't know. But the secrecy makes me suspect that it could be harmful to the local community of which Miss Simkin and I are members. I will offer some advice to you personally, Mr James. You might wish to reconsider having the Smiths as your clients. Their associates in our community have considerable criminal records. That association arouses suspicions about the Smiths."

"Can you justify that statement?"

"Like the ownership of the Harbour Master's bungalow, I don't need to. The criminal records of the Smiths' associates are public knowledge. The man they are using to pilot their motorboat in and out of the estuary is on probation now after his latest imprisonment and awaiting trial on several charges. That doesn't endear the Smiths to the locals. I'll say no more except to repeat that you, Mr James, should be careful. My fiancée and I are leaving. We cannot help you. We can't and don't want to help your clients even if we knew what they really wanted."

I stood up. Emma stood up too. We left Mr James' office.

Outside, Emma pulled me to a stop.

"Phew! I'm glad you were there, John. Without you that could have been really unpleasant."

"It wasn't particularly pleasant even with me there. If only we knew what the Smiths are really up to. Why do they want the bungalow? We don't know. Please be careful if you meet the Smiths. Fred will be really angry. I don't think he will do anything to you. Why would he? There's no point now he knows you and your mother don't own the bungalow."

"But you don't sound convinced, John."

"I know. I wish I knew what they are really doing. Is their name really Smith? Why do they go to Amsterdam two or three times a month? We have more questions than answers. I don't like that."

"I remember that you lied to Mr James, John."

"Did I? About what, Emma?"

"You said that the bungalow was an integral part of your family's estate. It wasn't and never had been. Dad was renting from the Coastguards. It had been a Coastguard station in the 19th Century which is why it has a watchtower. After our meeting on Sunday I dug out Dad's old papers. They included his old lease agreement before he was offered the chance to buy. There was also a wayleave agreement with the General Post Office. They have access to the tower and the tower's basement is leased to them. They paid my Dad, and now my Mum, ten pounds a year to keep their equipment in the basement with access at any reasonable time."

"That seems odd. What do the Post Office have there?"

"I think it's about some cables. There are some electrical cabinets in the basement. I let a Post Office engineer go down to the basement about eighteen months ago."

"OK. That doesn't matter. Nor does it matter that I lied to Mr James. It might not have been part of our estate when your Dad was alive. It is now. If your Mum moves into a bungalow in the village we could set up home in the Harbour Master's bungalow."

"It's not a great building," Emma objected.

"But with some money spent on it? A new bathroom and kitchen, a new roof, and an access drive across Dad's land? It could be much better."

"Perhaps. But that's a lot of money, John."

"When I marry you, or when I'm twenty-five, I'll have money, Emma. But we need to find out about the Smiths before we can do much else."

"We can't do anything about them while we're in London. How about a tour of the sights? I'd like to see Buckingham Palace and walk in St James' Park."

"Then we will. Come on Emma. We'll be by St James Park in a quarter of an hour."

We were. We walked through St James' Park, stared through the railings at Buckingham Palace, and stood in Horse Guards looking at the sentries. We walked down Whitehall to the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey. We enjoyed being rural hicks looking at the sights of London.

On the drive back home Emma fell asleep in the passenger seat. I took that as her confidence in my driving or was she just tired?

The next day I went into the village to talk to Constable Arkwright about the Smiths again. I told him about Emma and my visit to the solicitors. Constable Arkwright took extensive notes but all he would say is that the police were interested in the Smiths. He wouldn't expand on that.

+++

On Saturday morning I was walking Durante again. Mr Jefferies was working in London and wouldn't be back until the evening. I noticed that the Smiths' motorboat wasn't moored in the estuary. It hadn't been there since Tuesday. Although it is a largish vessel suitable for crossing the North Sea in most weather conditions I wouldn't have thought it would be comfortable as a place for four men to live on. Where did they live? They hadn't got a base in our village. Perhaps they had moored in London on Thursday? I didn't know. It was possible.

The tide wasn't as far out as it had been when I had met Emma with Don. Durante was disappointed that there weren't as many seagulls to chase, but if I threw his ball repeatedly he would be reasonably happy and exercised. Durante needs long walks every day.

I walked back along the top of the sea wall. As I approached the Harbour Master's bungalow Mrs Simkin called out to me.

"John? Can you come in for a minute, please?" She said as Durante and I came closer. "You can bring that hairy mutt with you. I've got some dog biscuits for him."

Durante never refuses dog biscuits from anyone, not even the Ansons. He has a healthy appetite.

In Mrs Simkin's kitchen she made tea for us while Durante crunched his way through a heap of dog biscuits.

"John, Emma has told me that you and your father own this house..."

I nodded.

"...and you and she are engaged."

I nodded again.

"Congratulations. I've known for a long time that you and Emma would get engaged. I'm pleased you have."

"But?" I prompted. She obviously wanted to say something else.

"If I had owned this house I would have sold it to the Smiths. I was frightened of them and felt that Emma and I were very isolated out here away from the village. Apart from the Smiths, Jem Anson has been telling me I ought to sell."

"Jem? What's he got to do with it?"

"I don't know but he's stopped me several times in the village to tell me I should sell. He hinted of unpleasant things if I didn't sell."

"The Smiths now know that you can't sell," I said. "You don't own the bungalow. Any unpleasantness will probably be directed at me."

"Please thank your father for me," Mrs Simkin continued, "I didn't realise what the Olivers had done when I was injured. I appreciate having somewhere to live that is adapted for me."

"Most of the village helped with that," I said, "even the Ansons."

"The Ansons? What did they do?"

"It was very difficult to get building materials during the war. Although the local builders were willing to adapt this bungalow they couldn't because of lack of material. One of them asked the Ansons. For cash in hand the Ansons produced the needed items. For the time they didn't charge an excessive amount. Whether the stuff fell off the back of a lorry or vanished from London's docks my father didn't know and didn't ask. He was just grateful to have it."

"I hadn't thought that the adaptations had been so difficult."

"Except for the lack of materials, I don't think they were. The footpath to the village was more complex. The gravel surface had to come from a sandbank out at sea. The local fishermen, sorry, fisherwomen at that time, brought a bag of gravel back every time that sandbank was exposed. I understand there was some concern that it wouldn't be ready when you came out of hospital. I think it had been finished two days before you came home. Since then it has been topped up from time to time from a heap by where Emma puts your dustbin. That gravel was delivered by lorry -- the Ansons again for cash -- after midnight."

"I didn't think the Ansons had helped me," Mrs Simkin said.

"They did. But their motive was probably the cash. They'll do anything for money."

"I'll thank Jem next time I see him."

"He'll be surprised, surprised to be thanked, that is."

"But his family helped me. I'd thanked everyone else I thought was involved even if I didn't know just how much your family had done."

"It was mainly my grandfather and Mr Jefferies. I didn't know until Dad told me and Emma."

"So when are you getting married to Emma?"

"We haven't set a date yet. We've only been engaged for a couple of days and we're both worried about the Smiths. We want them out of the way before we think about our future."

"I'm worried about them too. Often I'm alone here when they moor their boat. I'd lock the back door but there isn't a lock."

I looked at the door. There was a latch but no keyhole. Usually that wouldn't matter. No one in the village locks a back door. We all call to each other's back door. The front door is for weddings and funerals.

"I'll see if I can find a lock for it. I'll try the ironmongers next time I'm in town."

"Thank you, John. I would feel safer if I could lock myself in."

We continued talking for a few minutes more until Durante showed signs of impatience. He wanted to continue his walk, or more likely get back to his kitchen and have a sleep.

+++

I hadn't forgotten about the lock but I was busy for the next few weeks and didn't go into town. I should have asked Emma to go to the ironmongers but I thought I might know better what sort of lock to buy. Whenever I was with Emma we had better things to do and talk about.

The Smiths' boat hadn't come back. Emma and I were still worried that they might. We relaxed when the very low tides came. Their boat would have grounded by the bungalow if they were moored there during a low tide.

One Sunday morning I was walking Durante again because Mr Jefferies had stayed in London to attend a friend's funeral on the Saturday. He'd be back later today. Durante had been delighted that there was even more exposed sand to chase seagulls across. I let him rush around for about an hour before I was about to take out my pocket watch. I looked around me. The sandbar across the estuary's mouth was almost dry. It might have a foot of water at the lowest point.

The hard on the opposite bank was also dry, ending before the tide's edge. A boat was tilted over against the hard. I now knew it was Jem Anson's boat. He used it to meet the Smiths before piloting them into the estuary. But he couldn't use it now. It was too heavy to drag down to the water's edge.

I scanned the horizon. There were visible sandbanks out to sea and in the far distance there was a motorboat. I peered as best I could. It looked like the Smiths' boat but they wouldn't be able to get into the estuary for three or four hours, if then. With the tides as they were, they'd need Jem's piloting.

I decided to walk back past the Harbour Master's bungalow and visit Emma and Mrs Simkin. Perhaps I could measure the back door and note what size lock I would need. Durante would appreciate more dog biscuits. I would like to see Emma. I sighed. If only I knew what the Smiths were doing. I pulled out my watch and held it so Durante would see it when he had finished chasing a final group of seagulls. He had been looking back at me several times, knowing his time was nearly up.

Durante came back slowly. He had been enjoying himself but because of the unusually low tide he had run much further than normal. He walked beside me as we went to the sea wall. As we walked along the top I could see that the river was just a trickle between banks of mud. Although some was just flowing over the sand bar, most was accumulating in a pool behind it.

I hadn't put Durante on a lead. Unusually for him he was snuffling along the path as if there was an interesting scent. He may be slightly deaf and too soft-hearted to be a guard dog but he does have a keen sense of smell. He knows when foxes have been around. He stopped, turned and looked as me almost as if to say 'you should smell this'. Of course I couldn't.

As we became close to the bungalow Durante ran ahead of me. That was unusual. Normally he walks a yard or two ahead of me on any path. He turned off the footpath towards the back door of the bungalow, barking furiously. That worried me. I ran after him to see him barking at the back door which as slightly ajar. I pushed it open.

Mrs Simkin was sitting on a heavy chair facing the door. No. She wasn't sitting. She was tied to that chair with rope and had a pillowcase over her head. She was shaking her head vigorously. I pulled the pillowcase off. She had a dishcloth stuffed into her mouth and held in place with a tightly tied scarf. I took out my penknife and cut the scarf's knot before easing the dishcloth out.

"Water," she croaked.

I filled an enamel mug with water from the tap and held it to her mouth. As she sipped I looked at the ropes tying her. They were cutting into her wrists and ankles.

Durante flopped on the floor. His task was done.

"Emma," Mrs Simkin said as I started to untie her. "They've taken Emma."

"Who has?"

"Jem Anson and his brother." She glanced at the clock above the mantelpiece. "About twenty minutes ago."

"Why? How?"

I was cutting the ropes around her wrists.

"I saw Jem and his brother walking along the footpath. Jem had his dog with him. I didn't expect to see Jem. He uses the opposite bank almost always to get to his hut and his boat. I went outside and invited them in for a cup of tea."

She pointed at the tea things on the kitchen table.

"I wanted to thank Jem and his family for what they did to help me when I was injured. I thought, since Emma was here with me, that it was a convenient time. I made the tea, we drank it, and we were talking normally until Emma mentioned that she was meeting you this afternoon.

Jem suddenly produced a pistol and pointed it at us. He and his brother tied us up, me to this chair, and Emma standing. They gagged both of us. Jem apologised for what they were doing but he said they had to. The brother went through to the bedroom and came back with some bedding. They pulled the telephone wires out of the socket. Although Emma was already helpless they covered her from head to knees in my largest blanket. They tied it around her before Jem pulled a pillowcase over her head and knotted it."

Now her hands were free she reached for the mug of water and sipped again.

"They hooded me with another pillowcase. I heard them arguing in whispers. They said something about it being too soon. Jem shook me and said he had a message for you, John, and your father. The message is that the Smiths had Emma. You wouldn't see her again unless you sell the bungalow to the Smiths. If you go to the Police, you will never see Emma again. That was it."

"Where's the nearest telephone?" I asked almost to myself. "Mr Jefferies?"

"Here!" Mrs Simkin said sharply. "They may have ripped out that one but it's an extension. The main phone is downstairs in the tower basement for the Post Office engineers. I only have a phone because of them. If we can get downstairs we can use that telephone."

I almost carried her down to the basement. She unlocked the heavy door and we went it. There was a telephone on the desk. I sat her by the desk.

"Ring the police," I said. "I'm going after the Ansons."

"Shall I ring Constable Arkwright?"

"No. Ring 999 for the Police. We probably need the Coastguard as well to stop the Smiths' boat. Have you still got your husband's shotgun?"

"Shotgun? No. I sold it. But his Home Guard rifle is over there. It's a Ross whatever that is. The bullets are in that box."

I grabbed the Ross. It was slightly unfamiliar compared to the SMLE I had been used to from National Service. I loaded a clip.

"Right! I'm going after the Ansons. They can't have taken Emma to the Smiths motorboat. The tide is too low. They must be at Jem's shed waiting for the tide to rise. I'll make sure they cannot use their small boat and try to persuade them to let Emma go. Send the Police to Jem's hut. Tell them I'll be there."

Mrs Simkin nodded.

"When you've called the Police, lock yourself in and don't open unless it's me, or Emma, or you are convinced it is the Police. OK?"

She nodded again. I heard her dialling as I ran up the stairs. I grabbed the axe Emma used for chopping firewood. I gestured for Durante to follow me as I ran out of the bungalow. I ran along the seawall towards the estuary mouth. If I was right the tide was low enough for me to cross to the other bank easily. Going back to the bridge in the village would take much longer. The slung rifle banged against my back.

I was right. At the lowest part of the sandbar the water was only ankle deep. As I approached the hard I looked carefully. There was no sign of life in the hut and Jem's boat was still thirty yards above the low tide. I went to the boat and looked inside. I put the rifle down carefully on the side away from the hut. There was no obvious drain plug around the inboard engine. Never mind. I raised Emma's axe and chopped at the bottom of the hull. It was solid wood. I had started a couple of planks and had made a foot wide hole when I heard a shout from the hut.

"Leave that boat alone!"

Jem had come out of the hut pulling a blanket bundled Emma with him. He had a revolver in his right hand. Unfortunately his dog had followed him. Durante saw the other dog and took off at speed.

"Call the dog off!" Jem shouted. He raised his revolver and fired into the air.

I couldn't call Durante back. He wouldn't hear me at that distance. I rested the rifle on the boat's gunwale and sighted a couple of feet above the hut's stovepipe chimney. I fired. A hole appeared in the chimney pipe before it clattered down behind the hut. I ducked down and adjusted the sight. When I looked again Durante and Jem's dog were rushing around each other with their tails wagging furiously. Durante was obviously no threat.

"Let Emma go!" I shouted. "The Police are on their way. You aren't going anywhere. k**napping is out of your league, Jem."

His shoulders slumped.

"I'll kill her if you come closer," he shouted back.

"You won't and I don't need to," I retorted. You are in range. I'm not. I could shoot you and riddle the hut without moving. Let Emma go and throw away the gun."

Jem threw the revolver about six feet away. It landed under a bounding Durante. He unknotted the pillowcase hooding Emma's head before pushing her in my direction. Encumbered as she was by the blanket and ropes around her she tottered slowly towards me. I kept my rifle covering Jem, moving so that Emma wasn't between me and him. Jem sat down on the hut's step, his head in his hands.

When Emma reached me I pulled her down behind Jem's boat. I cut off her gag first. She tried to speak but her mouth was too dry. I cut the ropes holding the blanket around her. Under the blanket her wrists and elbows were tightly tied. I cut those bonds too.

"It hurts," she croaked.

"Sorry, Emma," I said. "I can't do anything about that. If you rub your wrists it might get better."

I was still watching Jem closely, my rifle raised but not aimed directly at him. I didn't want to fire again. My first shot would have landed in empty marshland but if the Police were on their way, they would be approaching from that direction.

Emma kissed me on the cheek, being careful not to block my view of Jem.

"Jem is stupid," she whispered. "He is out of his depth. Stealing things is about all he is fit for. He and his brother were really worried once they had got me to the hut. They were arguing. They couldn't get me out to the Smiths' boat for hours and they didn't know when you would find Mum. They asked me. They'd gagged me so effectively that I couldn't tell them even if I wanted to. I thought you were coming at three, not this morning."

"I was. But I was walking Durante and he dashed into your bungalow."

"Good for Durante."

She looked across at the two dogs. Durante was jumping over and over Jem's dog that was cowering on the ground. Emma snuggled next to me.

A few minutes later we heard a truck engine. It stopped behind the seawall. A line of soldiers' heads appeared, their rifles pointing at the hut.

"Jem!" I shouted. "The Army's here. You and your brother should surrender!"

Jem's brother came out of the hut slowly. Jem stood up. They both walked towards the seawall with their hands in the air. Two policemen came forward and handcuffed them.

I took the clip out of the rifle and checked that the chamber was empty. I put it into Jem's holed boat before Emma and I walked towards the crowd of soldiers and policemen.

+++

In the next few hours Emma, Mrs Simkin and I spent most of our time in Constable Arkwright's living room being interviewed by senior policemen.

Mrs Simkin and I were forcefully reminded that we should not have had nor used an unlicensed rifle which was confis**ted.

We were told that a Royal Navy minesweeper had intercepted the Smiths' boat which was hard aground on a sandbank. Fred Smith had tried to throw a small attaché case into the nearby channel. He had failed. It landed on the sand to be picked up by a sailor.

+++

It took months and the weeks of the court case before we found out what the Smiths were doing. Apparently they were associates of a Dutch criminal gang and smuggling raw diamonds into the UK by air. They were taking them by sea to a corrupt diamond cutter in Amsterdam. They brought some of the cut diamonds back into the UK for sale around London. But they were worried that the Dutch police were on to them. The Dutch police were close.

What the Smiths wanted to do was move the diamond cutter and his equipment to the Harbour Master's bungalow. Apart from it being isolated the major attraction was the post office equipment in the basement. During the war the Dutch resistance had been able to communicate by telephone without the Nazis knowing. It was something to do with the modern equipment in use in Holland. A telephone cable from Holland to England came ashore into the bungalow's basement. If the Smiths had access to that they could talk to their associates in Holland without anyone knowing. That wouldn't work anywhere else in the whole United Kingdom.

The police decided not to charge the Ansons with possession and use of the revolver in exchange for not dealing with Mrs Simkin and I for the rifle.

The Smiths' associates in Holland had caught the Ansons trying to steal some i*****l diamonds in Amsterdam. They had enough evidence to get the Ansons convicted but decided that the Ansons would be useful assistants. They also didn't want more police attention to their diamond activities.

The Dutch and English police, along with the Customs and Excise and Coastguard, had been monitoring the Smiths' crossings to and from Amsterdam but hadn't got enough information to act until the Ansons a*****ed Emma. The low tide had been awkward but useful. The case thrown by Fred Smith had a fortune in newly cut diamonds.

The two Anson brothers were given five years in jail. The village turned on the whole Anson family. Tying up Mrs Simkin and k**napping Emma was more than the village could stand. The rest of the Ansons left the village even before the court case ended.

The Smiths were sentenced to terms from fifteen to twenty-five years. There were several associated prosecutions in Holland.

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Mrs Simkin agreed to move into the Almshouse bungalow when it was finished. The plans were amended to give her a workroom/shop facing the street. Her customers and friends could drop in at any time. She could watch passers-by in the village's main street.

Emma and I used to walk Durante together as often as we could. Jem Anson's dog had been adopted by Don and his mother. Don was very proud of having his own dog.

I decided that we would make a start on making reasonable access to the bungalow even before Mrs Simkin moved to her new home. Dad and I agreed a route that made the best use of the existing concrete tracks. As a temporary measure we linked them with laid gravel carried and spread by Don who had work for months.

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Emma and I had wanted to get married on Valentine's Day. That was impossible. The court case was continuing then. Mrs Simkin wouldn't have a new home until early May. The wedding date was set for the first Saturday in June.

But we did celebrate Valentine's Day. We walked along the seawall to the end of the estuary. We turned on to the beach and walked side by side holding hands. We had left Durante with Mr Jefferies. As we walked, we kissed, stopped walking, kissed harder, and walked again.

That evening Emma and I hosted a party in The Wildfowler public house. Without the Ansons it was again a place for village people to meet. Almost all the village seemed to be there and delighted that Emma and I were to be married. The occasion seemed to have turned the villagers into lovers. Married people were kissing each other and swapping partners for more kisses. Those who weren't married were exploring the possibilities. Poor Don was used for practice by some of the village maidens. If a girl kissed Don it was meant to be a hint to her potential partner that kisses were available. Don didn't know that. He just enjoyed being kissed.

By the time of our wedding Don was engaged too. Rachel, one of the village women, had decided that Don was nicer than the man who had been mistreating her. He was, and is. Rachel will look after him, and Don will love her -- perhaps even more than he loves his dog and maybe as much as Don loves Durante.

Don's dog, formerly Jem's dog, produced four puppy versions of Durante, all with prominent noses. Don has promised one of them to us when we are married.

Durante the dog will live on.