Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

She caught her breath as the very thing she was worried about arrived before them, looming up like a specter in the gathering dark. With three sharp blasts of a horn, a British Coastguard cutter crossed their bow, traveling west. The cutter was a safe distance ahead of the Bardot but close enough that Nora could see two uniformed men leaning at the port rail. One of the men doffed his cap and waved it at them, and Craig waved back as Louis Reynard, in the wheelhouse behind them, gave the answering hail. The patrol boat glided by and continued on her way along the coast toward the Atlantic.

“They’re watching the shores,” Nora said. “How on earth does Bill Howard think we’re going to slip past them? Don’t they have, I don’t know, radar and things? We can’t just sail right into England, can we?”

He grinned. “May I draw your attention to the flag?”

Nora turned around and peered up at the rigging above the wheelhouse. There, fluttering in the evening breeze, was a Union Jack.

“Oh, so now the Bardot is a British vessel?” she asked. “How does that work?”

“Louis Reynard is a man for all seasons,” Craig said, laughing. “And all nations. Believe it or not, this trawler is registered in four or five different countries.”

Thinking of the wily little man with the sly smile who even now grinned out at them from his place at the helm, Nora nodded. “I don’t doubt it for a minute. But we have to land somewhere, and won’t there be questions?”

“Not if we play our cards right,” he said.

“How do we do that?”

In answer, Craig pointed toward the coast they were fast approaching. Nora followed his gaze, taking in the sight of a cluster of lights on a beach in an inlet to their right, with a few lit buildings behind them: a seaside village. She could just make out people on the beach, tiny figures moving around a bonfire. A string of lights extended out into the water: a dock, possibly a marina, with several boats moored here and there in the bay. Then she heard faint music from the bonfire crowd, an amateur band of flutes and fiddles playing an old song. It took her a moment to place it: “The White Cliffs of Dover.” Of course.

“What’s going on over there?” she said.

Craig smiled and winked at her. “Put on your dancing shoes, Mother. We’re going to a party!”

Nora climbed the ladder from the dinghy to the dock, with Craig right behind her. The silent Reynard nephew who’d ferried them here in the rickety launch handed up Nora’s Coach bag and Craig’s backpack, then turned the boat around and puttered back out to where the Bardot waited. With a last wave to Louis, who waved from the distant deck, they made their way down the length of the dock to the beach.

“Let me do the talking,” Craig whispered to her. “Wait here.”

She stood at the edge of the dock, looking around at the figures on the sand. It was a local event, perhaps fifty people in little groups, some sitting on blankets eating and drinking, some dancing near the fire to the scratchy tunes of the ragtag band, three men and a woman who made up for their lack of musical training with good-natured energy. At the moment, they were blissfully desecrating “The Lambeth Walk.” A boisterous group of children ran everywhere through the scene, shrieking and laughing, accompanied by two rowdy dogs. A young couple walked together farther down the beach, away from the others, their arms entwined, the girl’s head resting on the boy’s shoulder. The strings of lights she’d seen from the Bardot turned out to be paper lanterns, and a long table made of plywood and sawhorses was weighed down with platters of food and beer bottles. Nora smiled, remembering similar beach parties near her house on Long Island. As English as this was, it wasn’t all that different from home.

Of course her husband had usually been with her on those occasions. Gazing at the distant lovers, she thought of him. Jeff, tall and dark and almost ridiculously handsome, with that wonderful laugh, dancing with her, barefoot in the sand. Jeff, who always seemed to know what she was thinking, who could always cheer her up, who would never let anything bad happen to her. Jeff, who wasn’t here tonight.

Despite the chill of the evening, she felt a sudden warmth. She unbuttoned her coat, watching as Craig went up to two old men who sat together on folding chairs near the food table. The older one, a bearded gent in a peacoat puffing on a pipe, rose as Craig arrived in front of them, and he and Craig spoke together briefly. He used his pipe to point to the waterfront street beyond the beach, the weathered row of stone buildings that fronted the village. Craig nodded, thanked him, and came back to the dock.

“Okay,” he said. “The man we want to see is in the pub at the end of that street over there. We can get food there too-unless you’d rather join the festivities.” He jerked a thumb at the plywood table.

“Oh, let’s not crash their party,” Nora said, eyeing the piles of fried chicken and shrimp and homemade potato chips with longing. She was hungry again, but she didn’t know anyone here, and being out in the open made her feel vulnerable. Better to get inside, and quickly. She looked over at the row of buildings in the distance. The one at the farthest end had a hanging sign on a pole above the door: the lucky dolphin . The band swung into “Swinging on a Star” as they left the dock and headed for the street. This was a narrow cobblestone lane on top of a low seawall, so they climbed the steps from the sand and continued toward the sign. The music and laughter faded behind them.

The first thing Nora saw when she entered through the thick oak door Craig held open for her was the reason for the pub’s name, or so she supposed. A blue dolphin was mounted above the mirror behind the long bar at the back of the room, with a snub nose and a glassy eye, frozen in an arched leap. Despite the name of the establishment, this dolphin didn’t look very lucky to Nora-quite the opposite. She was relieved to see, on closer inspection, that it was made of plastic. The tall, stout, thickly bearded bartender who stood just under the faux trophy was very real, however, as were the three similarly bearded old salts he was serving. These customers probably had their names carved in those stools, she mused. They had swiveled to face the room at the sound of the little bell that had tinkled when Craig opened the door, foaming mugs in their fists. All four men eyed the newcomers with undisguised curiosity as they came up to the counter.

“Evening,” Craig said, and the big bartender nodded. The three regulars turned back to their original positions and resumed their conversation, but Nora got the impression that they were half listening. “My mother and I have just come over from Deal, and we could use some supper. Would that be possible?”

“Aye,” the big man grunted, “but only sandwiches tonight. Most of our trade is yonder.” He nodded toward the door they’d just entered and the beach beyond it.

“Sandwiches will be fine,” Craig said, and the man nodded again. Message understood. He turned his massive head and bellowed, “Betty!”

The door at the end of the wall behind him swung open, and a plump, pretty young woman bustled into the room. “Yes, Dad?”

“Customers,” her father said.

“Oh aye. Good evenin’, ma’am, sir. Welcome.”

Two dining booths stood back-to-back along one side wall, and there were two freestanding tables with chairs by the big front window, looking out on the beach. Craig took his “mother’s” arm and led her to the booth in the front corner, farthest from the little crowd at the counter. A candle glowed in a netted glass on the gleaming wood table, and Betty slapped down placemats, flatware, and napkins as soon as they were seated, Craig with his back to the wall, facing the bar, and Nora with a good view of the bonfire and the revelers. Betty offered pea soup and ham-and-cheese sandwiches, and Craig asked for two bowls and four sandwiches, with beer for him and white wine for “me mum.” With a grin, the girl bustled back to the kitchen.