‘All right there, Jarv!’ Mac from the pub called out from the dock. He raised his hand. ‘Cheer up, lad, it might never ’appen!’ Mac chortled, but Jarvis could only smile briefly. The fact was, it had already happened. And he had never felt so low, not ever.
He kept his eyes on the coast path he had been walking his whole life. He knew every square inch of the rocks, stones and earth; in all lights and in all weathers, he could find his way with no more than his footfall, but this morning he needed to concentrate on every step. Not only because it stopped him having to interact with Mac, whose words of ribbing or solace were more than he could cope with, but because it also stopped him or anyone else in Port Charles spotting the fact that he had been crying. Mainly, though, he had to concentrate because he felt as if there had been a shift in the world and he didn’t entirely trust the ground beneath his feet, fearing he might topple or fall into a crevice at any moment.
He had come to realise in recent weeks that it wasn’t only the loss of Merrin that was hard to take, but the fact that the comfortable place he held in the bosom of the Kellow family might also be in jeopardy. And the idea of being usurped by Digby Mortimer was just as unthinkable. Ben Kellow had been like a father to him, especially in recent years, when his own had been absent. He had plucked him from the school life he hated and given him a spot on the Sally-Mae, and when funds allowed, he gave his mother money – not that Jarvis was supposed to know about that. And Heather had welcomed Jarvis to their table for many a roast dinner, and when they were out at sea she packed him lunches and suppers. Doorstep sandwiches made of crusty white bread, stuffed with ham and cheese, pickles and mayonnaise. Slabs of fruit cake thickly spread with butter, a punnet of soft, sweet nectarines and squares of clotted-cream fudge in their own muslin bag – a sweet treat to swallow with a warm drink when the night felt long. It was one thing for Merrin to have Digby as her boyfriend, but for Ben and Heather to have him as a son-in-law? The thought of not being welcome in that little cottage where he had known only love and laughter sent cold bolts of fear through his gut.
He walked along the path and dropped down towards the slipway, turning sharply left into the Old Boat Shed.
‘Anyone home?’ he called out as he pushed the lower door open and stepped inside.
‘Up here, lad!’ Ben called from the loft above.
Jarvis painted on a smile and trod the rickety stairs that ran up the side of the internal brick wall. He looked down at the three boats that lived in the shed and the cart next to them, which gleamed.
‘’Bout bloody time!’ the stockily built Robin called out, laughing as he threw Jarvis a can of beer, which Jarvis caught, just. ‘We’ve missed you, Jarv!’
‘Well, I’m here now.’
He sank down into one of the two battered leather armchairs that took pride of place in the loft. Ben, he noted, was dressed up to the nines; he looked quite comical, but also like someone else entirely. He was sitting up straight with the shiny toe of his lace-up resting on the knee of his pressed slacks. It was rare to see him in anything other than clothing full of holes or with wood glue or patches dotting his jumpers and fleeces. Jarvis thought how odd it was that a shave, a smart shirt and a pair of brogues changed the demeanour of a man. Again he thought of Digby, with his soft hands and his well-spoken drawl, who he had seen in the pub on occasion with his la-di-da mates, his expensive shirts hanging outside of his trousers by design. The cold beer felt good as he hurled it down his neck.
‘You might be medicating with that, son, but go easy. I’ve had me own reminder this morning to pace meself. We need you in fine form to drive that carriage and get us to St Michael’s in one piece.’
Ben was right. Jarvis put the can on the rough wooden floor.
‘You sure you’re up to it, Jarv? We can always find someone else to drive if you don’t feel like . . . if it’s too much . . .’ Ben’s tone softened.
Jarvis shook his head firmly. ‘No, there’s no one Mum trusts with Daisy except me. She can be a bit of a temperamental old mare.’
‘Now that’s no way to talk about your mother!’ Ben interrupted, and all three laughed.
‘I’m talking about Daisy the horse, of course!’ Jarvis shook his head.
‘Reckon my girl’s going to like our surprise?’ Ben beamed in excited anticipation.
‘I think she’ll love it.’ Jarvis smiled at the thought of doing one thing to make Merrin happy on her special day.
‘She’d better! We’ve gone to enough trouble!’ Robin shouted, his voice seeming even louder today. ‘But it certainly looks beautiful. I take full credit for the flowers.’
‘You did a good job,’ Ben acknowledged. ‘I’d do anything for that little ’un.’ He sniffed. ‘And it wasn’t as if I was going to pick something off their bloody wedding list. Can you see me giving her a set of pans or a bloody duvet and pillowcases?’ He laughed. ‘No, this is a far more fitting gift from her old dad.’
‘I know she’ll love it.’ Jarvis spoke with confidence.
‘What do you reckon to this get-up, then?’ Ben tugged at his collar. His words invited mockery, but his expression suggested he was actually looking for a compliment.
‘You look like a proper gent, Ben.’
‘I do, don’t I?’ He nodded, seemingly satisfied, as he shot his cuffs. ‘Think I’ll fit in with the Mortimers?’ He lifted his nose.
‘Don’t know why you’d want to,’ Robin shouted, and this time Jarvis didn’t mind, agreeing with the sentiment.
‘You know, lads . . .’ Ben took his time, choosing his words carefully. ‘This is Merry’s choice.’ He sat forward, resting his forearms on his knees. ‘We know she’s a smart girl, a good girl, and so we have to trust she knows what she’s doing.’