I'm Virtually Yours Page 2

  That plan was scuppered though when she discovered next week was the week her mum had promised to man a stall for the local hospice at a two-day charity fundraising do in the middle of the week. “And I couldn’t leave Rosie on her own for over eight hours each day.”

  Currently working as a doctor’s receptionist there was no way Marty could take Rosie to work with her during the week.

  “I’m sorry,” she’d wailed. “I can’t do the weekend either. Kev is taking me away for two days. We’re going on his Harley,” she’d told Polly, her eyes shining.

  “Good luck with that,” Polly had said, surprised. “Thought you didn’t like motorbikes?”

  Marty had shrugged. “I don’t — but I do like Kev.”

  Polly had looked at her. “Enough to forget you hate speeding vehicles? Enough not to scream as you hurtle round corners? Or fly down the motorway at 70 miles an hour?”

  “Harleys don’t hurtle like other bikes and Kev’s promised not to go fast when I’m on the back,” Marty protested.

  Polly had shaken her head. There was no way she’d even contemplate getting on the back of a motorbike if she was as terrified as Marty had always professed to be — not even for the love of her life. Was this Kev going to be the love of Marty’s life? She’d yet to meet him.

  “The things you do for your boyfriends,” she said. “Just take care.” She hoped Kev was nothing like the men she’d known in the past with motorbikes. If he was, then Marty could be in for a difficult weekend.

  At least her mum had insisted they swop cars for the fortnight. “Polly, love, I’ll be worried sick if you try and drive all that way in that old banger of yours,” she’d said.

  Polly, secretly worried that her car wouldn’t even make it down to Devon, had accepted gratefully and promised to look after her mum’s treasured car. Which would have to include a thorough vacuuming before she returned it. No matter how much she brushed Rosie, she always left a trail of black hairs wherever she sat.

  The door of The Captain’s Berth opened.

  “Remember girl, you’re on your best behaviour this week,” Polly said, leaning over and clipping Rosie’s lead on before opening the car door and letting her out.

  “Polly Jones? I’m Angie. Welcome. This must be Rosie. I’ll take her through shall I? Introduce her to Solo my Jack Russell out in the garden while you get your things in. I’ve put you in Room 3 at the top of the stairs if you want to go on up. Tea in the kitchen in ten minutes,OK?” and Angie disappeared inside with Rosie.

  Room 3 was a large double overlooking the harbour. Light and airy, it had a table in the window recess where Polly placed her laptop and plugged it in. She watched a fishing boat as it rounded the headland and motored into harbour escorted by a mob of screeching, wheeling seagulls. Further out in the bay several yachts were enjoying the stiff offshore evening breeze.

  Once her laptop had fired up she sent Daniel Franklyn an e-mail.

  “Have arrived in Devon. Will start work tomorrow. Polly.”

  As she unpacked her things, putting them away in the old-fashioned chest of drawers, her mail programme pinged a reply.

  “Great. First thing tomorrow go to the lawyer — he’s got the first of your expenses money for you. I’ve told the boatyard to expect you at about ten. DF.”

  When Polly went downstairs she found Rosie and Solo playing ‘catch me if you can’ around the kitchen cum conservatory.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she said making a grab for Rosie. “She’s not normally this mad indoors.”

  “Don’t worry. She and Solo clearly like each other,” Angie said. “They’ll settle down.”

  Angie, friendly and full of information about the town, was just the right side of inquisitive about her guest.

  “Down on holiday are you?” she asked, pushing a plate of scones and cream across the table towards Polly before pouring the tea. “Bit early in the year. Place hasn’t woken up totally from winter yet. Not that it’s that quiet in winter these days, what with the second homes brigade coming all year round. Not to mention the OAPs and their cheap awaydays.”

  “I’m down here for work,” Polly said. “But I’m hoping to see some of the local area as well.”

  “You working for someone I might know?”

  Polly shook her head. “I’m a Virtual Assistant and the people I’m working for aren’t actually in the area.”

  “What the hell is a Virtual Assistant? Sounds like something out of a sci-fi movie. You got a time machine parked outside?”

  Polly laughed. “It’s quite simple really. People just employ me whenever they need a secretary, book-keeper, P.A., or whatever. They pay me for my expertise and my time. No office overheads for them as I normally work from my own place. Everything is done over the internet. This job is an exception.”

  “God, wish I could do a virtual B&B,” Angie said ruefully.

  “How long have you been running this place?” Polly asked. She guessed Angie was about her own age — on the young side to be a landlady. And to be honest, with her pink and blue streaked hair and hippy-type clothes she was far removed from Polly’s experience of seaside landladies.

  “I took over from my parents when they decided to run away to Spain. They didn’t run away really,” she added, seeing the look of surprise on Polly’s face. “Just decided to retire. I was unemployed at the time so…” She shrugged. “Think they thought it was an opportunity for all of us. Give me a proper grown-up job and them the chance of some sun. It’s worked out well all round but the overheads are increasing all the time and quite frankly becoming astronomical. I need to average at least three guests every week to break even.”

  Angie picked up the teapot and offered Polly another cup. When Polly shook her head, she topped up her own. “Still, at least I don’t have the money worries my aunt and uncle do down at the boatyard.”

  Polly stiffened at the mention of a boatyard and looked at Angie questioningly. But Angie shrugged.

  “Sorry. Mustn’t bore you with my family problems.”

  “Are there many boatyards in town?” Polly asked, hoping to keep Angie talking.

  “Not now. Used to be half a dozen, all specialising in different crafts. Pettyjohns would deal with the small day boats, Phillips built some large ocean-going yachts and during the war Leadbetters even landed contracts from the government.” Angie shook her head. “But now there’s just Lillian and Ben’s yard struggling to survive. Jack Pettyjohn’s got a puny effort up at Woodside Creek but that doesn’t count as a proper yard in anybody’s book these days. It’s got such a reputation for shoddy workmanship. Much like the man himself.”

  Polly began to get a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach about DF and the boatyard he wanted her to investigate.

  “It just makes me so mad,” Angie continued. “To think that the Robertsons’ family business could go to the wall after all these years because of the credit crunch, despite Ben and Lillian’s efforts to keep everything afloat.”

  Polly’s heart sank at the name Robertson. Now she was sure this was the company she was investigating for Daniel Franklyn.

  “Angie, do you know much about your aunt and uncle’s financial problems?” Polly asked carefully, not wanting to appear nosey.

  “Not really,” Angie said. “They’re pretty private about things like that but they did say recently somebody had approached them with a view to investing in the business. They’re hoping it will be the answer to their prayers. But Will, their son, isn’t keen. And to be fair, he does have lots of ideas for modernising the business.”

  Polly sighed. “Angie, I can’t give you any details, but that’s the ‘somebody’ I’m working for. I have to check out everything at the boatyard and see if it’s a viable proposition. In other words I have to see whether Robertsons Boatyard is worth investing in — or not.”

  She paused. “If my staying here is going to make things difficult for you with your family, I’ll look for somewhere else for Rosie and me.”
r />   “Oh no. Don’t do that,” Angie said quickly. “I’m sure Aunty Lillian will understand. Besides, like I said, I need the money too.”

  The sun was breaking through the clouds the next morning when Polly let herself and Rosie out for a pre-breakfast walk.

  Few people were out and about: a road sweeper busily cleaning up last night’s debris from a takeaway; a postman beginning his round among the shops and cottages that started on the level near the harbour before rising and clinging limpet-like to the narrow streets that were cut into the surrounding cliffs. Down on the quay fishermen were preparing their nets for a day out at sea.

  It really was a beautiful old town Polly thought as she wandered along. Full of atmosphere. Hopefully she’d have time to explore a bit while she was down here. She’d never been to Devon before; family holidays had always been to the Welsh coast, Tenby usually. Dad being a farmer found it hard to get away for long — both because it was expensive to employ somebody to milk the cows and also he didn’t really want to be anywhere else other than his beloved Pembrokeshire farm.

  Not that there had been any family holidays for a few years now. The recession had hit dairy farmers badly and then Dad became ill. “Summer flu,” the doctor had said originally, but Dad was dead within three months. The farm was sold and she and Mum moved into a cottage on the outskirts of Carmarthen to get on with their lives as best they could. Holidays had been an expensive luxury they couldn’t afford.

  Polly sighed. That was one of the things she was determined to change when ‘Virtually Yours’ finally took off. She was going to treat her mum to a proper holiday. In a posh hotel. Like The Royal she was just walking past, all thick carpets and marble staircase. She could see why they’d turned their noses up at the thought of her and Rosie staying there.

  Maybe she’d be able to save some money from this job at Robertsons Boatyard when Daniel Franklyn paid her and bring Mum down here for a weekend at least. Thinking about the boatyard Polly wondered where exactly it was located. It had to be near the water, didn’t it?

  Robertsons Riverside Services, when Polly found it two minutes later, was situated in what had originally been a huge bonded warehouse The last building on the harbour wall, its slipway formed part of the embankment.

  The huge wooden doors were being pushed open by a fair-haired man who smiled at Polly. “Morning.”

  Polly returned the smile and the greeting, trying not to stare. Was that the son, Will, Angie had mentioned? Two-day stubble, torn jeans, yellow yachtie waterproof coat and wellies. Good-looking bloke.

  Polly turned left and made her way along the quayside towards the ancient fish market. The town’s regular fish auction had long disappeared in the interests of economy to a large town further along the coast, but the old quayside market with its decorative wall tiles still stood as a reminder of those times.

  A ships chandlery with the name ‘Robertson’ above the doorway was the largest of the shops that clustered together around the old market. Clearly the Robertsons tried to cater for all sections of the market. Not being a boaty person Polly recognised nothing in the window display other than some coiled ropes and a display pile of striped Breton jumpers.

  A motorbike sped past as Polly turned to make her way back for breakfast, its rider wrapped in the obligatory black leather clothing and face-hiding helmet. Someone late for work, Polly thought sympathetically, remembering the days when she’d had to do an early shift at the office.

  The sound of breaking glass and the motorbike roaring away stopped her in her tracks. Seconds later a shrill alarm pierced through the air. Turing she saw that one of the large windows of Robertsons chandlery had been smashed.

  Shocked, Polly hesitated, unsure as to what she should do. As she stood there the fair-haired man she’d seen earlier rushed past her, mobile phone to his ear.

  “Yes, Dad. They’re at it again. This time they’ve gone for the chandlery. Don’t worry. I’m on the case. The police should be here any moment.”

  Tightening her grip on Rosie’s lead, Polly walked back thoughtfully to The Captain’s Berth. So the dishy fair-haired man she’d seen earlier was Will Robertson. Quite a hunk. Working with him could be interesting.

  Sitting in Angie’s kitchen, a cafetiere of coffee and a pile of toast in front of her, Polly told Angie what she’d seen.

  Angie sighed. “We were all hoping that this kind of nonsense had stopped.”

  “Are you going to tell me what exactly is going on down here?” Polly asked. “ Has there been a lot of trouble involving the boatyard?”

  “Not broken windows but stuff going missing from the boatyard, engines being sabotaged, graffiti being sprayed everywhere, that kind of thing.”

  “Any idea who and why?”

  “No.”

  Polly drank her coffee thoughtfully. It looked as though she was in for an interesting time. What exactly was going on with Robertsons Riverside Services?

  “Right, I’d better be off,” she said. “Can you point me in the direction of the solicitors offices?”

  Polly walked quickly along Victoria Road following Angie’s short-cut directions to the solicitors.

  “The Robertsons are expecting you, Ms Jones, so if you’d just sign the receipt you can be on your way,” the solicitor said, handing Polly the large wad of cash Daniel Franklyn had promised.

  Formalities over, Polly made her way back down towards the harbour. She debated about calling in at The Captain’s Berth to pick up Rosie but Angie had assured her it wasn’t a problem leaving her there.

  “Solo seems to have taken a shine to her,” she’d said. “Much better for Rosie to be here — leaves you free to concentrate on work for your first morning.”

  Walking past the chandlery Polly saw the window had been boarded up, a large sign across it proclaiming ‘Business as Usual’. She stood for a few moments opposite the entrance to the yard, trying to get a feel of the place.

  Pavarotti in full voice was blasting out of a radio somewhere in the depths of the workshop but failing to drown out completely the work noises coming from inside several boats that were wedged and propped into position with huge balks of timber.

  Near the door a man was planing a piece of wood, a pile of wood shavings mounting at his wellington-clad feet. The smell of resin and paint wafted out through the open doors. Taking a deep breath, Polly opened the door marked ‘Office’.

  “Good morning. You’re expecting me?” She smiled at the woman behind the desk as she held out her hand and the authorisation letter the solicitor had given her.

  “You’re Polly Jones from Worldsend Enterprises?” Lillian said blinking as she shook Polly’s hand. “You don’t look old enough. Sorry, that is so rude of me. I’m Lillian Robertson.”

  Polly laughed. “Don’t worry. You’re not the first. I’m always being asked for my ID as if I was still a student. Think it’s my curly hair that does it!”

  “Ben and Will are in the yard somewhere. They’ll be here in a moment,” Lillian said. “Can I get you a coffee?”

  “Thanks. Black no sugar please,” Polly said, glad that at least Lillian was friendly and approachable.

  “Back in two ticks then. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Left alone, Polly looked around the office. Making herself comfortable would be difficult. Two filing cabinets, a large desk with a computer, a few shelves holding volumes of Jane’s Fighting Ships and piles of Yachting Monthly, a couple of chairs, a rack of waterproofs and a few pictures on the wall. A large framed chart of the local waters dominated the far wall. No space for her to work in here then with Lillian, that was clear. She moved across to look at the pictures.

  Several were faded black and white photographs of the harbour in its heyday when it had been a busy port, used by coal barges, fishing trawlers and the occasional ocean-going liner. One picture, an oil painting of a wooden ketch, had a silver inscription screwed to its frame: ‘Mary-Jane. Built 1938. Robertson, S. Devon.’

  As Lilli
an returned with two cups of coffee, Polly asked, “Do you still build boats like the Mary-Jane?”

  “Not many wooden boats built anywhere these days,” Lillian said sadly. “We are building a fibre-glass 40-footer at the moment though. You’ll see it later.”

  “Is the Mary-Jane still around or do boats not last that long?” Polly asked.

  Lillian smiled. “There are boats on the river over a hundred years old. The Mary-Jane should definitely still be around but we have no idea really.” She paused slightly before adding, “All we know is that she went to the States in the fifties.”

  Before Polly could ask any more questions, the door opened and Will Robertson walked in.

  “Will, this is Polly,” Lillian said. “Come to look us over for Worldsend.”

  “Hi.” Polly said, her smile fading as she looked at Will’s set face and sensing his animosity towards her now he knew who she was. Blast. More of an enemy than a friend then. Still, if that was the way he wanted to play it, she was only here to do a job after all.

  “We’ve just made Will a partner in the business. He’s got some great ideas for improving things,” Lillian said proudly.

  “That’s if I get the chance,” Will scowled. “You come to tell us we haven’t a hope in hell of surviving without the help of your bosses?”

  “No,” Polly said steadily. “I’m merely here to see if you’re worth investing in.”

  “It’s not the first time Robertsons have struggled financially,” Will said. “We got out of it before and I’m damn sure we can now, given time.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Polly said.

  “I suppose you’re going to want a tour of the yard. Suss out where we’re going wrong,” Will said glaring at her. “I’ve got an appointment in half an hour so it’ll have to be a quick one.”

  “Let’s go,” Polly said, grabbing a notebook from her bag and following Will out into the yard. There was no way she was going to let him accuse her of delaying him.