Irene smiled patiently at her mother. Simone Sauvelle didn’t make a good sergeant major.
‘Don’t worry, Mum. I know what I’m doing.’
‘That’s what scares me.’
The boat crossed the entrance to the cove. Ismael shouted a greeting. Simone observed him, one eyebrow raised in alarm.
‘Why don’t you ask him to come up so you can introduce us?’
‘Mum . . .’
Simone nodded. She hadn’t expected that ruse to work.
‘Is there anything I ought to say?’ asked Simone.
Irene gave her a peck on the cheek.
‘Just wish me a good day.’
Then, without waiting for a reply, Irene raced down to the jetty. Simone watched her daughter grab hold of the stranger’s hand (he didn’t look much like a boy to her) and jump onto his boat. When Irene turned to wave at her, her mother forced a smile and waved back. She watched them head out into the bay under a brilliant, reassuring sun. On the porch, a seagull, perhaps another stressed mother, was looking at her with resignation.
‘It’s not fair,’ Simone said to the seagull. ‘When they’re born nobody ever tells you that they’ll end up doing the same things you did when you were young.’
Unaware of such considerations, the bird followed Irene’s example and flew away. Simone smiled and got ready to return to Cravenmoore. Hard work conquers all, she told herself.
An easterly wind filled the sails of the Kyaneos as she ploughed through the shimmering emerald ripples, with glimpses of the seabed just visible below. Irene, whose only previous experience on board a boat had been the short journey a few days earlier, gazed open-mouthed at the hypnotic beauty of the bay. Far away, the tail of the night’s storm rode off towards the horizon. Irene closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the sea.
Once their course was set, there was little for Ismael to do but fix his eyes on Irene, who seemed bewitched by their surroundings. With scientific precision, he began by observing her pale ankles, then slowly moved upwards to the point where her skirt inconveniently covered the tops of her thighs. He then went on to assess the pleasing proportions of her slender torso. This process continued for some time until Ismael’s eyes unexpectedly met Irene’s and he realised his inspection hadn’t gone unnoticed.
‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked.
‘I was thinking about the wind,’ he lied. ‘It’s moving south. That usually happens when there’s a storm brewing. I was wondering whether you’d like to go round the headland first. The view is spectacular.’
‘Which view?’ she asked innocently.
This time there was no doubt, thought Ismael: Irene was teasing him. Ignoring her subtle joke, Ismael guided the boat to the outer edge of the current that flowed past the reef, a mile off the headland. From this point, Irene could see a vast beach, wild and deserted, extending as far as Mont-Saint-Michel, a castle rising through the mist.
‘That’s Black Bay,’ Ismael explained. ‘So called because its waters are much deeper than those of Blue Bay. Blue Bay is shallow, more of a sandbank really, only seven or eight metres deep. A natural harbour.’
The rare beauty of the landscape made the hair on the back of Irene’s neck stand on end. She noticed a recess among the rocks, like jaws opening out on to the sea.
‘That’s the lagoon,’ said Ismael. ‘It’s like an oval cut off from the current and it connects to the sea through a narrow opening. Behind it there’s something the locals call the Cave of Bats – do you see the tunnel going into the rock? Apparently, in 1746, a storm drove a pirate ship right into that cave. The remains of the ship, and of the pirates, are said to be still in there.’
Irene looked at him doubtfully. Ismael might be good at captaining his ship, but when it came to lying he was a mere cabin boy.
‘It’s true,’ Ismael explained. ‘I sometimes go diving there. The cave goes right inside the rocks.’
‘Will you take me there?’ asked Irene.
Ismael blushed slightly. That sounded like a commitment.
‘There are bats in there. Hence the name,’ he warned her.
‘I love bats. Little rats on wings,’ she remarked, determined to carry on teasing him.
‘Whenever you like,’ he said, giving in.
Irene smiled warmly. Ismael was utterly thrown by her smile. For a few seconds he couldn’t remember whether the wind was blowing from the north or whether a keel was some sort of pastry. And the worst thing was that Irene seemed to have noticed. Time to change course. His hand on the tiller, Ismael turned the boat almost full circle, causing the other side of the mainsail to fill with wind. In doing so, the boat tipped so far over that Irene’s hand touched the surface of the sea. A cold tongue. She laughed and let out a shriek. Ismael grinned at her. He still couldn