“Mornin’ Charlotte, and it’s a beautiful one, to boot,” centenarian Tom Potts raised his wizened hand and returned the wave, glad of a brief respite from tending to his vast, award-winning hanging baskets,
abundant with vivid blooms.

Not wanting to be left out, Tom’s small West Highland Terrier, Pippin, barked excitedly when he saw Charlotte pass by and ran alongside her, his tail wagging nineteen to the dozen.

Nestled in the south-west corner of England, the small, bustling seaside town of St. Eves boasted a beautiful, white sand coastline and a 250-berth marina, where smart sailing boats and modest houseboats with permanent, year-round residents, rubbed shoulders with exclusive yachts that pulled into berth for a short stop-over, usually on their way to a more up-market destination.

Most of the residents of St. Eves had lived there all of their lives, with entire generations of families being christened, married and buried in
All Saints
, the ancient stone church that perched on top of the hill overlooking the bay.

For over 200 years, fishing had been the town’s main industry. From generation to generation, fathers had taught sons their trade, taking them out on the boats during weekends and school vacations so that, in time, they would be fully equipped to take over - quite literally - at the helm of the family business.

Times were changing though, and the crisis that had hit the fishing industry over recent years had persuaded a number of would-be fishermen to consider alternative careers. Case in point, Charlotte’s good friend, Nathan Costello, was the town’s Police Chief Inspector. After originally joining the fire service at 19, he’d been left with a shattered knee when – on only his fourth shout - the roof of a building had collapsed on top of him and three other men in his crew. He considered himself lucky to have got out with just a shattered knee – two of the others had lost their lives that day.

Although he’d healed after countless surgeries, months of physiotherapy and a lot of hard work to get back to the peak of physical fitness, his injury had precluded him from further active service. On his return to work, he’d been offered a desk job, but as he’d never wanted to be stuck in an office, he’d declined the offer and thought long and hard about his career prospects.

His parents had suggested a job with the police, but knowing that they conducted rigorous fitness and endurance tests to ascertain a candidate’s eligibility, Nathan hadn’t been convinced that he’d pass muster. However, after pairing up with a personal trainer who’d set him a punishing fitness regime to ensure that he was in the best physical shape possible, he’d been delighted when he’d passed both tests with higher scores than some of the other recruits - his acceptance into the force was testament to his determination to overcome the odds.

Working his way through the ranks, he’d been promoted to Chief Inspector two years ago. However, as much as he loved his job, he sometimes confided to Charlotte that he yearned for some of the action the larger stations dealt with.

“God, what I’d give for something like this to happen here,” he’d said to Charlotte when they’d met up for breakfast a couple of weeks ago. The local newspaper had run a front-page story heralding the success of a neighbouring town’s police department infiltrating, and bringing to justice, a major drug-trafficking ring.

Charlotte, on the other hand, was quite happy for things to stay as they were in St. Eves - the almost non-existent crime rate was one of the things she loved most about the town. In fact, as a throwback to the past, many of the residents still left their doors open from sunrise to sunset to allow friends and neighbours to pop in during the day for an impromptu chat.

Suffice to say; despite Nathan’s hankering for serious crime, Charlotte had absolutely no desire to experience any of the commotion a major incident would bring to St. Eves.

As she approached the marina, the road ahead and behind was clear so she took her feet off the pedals and freewheeled into the turning, her legs stretched out in front of her as the bike sped along the tarmac. Coasting along, she breathed in the smell of the sea air, mingled with the mouth-watering smell of freshly caught, pan-fried fish; a group of fishermen at the end of the jetty were sitting around a camping stove enjoying a well-deserved breakfast.

Whatever the weather, the fishermen took their boats out in the dead of night, and were back by dawn to sell their catch to local restaurateurs, and anyone else for whom the thought of fresh fish was enough to lure them from their warm beds at that time of the morning.

Charlotte brought the bike to a halt just alongside them.

“Mornin’ Charlotte,” they greeted her with fondness, many of them having known her since she was a babe-in-arms.

“Morning, guys. Um, I’m a bit later than usual today … d’you have anything left?” She peered hopefully over her pink-framed sunglasses, into the buckets and crates that had held the morning’s catch, but apart from a few fronds of seaweed, they all appeared to be woefully empty.

“Course we do, my lovely! You don’t think we’d let you go off empty-handed, do you?” Garrett Walton, the skipper of one of the boats, got up from the crate he’d been sitting on and pulled a large cool box from under the nearby trestle table, atop of which the catch of the day had been so proudly displayed earlier that morning. He opened the lid and tilted the box for Charlotte to look inside. A huge smile spread across her face when she saw four large, speckled sole and six silver whiting in the box.

“Oh, Garrett – you’re an angel! Thanks so much! They’re going to be fantastic on my ‘Friday Fish Specials’ board, and I think I already know exactly what I’m going to do with them too. How much do I owe you?”

Garrett waved his hand back and forth dismissively. “Don’t worry about it – consider them a ‘thank you’ for those sandwiches and thermoses of soup you made for us to take out during that storm a couple of weeks back.”

She ran her fingers through her pixie haircut and clasped them at the back of her head. “But I can’t take all this for nothing, Garrett. It’s wonder enough that you bring back any fish at all, the state of the waters these days. No, I won’t take them unless I pay for them, and that’s that.” Taking off her sunglasses to look him in the eye, she stepped back and crossed her arms defiantly, head held high and her mouth set in a stern line.

Garrett looked at her with amusement. 35 years ago, he and his wife, Laura, had taken on the role of Godparents to the little girl without hesitation, and with unfettered enthusiasm. They’d known Charlotte’s parents for decades and, since their death in a tragic accident ten years ago, had treated Charlotte as if she was their own. As she stood in front of him now with her chin stuck stubbornly in the air and her light brown eyes flashing, Garrett thought how much like her mother she was.
Molly
had been a feisty one, too,
he recalled.

He scratched his chin. “OK, OK. Look, I’ll make a deal with you. How about you take the fish, but bring us some more of that homemade soup and bread to take out on the boat on Thursday – there’s bad weather forecast again, and we could be out for hours. How’s that for an exchange?” Garrett held out his hand.

Charlotte eyed him for a few seconds, weighing up the deal, before grabbing his hand firmly and shaking it in agreement.

“Deal!”
I’ll fill four of my largest thermoses with soup and make a selection of sandwiches with a couple of loaves of my granary bread. That should keep them going until they get back on dry land,
she thought, happily. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for Garrett if she could.

Balancing the cool box in the basket on the front of her bike, Charlotte swung her leg over the saddle and pedalled off. “Thanks, guys! I’ll drop the food round to your place late on Wednesday, Garrett. I’ll leave it with Laura if you’ve already turned in for the night.”

He nodded and waved her off. “See you later - take care,” he and his crew called out to her as she cycled away.

When she reached the other end of the jetty, Charlotte turned left along the marina front, past the bars, restaurants, the mini-mart and the Chandlery, until she came to Pier 4, in front of which, stood her very own café-bar.

At the end of the marina and occupying a sunny corner plot,
Charlotte’s Plaice
had been hers for seven years … so-called because after she’d taken the plunge and bought it, the first meal she’d cooked in it had been pan-fried, freshly-caught plaice (courtesy of Garrett) with brown shrimp and lime butter.

Originally, a mere shell of a building, it had been used for years by the Chandlery as a storeroom, but when the shop had been extended, there was no longer any requirement for it. The storeroom had remained empty and rundown until a zealous property developer had seen the potential in transforming it into a marina-front café-bar with a large terrace facing out to the water and the boats.

Charlotte, who at the time, was just about coming to terms with the loss of her parents, had happened to walk past the building just as a ‘For Sale’ sign was being put in the window.

Instantly, and instinctively, she knew she was going to buy it. She’d been keen to become involved with a project - something she could focus on, get involved with and put her own stamp on – and this little place was it. The money she’d been left in her parents’ wills had paid for it and, with Garrett’s help, she’d managed to get a substantial sum knocked off the asking price.

Over the years,
Charlotte’s Plaice
had become the go-to hangout for locals and tourists alike. Charlotte had worked hard to create a venue that was renowned for its good food, good times, and the friendships that were forged there. Year after year, holidaymakers would return at the same time, and meet up with friends they’d made there in previous years. It was like one big, happy family, which was one of the reasons Charlotte loved it so much … it gave her back a little of what she’d lost.

She chained her bike to the railings at the entrance to the pier and pushed open the folding glass doors that extended from one side of the café front to the other. As she slid the key into the lock, she couldn’t stop the smile that always found its way to her lips when she stepped over the threshold.

The interior was bathed in the weak morning sunlight, enhancing the warmth of the terracotta-tiled floor, perfectly complemented by the coolness of the smooth, stone walls, painted in the palest buttercream-yellow. Simply framed seascapes decorated the walls and hung above the maple and limestone bar, which stretched almost the whole length of the side wall.

Bleached pine chairs and bench-seats, along with an eclectic array of tables fashioned from driftwood, lent their informality to the tranquil surroundings, with soft cushions in muted tones of blue, green and orange contrasting with the pale furniture.

Charlotte pulled the doors closed behind her and carried her box of fish to the opposite end of the café, through a swing door and into the kitchen. The spotlessly clean stainless steel worktops and bright, white walls gave the room an almost clinical appearance. In fact, the last time a health inspector had called round to carry out a random check on the premises, he’d suggested that if the local hospital was ever short of an operating theatre, it could do a lot worse than to perform any urgent procedures on Charlotte’s kitchen worktops.

Humming tunelessly, she put the fish on the counter and went back into the bar area to switch on the shiny chrome coffee machine and grind a batch of beans to fill the feeder chute. Considering her chosen line of work, it was unfortunate that the aroma of freshly ground coffee - particularly before breakfast - turned her stomach. She hated coffee with a passion, much preferring a nice cup of tea instead. However, her customers couldn’t get enough of her special blend, so she tolerated her early morning queasiness with good grace.

Switching on the radio to keep her company as she worked, Charlotte scaled and swiftly gutted and cleaned the fish. Seven years ago, if someone had asked her to even touch a fish, she’d have run a mile, but since then (and with Garrett’s expert guidance) she’d become skilled at cleaning, gutting and filleting any fish that was put in front of her.

The sound of the doors sliding open interrupted her sing-along to Dolly Parton’s ‘Jolene’. An arch cut into the wall gave her a clear view into the café and bar area from the kitchen, and she waved as her assistant, Jess, stepped inside.

“Morning, hun … I’m back!” Jess called out as she hung her jacket on the coat-rack.

“Welcome back! It’s so good to see you!” Charlotte smiled widely as Jess came through the swing door into the kitchen and flung her arms around her neck. “Careful, my hands are covered in fish gunk,” Charlotte laughed as she held her arms in the air. “So, how was the week at your sister’s? Did everything go OK with the christening? Tell me you took loads of pictures? Great - let’s go and have a sit down for half an hour - you can tell me all about it and I can fill you in with what’s been going on here.”

“OK. You go and sit outside and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea ... or should I say, I’ll make
you
a nice cup of tea. I’m having a coffee - mmmm, that smells so good.” Sniffing the air, Jess inhaled the aroma of the freshly ground beans.

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