Three Ships

Chapter One

I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;
I saw three ships come sailing in
On Christmas Day in the morning.

"Goin' to be a bad storm, Miss Laura. I can feel it in me bones, I can."

Mr Fletcher pointed a thumb at the barometer hung on his wall. Even without reference to the brass and rosewood instrument that was the man's pride and joy, Laura knew him to be correct.

There were other signs – the shift in the on-shore breeze and the way the clouds banked on the horizon.

"Indeed it will be," she agreed, handing over a list. "Which is why I want to get more provisions, in case we're cut off from the mainland for more than a day or two."

"Not good just afore Christmas," the grocer observed, taking her list.

The middle-aged shop keeper, his starched white apron stretched over an expansive belly, scanned thepiece of paper.

"Dickie!" he called in a booming voice, "Come out here and fetch these items for Miss Laura."

Richard Wells poked his head out from the back store room. Dickie to everyone at Ashton-On-Sea, and rarely seen dressed in other than his customary faded overalls, smiled at Laura and took the list from his boss.

"Be sure to pack it up nice and good, mind," Mr Fletcher admonished before turning back to his customer. "You'll be wanting Mrs Parker's home-made apricot preserves as well, I dare say?"

"Yes, please."

"Three?" the grocer asked hopefully.

Sly old fox! Laura smiled to herself.

She shook her head.

"Just one will be fine, Dickie."

From behind Mr Fletcher, Dickie offered an approving grin.

"Be ready for you in an hour Miss Laura," he answered before setting to work to fill her order.

Laura thanked the men and left the shop, the little brass bell on the door tinkling as it closed.

Laura Winter paused to look out towards her home.

The view half a mile out to St Joseph's Rock was one she never tired of – the pile of sea darkened rocks at its base, the solid large mound of rock topped with grass from which the lighthouse rose, gleaming white, its mullion windows sparkling in the mid-morning sunlight. It was home and she considered it with some pride.

According to local legend, St Joseph's Rock was the place where Joseph of Arimathea landed in England, accompanied by a young Jesus.

Laura doubted the story herself, but ever since the verse by that poet William Blake was published a few years ago, visitors aplenty had come to their corner of the Devon coast during each summer season.

Thus the legend grew and was embellished by the entrepreneurial townsfolk who supplemented their fishing income by making souvenirs.

Though bright, the late November day carried a chill and Laura turned her face up to the sun to feel its warmth on her cheeks. She balanced the wickerbasket on her arm and brushed a strand of red-gold hair from her face.

The clock on the nearby church tower chimed the tenth hour but her musings were interrupted by Reverend Harman. He had been a boxer before taking holy orders and, although older now and a little softer around the middle, he still carried a fighter's physique.

The cleric fell in step with her as she walked down the main street of Ashton-On-Sea, its rows of Tudor-era buildings huddled together as if against the sometimes harsh weather as they had done for three hundred years.

"How's your father, Miss Laura?" he enquired. "I paid a visit with him earlier this week and he assured me his foot was well on the mend. Choir practice hasn't been the same without him."

"Stubborn as always!" she exclaimed with equal measures of affection and exasperation. "I finally managed to persuade him to let me check the light twice a day, but he still insists on climbing those stairs to wind the clockwork. Only Mother could persuade him to take care of himself."

Reverend Harman offered a sympathetic smile in memory of Laura's mother who died five years ago, when she was only fifteen.

"Well you only just have to ask if there is anything you need," he reminded her. "So don't be stubborn like your father if you want help."

The mild admonishment of his words was softened with a smile.

"Yoo-hoo, Reverend!"

They turned at the call.

Across the street Mrs Merriwether waved. She was a large woman with an equally substantial bosom and reminded Laura of a beautifully beribboned figure eight.

Next to her, Miss Jones, the school mistress, thin and reed-like, remained at her shoulder. Her no-nonsense expression quailed many a schoolboy into obedience yet beneath that hawk-like expression lay a character with an equally sharp sense of humour.

"Oh Reverend," called Mrs Merriwether, "we need to talk to you about some last minute preparations for the Christmas fete."

"Hello Laura!" she continued. "Thank you for the beautiful quilts, I'm sure they'll fetch a great price for this year's charity."

Laura accepted the thanks and excused herself. Living on a tidal island had its advantages and one of them was the ability to graciously take leave from drawn-out conversations by pointing to the change of tide.

Indeed, St Joseph's Rock was quite accessible via the causeway at low tide but completely cut-off during high tide and the storm surges that regularly battered the exposed coast.

And in truth, out to sea clouds were gathering as dark as bruises, edging the horizon as a sharp gust of breeze cut up the promontory. Even at this distance, Laura could see the flag by the lighthouse snap to attention.

By the time the church bells chimed one o'clock, she had returned to Fletcher's Fine Emporium to find Dickie loading the last of her order onto the small horse-drawn cart.

"Mr Fletcher asked, what with your dad laid up with a bung foot and you there on St Joseph's on your own like...well, if you need a man about, he said I should go with you."

Try as he might, Dickie could not hide the hint of a frown on his brow and Laura recognised its cause immediately.

"That's very sweet of you," she said, causing Dickie to blush, "but I know Kitty has been waiting for you to take her to the dance this Friday and she would be most disappointed if you didn't go."

The young man's face lit up.

"You're a real friend, Miss Laura. Anything you need, don't be afraid to ask now. It would be my pleasure."

It was not until she was crossing the causeway in the cart that she allowed herself a gentle laugh at Dickie's delight in not being prised away from his sweetheart. The thought caused her to reflect.

It was only in the past year she'd pondered the notion of having a beau of her own and her mind idly considered those eligible as she negotiated the path home.

Not that there were many eligible. The fight against Napoleon's armies had occupied and taken many a young man. Those who remained were more like brothers to her. Laura couldn't see herself accepting a proposal from anyone of them, even if they should offer.

The muted clip-clop on the cobble-paved causeway cut through her thoughts. The tide was rising faster than it usually did and the horse sloshed hoof deep along the path said to have been laid by the last of the Saxon rulers.

No, she decided, the man for her must be dashing but kind; intelligent but with a sense of humour; brave and handsome.

Where on earth would she meet such a paragon in a small seaside town? One would simply have to fall into her lap.