Chapter 3

Late August, registered with the Job Centre, the boat on a mud-berth about as far from town as it’s possible to be and for me to still be able to walk in. I’d exhausted my patience with single-handed cruising and riding Brian in between, but had come to terms with June’s departure. Yes, it’d taken the better part of two months. The weather was foul, and I’d retreated to the library for shelter and entertainment. What I got wasn’t what I expected.

Sitting with my little laptop, tapping away at a story – fiction, rather than the factual cruising accounts I’d been sending in to magazines – and movement caught my eye. Just a man, early middle-age, unexceptional in every respect ... until he dropped. Training; I didn’t have to think as I closed the gap and felt for a pulse. None. “Ambulance!” And began CPR.

I had just about enough time for one cycle and was starting a second set of chest compressions, when a business-like, female voice, said, “I’ll take over breathing. Fifteen and two.”

I counted out loud. “Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen...” and she was holding his head, extending his jaw, pinching his nose and breathing into his mouth. I guessed her at maybe forty or so, hints of grey in short, dark hair, some lines in her face suggesting seriousness and humour. A librarian appeared with a kit including an ambu-bag and airway – much better for my companion. We worked on him for about ten minutes before paramedics got there and took over and we stepped back.

“Well done,” the woman said. “You have some experience.”

“Some,” I agreed. “Registered nurse, RGN, RMN. You did well yourself.”

“I ought to,” she grimaced. “GP. Doctor Jane Green. Where are you working?”

“I’m not,” I confessed. “Burnt out, dropped out.”

“Oh, really? How long out of practice?”

“Couple of years. Can’t say I want to return to nursing.” I watched the paramedics carry the chap out to a waiting ambulance.

“Any experience of counselling?”

“Some. Did a few courses under my own steam. Rogerian, CBT, RET, group analysis, gestalt.”

“Got time for a cup of coffee?”

I’ve always got time for a cup of coffee. She steered us out of the library and into Costa Coffee. “Wouldn’t usually come in here,” she commented, “but we can be anonymous. What’s your taste?”

“Filter,” I said, “black.”

Costa do espresso, rather than filter, of course, but an Americano was acceptable. She led the way to a table in a corner. “Right,” she began after a couple of sips. “Our practice is looking for a counsellor. It would be part-time, just six hours initially, one or two days a week. That’s six hours total, either one full day or two half days. Might you be interested?”

“Well sure. Whether...”

“Three months trial...”

“Too much, or not enough.”

She nodded. “I know what you mean. Suppose we say six months trial, but either side able to part company if not satisfied?”

I shrugged. “Sounds okay.”

“How would you feel about counselling a woman?”

“As long as there are safeguards in place. I always felt cross-gender counselling was more effective, but of course there are dangers.”

“CCTV in the interview rooms.” I nodded. “Oh, and references?”

“My unit manager’ll give me a good one. School of Nursing. I’ve got counselling course certificates, but they’re in store. Got scanned copies if they’ll do?”

We parted company; she took with her my card and a couple of addresses for references, and I went back to the boat via a greengrocer and a butcher. Summer or not, in the dank, mizzling grey, chilly day a fire would be welcome and I could use it to simmer a curry.

For a couple of weeks I half-heartedly pursued employment between short excursions. One longer one on Brian took me to Peterborough to visit my parents. A couple of days of their worrying – and a random young woman about my age at supper – was enough for me and the next day I set off ‘home’ to Tranquillity. The sensible thing to do would have been to take the major roads – A1M, A14, M11, A120 – but on Brian, at fifty, and everything else roaring past, it’s a bit boring. The old A1, now B1043, got me to Huntingdon, then Godmanchester, Cambourne, Royston, to pick up the A10, then the A120 to Bishop’s Stortford. There, the A120 gets serious past Stansted, so I got on the narrower A1060 and weaved my way to Chelmsford. I’d just as well avoided that city, but navigated through onto the A414 to Maldon, and I was home.

The call came a couple of weeks after my coffee with Doctor Green. I was invited to the Health Centre for an interview. Well, it was an interview. Doctor Green was not present – I was, um, interrogated, by the three senior partners in the practice. It was clear that Doctor Scattergood, the Principal, was of the old school, sceptical, if not even dismissive, of ‘talking therapies’. He was clearly within a year or two of retirement, but reluctant to surrender any of his control over the policies of the practice. Doctor Ford, who was male and Doctor Ellis, female, were both ten years or so younger than their Principal and less ... set in their ways, but reluctant to challenge Doctor Scattergood directly.

“Doctors,” I sighed eventually, “I didn’t seek this interview. I don’t claim any miracle bullet, that I can ‘cure’ any of your patients with mental health problems. I’ll just point out that modern antidepressants cost, what? Fifteen to twenty pounds a month?” They nodded, with varying degrees of willingness. “And that tends to be an on-going cost. Many of your patients only need a listening ear, and perhaps some reassurance, and the first – with all due respect to yourselves – needs more than a ten-minute appointment with a harassed and overworked doctor. You have the professional expertise to offer the reassurance, of course, but you first need to get to the root of the problem, or your reassurance is likely to be misdirected. Your time is valuable, and I dare say you have quite a few patients who probably have nothing physically wrong with them but are regular visitors to the surgery. I can relieve you of much of that burden.”

There was a pause. One might even say, a ‘pregnant pause’. I thought the two younger doctors were suppressing smiles. Doctor Scattergood cleared his throat. “Ahem.” Pause. “If we were to appoint you – on a, ahem, probationary basis – we would expect a, ahem, professional standard of dress.”

“Well, Doctor, I don’t feel it’s appropriate to expect suit-and tie, or white coat, dress. I will need to establish an atmosphere of trust, to be unthreatening, and anything formal is going to impede that.”

A pause, during which the three looked at each others, then at length, Doctor Scattergood said, “Thank you for coming to see us, Mister Bennett. One last question. Should we decide to proceed, are you interested in working with us?”

“Under the conditions I discussed with Doctor Green, certainly.”

“Then we won’t detain you any longer.”

I smiled and nodded at each in turn – no-one offered to shake hands – and left.

As it was approaching lunchtime, I went back to Tranquillity bearing crusty bread, cheese, lettuce and tomato, plus a stack of vegetables; I fancied soup for supper. I was in the cabin building my baguette and heard steps on my boarding plank, then the foredeck. A familiar face peered in. “Hey, Skipper. Okay to visit?”

“Sure! Come in. Sandwich?”

She grinned. “Watcha got?”

“Crusty baguettes, Wensleydale cheese, tomato and lettuce. Salad cream.”

“Great!”

We were soon settled with mugs of tea – herbal – and our baguettes. “So,” I said after a couple of bites. “How was Germany?”

“Eisleben, Erfurt, Wittenberg – wonderful. The Lutherhaus, the Stadtkirche where he preached. It’s not that I found anything I couldn’t have got online or from the library, but somehow, just being there – it brought it alive for me.”

“I didn’t know you were into religion?”

She flipped her hand. “I’m not fanatical, but one has to decide whether to acknowledge or deny the spiritual realm, I think. I go to Saint Mary’s sometimes. But the history is fascinating. The arguments about the nature of faith and God. But what about you?”

“I’ve just been interviewed about working as a counsellor with the Health Centre.”

“You’re going back to work?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. The senior partner doesn’t seem impressed with the idea. I think there’s some pressure to offer counselling as an adjunct, but Doctor Scattergood is dragging his feet.”

“Oh, him.“ She grimaced. “He must be nearly due to retire, surely? A dinosaur. I won’t see him.”

“Anyway, if I do get offered the job, it’ll be for six hours a week. Better paid than stacking shelves at Tesco. But I’ll have to check on insurance. I’m still a member of the RCN...”

“RCN?”

“Royal College of Nursing. A union, really. But a union that has a no strike article in its constitution. Mind you, that article has been tested a few times, especially under the Conservative governments. But membership includes liability insurance, and legal representation. I considered cancelling to save on the subscription, but...” I paused, sighed, and went on, “But what about you? Will you stay a day or so? I’ll go out for a few days to unwind.”

She shook her head apologetically. “Sorry. I wanted to see you again before returning to Norwich, but I’m leaving tomorrow morning and I’m expected home this evening.”

I shrugged. “It’s good to see you again.”

It took ... I don’t know, maybe thirty seconds ... from the time we finished eating, before we were naked in the fo’c’sle. For once the washing-up had to wait and we dumped plates and mugs in the little sink. Her first orgasm resulted from my renewing acquaintance with the taste of her pussy. When we switched to sixty-nine, her second followed quickly and her third coincided with me filling her mouth with cum. Having taken the pressure off, we were able to take time to appreciate each other as we made love in a leisurely manner. At least, I was making love.