Chapter 9

No problem, right? Six weekly classes to make sure several people knew enough about the Church of England and doctrine to be admitted into membership.

We started in the first week of September, Wednesday evenings, seven-thirty to nine. Several surprises. Bob Winslow, smiling. The blonde girl I’d seen with a baby – Geraldine Finlay. Paul Meadows. And Gillian. And Suki Ito.

We started with the usual – names and a brief comment about how we got there. Nothing informative, of course. I don’t think our ‘course’ was much like the usual confirmation class. I wouldn’t know, really. Dulcie gave us an outline of the sort of things the Anglican Church expected us to know, but then she went on, “I’m much more interested in your personal relationships with God in Jesus,” she paused, looking round, “not so much the academic theology. Because in my opinion, the relationships between you as individuals with God, with each other, and our corporate relationship in the Church, is what counts. I won’t expect everyone here to have a particular experience, or anything like that, because God isn’t like that. He made us all different, and has different plans for each of us. That’s what’s meant in the Bible about being parts of the Body, and how every part is important.”

So it was really a series of discussions in which each of us – at least, as we got used to each other and began to trust each other – opened up about our doubts and reservations. It became clear, though, that everyone had arrived at a point where God ... or, at least, Jesus ... had become a reality.

I was surprised, though, that Paul Meadows and Gillian Marshall, both of whom had been around the church for several years, had not previously taken the step of being confirmed. I asked if Karen, who seemed as devoted and spiritual as anyone I’d met, had been considered for confirmation.

“Yes,” Dulcie told him, “but it is not usual in this church to confirm before a child is in his or her teens. We have a dispensation allowing her to participate in Communion, and I’m confident she will proceed in a year or two.”

I was a little concerned about my relationships with Suki and Gillian. Now Suki gave me no cause for concern, at least at first – I’ll come back to the concern I did have. Gillian, however, seemed distant. Cool. She had been perfectly polite, just ... detached.

The next Saturday, Bob arrived at Tranquillity mid morning. There would be no sailing, it was low tide and the boat was resting, listing a little, firmly on the mud. “Fancy a ride?”

“Sure! Any ideas?”

“Well, we did discuss visiting that decommissioned nuclear bunker at Kelvedon Hatch. It’s not so far...”

It was a good ride. The bunker was built, well off the beaten track, in the fifties, initially as a defence control centre, then modified as a regional headquarters. We parked the bikes, a little nervously, on a sloping gravelled car-park, and made our way through woods to the small bungalow which formed the entrance. The tour was interesting, if a little depressing, and took just over an hour. I, for one, sincerely hope that such is never required. The notion of nuclear, chemical or biological attack is just too horrible to contemplate. But at the end of the tour we sat in the cafeteria with coffee and sandwiches.

“Um, Rick...”

Bob was uncharacteristically tentative. “Yes, mate?”

“Suki. I mean Suki Ito...” as if there were more than one young woman of our acquaintance with that name!

I raised an eyebrow. “A lovely young woman,” I responded.

He looked at me. “I thought I recognised her...” he paused, “friend of yours?”

“Yes,” I admitted, “though not a close one. Dulcie and I helped her out a little at Christmas.”

“Can you ... I mean ... what do you know about her?”

“Bob...” I frowned, thinking. “Bob, I don’t think I’m at liberty to discuss Suki. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

He nodded. “Okay. I understand, I suppose.”

“Seriously, if you want to know about her history, you need to ask her.”

And that was it ... at least at that time. We finished up, togged up, and straddled our bikes for our ride home.

Karen was back in school, of course, so having chewed things over and come to a conclusion, I made my way, one Monday, mid-morning, to the Marshall home.

When she opened the door, it was clear that Gillian had just embarked upon a cleaning spree. Her hair was pinned up, though several tendrils had escaped, and she was in a baggy sweat-shirt and old jeans. There appeared to be a thin film of dust coating her and adhering to the sweat on her face. I thought she looked wonderful.

“Oh! Rick! What brings you here?”

“Ah, I just realised we hadn’t exchanged more than a few words for ages, so I thought I’d drop by and mooch a mug of your coffee. Of course, if it’s inconvenient...”

I could see conflict in the parade of expressions across her features, but eventually she stepped back to let me in. “No ... er ... I’m due for a break, anyway.”

She shut the door and I followed her through the house to the kitchen, where she meandered around starting the coffee maker, finding biscuits, that sort of thing. But she wasn’t moving systematically, rather, I thought, avoiding facing me. The coffee – which smelt wonderful – finished dripping through, and she poured a mug of it, black, for me and another, with cold milk, for herself. She sat with hers almost opposite and waved at the plate of biscuits.

“Help yourself, Rick.”

I took a chocolate digestive and bit into it, watching Gillian, who sat with her head down, clutching her drink. I chewed and swallowed. “Gillian, why have you been avoiding me?”

“I haven’t...”

“Gillian,” I interrupted as quietly and gently as I could, “remember what I do? If I’ve done something wrong, if I’ve offended you in some way, please, tell me.”

“I can’t ... I don’t want ... to say.”

I sighed, and sipped at my coffee as I tried to work out where to go next. “Lovely coffee, as usual,” I said, in lieu of anything more profound.

She glanced up with a slight smile. “It’s the Macchu Picchu you told me about, ages ago.”

We sat in silence for several minutes – a tense sort of silence, not a comfortable one. I knew to wait her out. Cruel, perhaps, but probably the only way to get to the bottom of things.

“I’m afraid,” she whispered, at last.

I took a slow breath before responding, so as to be able to speak coolly.

“You’re afraid ... of me?”

“No!” Pause. Breathe. “No, Rick. I’m afraid of getting close to you. I’m afraid...” she trailed off.

“I ... I don’t understand, Gillian. I thought you enjoyed our outings, our talks? Even the weekend on my boat. I know I did, and I thought Karen did. Gillian, I love that little girl of yours, and I’m very fond of you. I hoped ... well. You know I came down here to live on a boat and to be away from people?”

“No – I didn’t. But you...”

“I found somewhere I’m welcomed and valued, where there are folks I enjoy being around. And you, Gillian, are the most important of those people.”

“Rick! I ... I’m not ... I’m not worthy ... of your, of your...”

“Love? That’s not too strong a word for what I feel, Gillian. Not worthy? Why? Why do you feel the need to be worthy of anyone? Have you talked to Dulcie?”

“Yes, but I don’t think she understands...”

“Oh, Gillian! I’d be amazed if Dulcie didn’t understand very well indeed. Please – go and talk to her. And, Gillian ... please, please ... can we be friends?”

She looked up, and I saw tears tracking down her cheeks. I reached across and laid my hand over hers – she turned hers and grasped mine. We sat like that for an age, then she spoke again.

“Will you come with me? To see Dulcie?”

“If that’s what you want ... what you need ... then yes, of course. But you know I’m tied up Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. I doubt if Dulcie could see us in the evening. If she can see us on Friday, Monday or at the weekend, certainly I’ll come with you.”