Chapter 2

She was hesitant to begin, but I drew out an account of a happy childhood, academic success, leading to a place at one of Britain’s premier universities to read history, at which she stalled again for a few minutes.

“Mum and Dad had wandering feet,” she said eventually. “They’d always loved to travel, and until I left school I went with them. But once I was set to go to Uni they set off on the world tour they’d always wanted...” She sniffed, blew her nose, and wiped her eyes. “D’you remember that cruise ship which was boarded in the Gulf of Aden? Somali pirates?”

“Sure.”

“When the American special forces team took it back, Mum and Dad were two of the casualties.”

What can you say? ‘I’m sorry’ is hardly adequate, is it?

I sighed. “Oh, my dear...” Let me say, I’m heard many sad tales in my career. Sometimes you can tell it’s just a sob-story. At others, like Clara’s, you can tell that deep distress is involved.

“Can I have a hug?”

“Absolutely!” I moved round to sit next to her, wrapped an arm round and held her to me. These days, physical contact by a mental health professional with a client is fraught with danger which is sad, because a hug is a powerful healer. I was no longer in a professional setting, but still I was in a potentially risky position. I held her as she snuffled, but released her when she sat up.

“I fell apart,” she said. “They offered me counselling and such, but I just buried myself in work until the end of the semester. I think it didn’t really hit me fully, though, until I went home and the house was empty. A friend offered me pills and, like a fool, I tried them. They did suppress the pain. I quite liked walking in a haze, you know. After a month of that, I woke up in hospital, sore from having my stomach pumped. They thought I was suicidal and I ended up in rehab, as I said. A solicitor came to see me about the will. I knew about the trust for my College expenses, of course, but I had to sign things. The will had to go to probate, but I was to get everything. In the meantime, my parents’ stuff was all packed up and put in store because I said I didn’t want to go back to the house. Maybe that was a mistake, but it made me so aware that they weren’t there any more. But I didn’t go back to College, either. I suppose they’ll hold my credits for my first year. Anyway, the house is up for sale and I wanted to be anywhere except Cambridge. I expect drugs are around everywhere, but I wouldn’t know where to go anywhere else.” She sagged. “But I ... miss them ... so much...”

She leaned in against me again and I held her as she sobbed her heart out. She missed them? Who ‘them’? The drugs ... or her parents?

“Tell me about them,” I suggested.

She sniffed. “Mum told me they met on a dig while they were students. Mum was studying history, and Dad was going for a degree in anthropology. They both went for summer work in archaeology. Mum graduated and went into teaching and Dad got his doctorate. When I was old enough they took me all over; Greece, Egypt, Jordan, Iceland, Greenland, Norway ... oh, all over. Then when I started Uni, they took a sabbatical. It wasn’t exactly a cruise, you know. They were going to some places in the Middle East, like Petra, and other places around the world. I know they were really looking forward to Angkor Wat.”

I’m not sure of all the details and I don’t think she was, either, but she described two curious, adventurous, intelligent adults, who seemed to lack a ‘caution’ gene.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Why?”

“Unloading like that. Wetting your shirt.”

“Not a problem, Clara. You needed to talk, I was happy to listen. Are you going to be able to sleep?”

“D’you mind if I sit up a little longer? Would you stay up too, or are you too tired.?”

“I’m okay a bit longer. Can get a video on the computer, some music, a book, a game?”

“A game?”

“Yeah ... there’re cards, board games, that sort of thing, here.”

“Rummy?”

“Sure.”

She beat me. It was just the run of the cards, of course. In any case, we separated – me to pee over the side before cleaning my teeth in the galley, she to use the sea toilet and clean her teeth at the little basin therein.

I wanted to be underway before low tide, to get the last of the ebb, so I was up at six, and getting the sails up before dawn. Inevitably, getting the anchor up is always noisy – a consequence of all those fathoms of rusty chain. I was careful, and making sure the chain was clean, until that point where the hook is about to leave the ground – ‘up and down’ is the shout if you’re not on your own – then got the rest in as quickly as possible as Eirene drifted backwards and began to pay off. I heard sounds from below that indicated Clara was moving as I moved aft to take control.

I got the Genoa set, and was hoisting the mizzen when Clara appeared, rather dishevelled. Perhaps I should say, ‘delightfully, artlessly tousled’. She’d taken the time to dress for the deck, but hadn’t bothered with a hat and her hair, not long, uncombed, was every which way – presumably just as she’d left her bed. “Grab the wheel,” I told her, “steer a bit to starb’d – to the right.”

It wasn’t urgent, but it was nice to get on course before I finished setting the mizzen. Eirene is a ketch, that is, has two masts, the front one larger than the rear. Bermudan, or Marconi rigged, with triangular sails set on the main mast and the mizzen and in her case, two foresails, a fore-stay-sail and a jib, but without a bowsprit. I hadn’t bothered with the jib, but as Clara was there and seemed to be doing okay, I released the jib furling line and set it too.

“You’re doing great,” I told her, as I clambered down into the cockpit. “See that green buoy?”

“Uh huh.”

“We need to pass that to the right. That’s the Bench Head buoy, marking the beginning of the Blackwater channel. If we were heading upstream, it would be on our right*, but we’re heading out, so it’s on our left.”

*Okay. Once more – buoyage in Europe is the opposite of that in America. Starboard side buoys, green conicals, are on the right going upstream and red cans on the left.

Eirene began to pitch as the shelter of the land was reduced. “I’m going to make some breakfast,” I told Clara. “You’re going to be fine. Just shout if you’re worried.” I wasn’t going to suggest she’d be ill if she went below.

“I could do that,” she said, watching me clamber through the hatch.

“I know,” I said, “but this time I’ll do it. Sausage sandwich? Bacon? Tea? Coffee?”

“Oh – yes. Sausage, and coffee, please.”

I grilled the sausages while the kettle was boiling; I made quite a lot of coffee and put half of it in a Thermos, the rest went in two thermal travel mugs. Back in the cockpit, I looked round. There was not a lot of wind, just enough for steerage way, maybe a bit more, and the course looked good.

“Want to relax with your breakfast, or stay at the wheel?”

“Relax, please.”

I put my mug in the clip by the wheel, and her mug and plate on the leeward bench, then took over. It was no problem, really, to eat a sausage sandwich while steering Eirene with one hand ... certainly in those conditions; but okay, I was the one with experience.

I wasn’t out to go sailing, not really. I just wanted to get away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Of course, I could have done that with a remote cottage in the Highlands, perhaps, but I do like boats and sailing. Anyway, the first objective was to get established in a quiet spot, and I was aiming for Pyefleet Creek, just the other side of Mersea Island. There, we’d be out of the way, with Brightlingsea just on the other side of the Colne if we needed basic supplies. I headed out until the tide had turned, then turned in to the Colne. It was the better part of four hours after the sandwich, and the coffee was all drunk, that, Clara at the wheel, obeying shouted instructions, I dropped the hook behind Mersea island and set about a harbour stow. Clara disappeared below.

I’d thought she would come and ask what she could do to help, and was – just a little – disappointed. However, once I’d finished to my satisfaction and followed her below, I found that she’d been busy in the galley. Admittedly, she’d only opened tins and started heating things up, but even so, she was well on the way to producing a hot lunch; tinned beef stew, mixed veg, boiled potatoes. She’d stirred the fire up, too, and the kettle on the stove was beginning to sing; such a pleasant sound, and one which is rarely heard nowadays.

“Oh, well done, Clara!

“Thanks! I wondered about helping you, but I thought I’d just be in the way and food would be a more useful activity.”

“And you were right. I’ll give you a chance to learn more about the boat another time.”

“I really enjoyed the sailing,” she told me, “even though when I came below while we were moving, I felt sick.”

“I happens,” I nodded, “but staying on deck in the fresh air, keeping your eyes on the horizon, usually helps. And the motion sickness wears off in time, but it usually takes a couple of days under way.”

“Okay.”

We applied ourselves to the food. By the time we were satisfied and the plates and pots washed, the kettle was boiling and she made tea for both of us. “Are you going to write now?”