Chapter 5

Clara speaks...

I knew when I left the rehab unit that I didn’t want to go back to the house. I’d spoken to the solicitor who was dealing with my parents’ estate; he had power of attorney to clear it and sell it; he was a friend of the family and had collected up personal items and documents which were not for disposal. I stayed a few nights with a friend, but that couldn’t continue. Another friend – well, I thought he was a friend – was heading towards London and offered me a lift and a place to sleep. In the car, he began hinting about ‘benefits’. I don’t do ‘benefits’. Okay, I know I had been doing pills to dull the pain of losing Mum and Dad, but I kept enough sense to know I didn’t want to go further down that road. I’m a virgin, technically at least, and intend to stay that way until I have a ring on my finger.

I can’t believe the guy. Seriously. He pulled over on the hard shoulder when I got as far as ‘not only no, but hell no‘ and told me ‘get out. Now.’ Did I have a choice? I got out. I know perfectly well that one is not supposed to hike along the motorway hard shoulder. I know perfectly well that it’s actually dangerous.

A motorbike passed me and pulled in. Okay, the bike didn’t look official. The rider was wearing a big rucksack on his back in a yellow cover. He was wearing a high-vis jacket, though. I stopped when we met.

“You’ll be in trouble if a Traffic Officer patrol comes by. Did you break down? You should have stayed with your vehicle,” he said.

I shook my head. “Was hitching. Was pushed out a mile or so back.”

“Well, I can’t leave you like this. There’s a spare helmet in my top-box. Put it on and I’ll take you as far as Birchanger services, anyway.”

We walked together to the bike. It had a kind of old fashioned look about it; something like that. There was a black, curved box behind the seat, which he unlocked and produced a helmet, which he handed to me. I looked at the seat. “There’s not room for me,” I said.

“No. I’ll put the ruck on my front, then there will be.”

I’d never been on a bike before.

He straddled the thing and started it, and I managed to get my leg over the pillion seat and settle behind him. He set off, speeding up until he could insert the machine into the flow of the nearside lane. It was scary at first, but I soon realised he was a steady sort. He just sat a safe distance behind a truck which I suppose was doing the usual fifty-six miles an hour.

At the turn for the A120, he took the exit. Negotiating the roundabout wasn’t too bad, but when we entered the services, there were several quite sharp corners and it felt as though the bike was falling over. I couldn’t help squeezing him in a mild panic. It was okay, though. Definitely not as bad as riding a taxi in Cairo, just ... cold. He offered to buy me something to eat; I looked at him, and decided he didn’t look like a serial rapist and murderer. “Thanks,” I said. “I’d like that.” I asked for fish’n’chips and tea. He looked a little surprised; I suppose he thought I’d want a burger, or pizza, and a Coke. Anyway, the short version is he offered a ride to where he was going – Maldon, which I knew nothing about – and a bunk in a borrowed boat, and perhaps foolishly, I accepted.

It was a cold ride; I gather that’s the norm on a motorbike in winter. Not just in winter, in fact. By the time we arrived on the Hythe Quay (I didn’t know that was what it was called, then. I do now), I was used to the ride and, other than chilled extremities, fairly comfortable.

We were greeted by a pretty woman in her thirties, and I was introduced to “Doctor Jenni Peters, Clara. Barge Master, and owner of the boat I’m borrowing.”

She looked me over appraisingly. I returned the favour. I know her story now, and it’s a remarkable one. Abused in childhood, and rescued from prostitution by the former owner of the yacht Eirene. Started sailing on the old Thames spritsail barges, and worked up to a Board Certificate as Master. Returned to education and earned a doctorate in mathematics. Mathematics! Every mathematician I knew in College was ... a bit odd. Jenni was not. But what I saw then was a pretty, slightly plump, woman with short, dark hair and laughter lines, who was examining me carefully. She didn’t ask questions, though, and declined an invitation from Rob to have supper in the pub restaurant.

The boat was nice. The cabin was warm, as the stove had been lit for an hour or so. I dumped my small pack in the indicated cabin, which was not warm, and returned to huddle by the stove to try to thaw out. I was reluctant to stir from there, when Rob suggested the restaurant, but also didn’t want to inconvenience my host. I was glad I did go, though. The food was good.

There was one moment as we talked where our eyes met and he was silent. It was odd, because it was as if he was looking into my soul; odd, because I didn’t mind. When he didn’t break the gaze, though, I asked, “How long have you been writing?”

He shook his head, and frowned. “Five years, but only two full time.”

He went on to tell how he’d been a psychotherapist, and that led on to a long chat about what counselling was about, and, for him, the stresses involved. He did reassure me he didn’t mind having me around, though he did emphasise he would probably ignore me for long periods. I’d suppose it was odd that I’d be where I was, with a guy I’d only met that morning. Odd that I’d even consider sleeping in a boat – a floating caravan, really, and if anything, smaller – with him, but there was something about him that I trusted.

I’d been in boats, even small boats, before. But always before I’d just been a passenger, and my parents had been there, so I had only the smallest idea of what might be expected of me; apart from the obvious, of course, and I didn’t get any impression that was part of the deal.

When we were back in the boat he explained the complexities of the toilet – ‘head’ – before we went to our (separate) beds.

I did not sleep well. F’sure, I was tired. Once I was settled and wrapped up in a thick duvet, I was even warm. It wasn’t the rather hard mattress. At least, I don’t think so. I’d slept in less comfortable beds. The lapping of water against the hull, and the movement of the boat once there was enough water to float it ... her ... Noises; the tapping of ropes ... oops ... halyards, against the masts. Maybe that was part of it? No. I dozed, uneasily, off and on and gave up in the small hours. I couldn’t read my Kindle in that cabin without getting cold, so I took the duvet and my jacket into the saloon and read sitting in the dim light of the safety lamps. The stove was emitting enough heat that I was comfortable. I tried to boil the kettle, but there was no gas, and the top of the stove wasn’t hot enough to boil the kettle. Not soon, anyway.

He appeared before dawn, surprised to see me out of bed, stirred up the fire, and explained why there was no gas, then started making porridge. We had a big breakfast, during which he reassured me that such was normal and, indeed, necessary when sailing – especially when sailing in winter. We spent the rest of the morning shopping – clothes for me to supplement the minimal stock I had with me, and extra food, since I was going to be eating as well as him.

Even after shopping, we had time to eat again before the tide was high enough to float the boat clear of the mud. As I said, while I’d been on small boats with my parents in the past, I had never been involved in managing them, especially not a sailing vessel. Rob, though, explained that he would have managed the boat on his own, had I not been there, and he’d use the engine, rather than struggle with the manoeuvres necessary to leave the harbour under sail. We did sail the ‘easy bits’, with the wind coming from the side. That’s called ‘reaching’ for some reason. The last stretch the wind was coming from behind. I thought that’d be easy, but no. ‘You have to be alert, Clara. If you don’t pay attention, the wind changes, maybe, and the boom swings over hard and breaks something’. It got dark, too, as we were sailing. But we got to an anchorage he knew, next to Mersea Island, and he dropped the anchor, explaining what he was doing, and I helped him with the sails.

Over our evening meal, though, he gently encouraged me to tell him my story. It wasn’t easy, but it was actually easier than talking to the therapists in the rehab unit. We had a relationship of trust already. I asked for, and got, a warm hug – zero sexual content – and we played cards for a while. When we went to bed, I was a little more comfortable, though I still wasn’t sleeping that well, but at least I was getting used to the hard mattress and the noises. It was a different noise that woke me; it was still dark out. He was hauling in anchor chain and the noise was only a short distance from my right ear and only some wood planks between me and it. I dressed quickly and went to see if I could help. He told me to take the wheel.

Though I say it, I’m bright and learn quickly. I’m not particularly athletic, but I’ve always been active. Sailing, at least while Rob was telling me what to do, was hardly demanding, but I knew I would want to do this a lot in the future; I’d want to know. But unless you’re a sailor yourself, you’d probably be bored by a step by step – or tack by tack – account of the sailing. What was important to me was ... peace. Eirene is a Greek word. Yes, I studied Greek. Classical Greek, that is. So I knew it meant ‘Peace’. You wouldn’t think that being in a sailing boat, going up and down and rocking from side to side, the wind, the water flowing past the hull and sometimes jumping up and splashing you in the face, would be peaceful, but it was. Is. And Rob’s kind of peaceful himself. Incidentally, for you pedants out there, it’s probably properly pronounced ‘ay ray nay’. But ‘Irene’ will do.

Our first ‘day’ of sailing wasn’t that long. Out a little way into the North Sea, then a gybe (yeah, I’m learning this stuff) to head in to the other side of Mersea Island, to end up in a little creek. Rob was busy, tidying things up, and I thought I’d be best employed putting together a hot meal. I think Rob was a little disappointed I didn’t offer to help with the sails and such, but I could tell he was impressed that there was a meal for him when he finished, and he praised me for it. When I asked, he told me where to plug my tablet in to charge, and where I could find a pair of binoculars and a bird book. Even before I was ready to leave the cabin to go sit in the cockpit, he was sitting at the table with his laptop open and his attention completely focussed on it.

I’m not a dedicated bird watcher, but I’ve enjoyed sitting watching avian critters all over the world. British waterside birds, with a few notable exceptions, are often hard to tell apart. I identified Oystercatchers and Avocets easily enough. Curlews are obvious enough, with their size and those long, curved beaks, but it went downhill from there. I enjoyed myself, though, and sat outside well past the point where I couldn’t see anything except human lighting in the distance. In the cabin, I switched on the lights. How he was working in that gloom I don’t know. I suppose he was touch-typing. But he didn’t show any sign of recognition. I tended the fire and put a kettle on the stove to heat before sitting to read for a while. It took about an hour before the kettle was making sounds indicating it was near boiling, and when it reached boiling point, I made tea – leaf tea, in a pot – and shook his shoulder when he didn’t respond to my voice.