Chapter 1

Helen Greengold drove the almost new Prius toward London. She felt... old. Not that she was, of course. At forty-five, she possessed a mature beauty that was, however, not appreciated by her ex-husband. He, like many successful men, had wanted a younger, fresher woman to impress his associates, not realising that they would have been more impressed by the wife he’d discarded. But she’d been aware of his occasional affaires, and had not fought the divorce. To be fair – which she didn’t really want to be – he’d treated her well, financially at least. She’d emerged from the court with a settlement of five million pounds, her new car, her designer clothing, and her jewels. But it had hurt, to be set aside for a ‘younger model’.

The previous night, she’d examined herself in the full-length mirror in the hotel suite she’d taken. Nude, she’d run her hands over her body, five foot eight of toned, mature, perfection. Her breasts, a ‘C’ cup, were still high and firm. Her waist still slim, her abdomen flat and unmarked. Her hips were the perfect balance, an inch larger than her bosom, and her legs were tapered, smooth and long. Her oval face, she had to admit, had a few lines; character lines, laughter lines, but her hair was long, lustrous and a rich auburn. Her replacement was blonde. What was it about blonde hair that turned men into idiots?

It was a late autumn day. Overcast, cold, with a bitter wind, and the chill in the air matched the chill in her heart. But despite her depression, her stomach demanded food. Uncharacteristically, when she noticed a twenty-four hour diner approaching, she turned off the main road and round into the car-park, sheltered from the road noise by rows of trees. She wondered at herself, looking across, past the diner to the truck-park. ‘What am I doing here?’ Nonetheless, she parked neatly and entered the diner. Surprising her, it was clean, and the only smell was of good cooking. She went to the counter, perusing the menu-board.

“I’d like an omelette, please. Mushroom.”

“Beans or peas?”

Hesitation. Why not? “Oh ... beans, I think.”

“Chips, mash, or new potatoes?”

What the hell? Why not? “Chips, please.”

“Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, please.” She hesitated, then, “Black, please.”

She was handed a till receipt. “Your order number is fifty-three.”

She went to sit down at the last unoccupied table to wait for her meal.

Geoffrey Billings rode his BMW R100 motorcycle cautiously, though not without a certain flair. He was only too aware of the dangers of treacherous road surfaces at any time, let alone in cold weather. He was cold, and getting stiff, and hungry. But ahead of him was a diner he liked to patronise, and he turned off the busy road, followed the side road round into the car-park, and rode into an empty space between an almost new Prius and a ten-year old Transit van. He switched off and, very carefully, dismounted. He didn’t want to lose control of the heavy machine because of his chilled, stiff, limbs. Still careful, he got the bike onto its stand, and unfastened his helmet to put it in his top-box. Then, stiffly, made his way into the welcoming warmth and appetising smells of the diner.

Helen, waiting for her meal and uninterested in the television playing on the wall in the. corner, watched the motor-cyclist enter the car-park and park next to her car. She watched the young man remove his helmet and walk, stiffly, into the diner. Watched him approach the counter to order his meal, then approach her.

“Excuse me, Ma’am. Is this seat taken?” Indicating one on the other side of the table from her.

“No. Please, feel free.”

He smiled, and began to strip off, first, a garish, high-vis, padded jacket, then a black, one-piece over-suit. “It’s a nuisance,” he commented, having noticed her eyes on him, “but riding a bike at this time of year, all these layers are essential.”

“Why do you do it?”

“What? Ride a bike, or ride at this time of year?”

He was young, she thought, and rather attractive in a way, “Both, I suppose.”

“Well, I ride at this time of year because the bike is my normal means of transportation. But I ride a motorbike for the freedom, and because it’s cheaper than a car, and because on a bike I can thread my way through congestion that would block a car.”

“But it’s dangerous...”

“Depends how you ride,” he answered. “Besides, someone once said that doing something a little dangerous, whether it’s rock-climbing, sailing, scuba diving or ... riding a motorbike, breeds a sanity in everyday stresses. It puts day-to-day trivia into perspective.”

She thought about that. “I suppose that’s true.”

“I’ve found it to be.”

A voice yelled from the counter. “Number fifty-three.”

She looked round. “That’s the number she gave me.”

“You need to collect your order ... and cutlery ... from the trolley by the counter,” her companion told her.

“Oh ... I see.” Awkwardly, she stood, but her walk to the counter was far from awkward and Geoff watched her, fascinated. When she was half-way back, his number was called, and he went to collect a plate of cottage pie, vegetables, and gravy.

They were both silent for a while as they began their meals, but after a while Geoff spoke.

“This isn’t your usual place for a meal.”

She looked up from her plate. His tone wasn’t critical and as far as she could tell from his expression, he was just curious. She took another mouthful, chewed and swallowed before finding herself saying, “I just got divorced.” At his raised eyebrow, she went on, “I just needed to get away from ho ... from where I was living. My husband traded me in for a younger model.”

“What an idiot!”

“I’m sorry?”

“Ma’am, you’re a beautiful woman, and you seem intelligent. Why on earth would any sane man let you go?”

“You think I’m beautiful, do you?”

He could hear the yearning in her voice. “You must know you are! And you’re hardly old. If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you? You can’t be much over thirty, surely?”

For the first time in months, she laughed. “Thank you! I’m probably old enough to be your mother. I’m forty-five.”

“No! Surely not?”

She shrugged. “Money, the gym, good genes.”

“Well, ma’am, I’d never have believed it.” He held out a hand. “I’m Geoff. Geoffrey Billings.”

She took his hand and they both felt a slight jolt. “How do you do, Geoff? I’m Helen G...” she cut herself off. No, she was no longer Helen Greengold. “I’m Helen Firth.”

“Well, I’m delighted to meet you, Helen. If I can be nosy, what are your plans?”

She sighed, and ate a couple of mouthfuls before replying. Geoff respected the silence and ate his own meal. “I was heading for London. I don’t really have any plans.” Then, “What about you? Are you going somewhere special?”

He brightened noticeably. “I’m on my way to Maldon.”

She looked blank.

“Okay, it’s not the most famous place; except for sea salt and Thames Sailing Barges.” The capitals were apparent in his voice.

“Barges? Like canal boats?”

“No! These are sailing ships, quite big. They used to carry cargoes all round the east and south coasts, particularly into London. Nowadays, they’re uneconomic for commercial freight, but a few remain. Heritage tourism. We carry passengers for day sails and longer cruises. I’ve been working on them in my spare time since I was fourteen. But I decided to quit the daily grind as a bank clerk and go full time, not that it pays all that well. Hopefully I’ll go before the Board to get my Master’s ticket in the New Year.”

“Sounds ... interesting. Do you sail them all year?”

“Oh, no. Except for special occasions. This time of year it’s all maintenance, with the occasional curious visitor. Get them interested enough and they might come back as customers in the sailing season.”

They were silent, then, as they finished eating.

Geoff rose from the table. “If you wouldn’t mind watching my things for a few minutes while I take a comfort break?”

“Not at all. But I probably need to be on my way soon.” Having said that, though, she thought seriously about her plans, or lack of them. What was in London? Museums, of course, art galleries, a few ‘friends’ – acquaintances, really – but the place was expensive. She extracted her smart phone from her purse. Maldon. Google. Hotels? B & B? Maybe...

A complete change, that’s what she needed. Not just exchanging a northern city for a larger, southern one.

Geoff returned and began to clamber in to his extra clothing before shrugging in to a heavy-looking rucksack which was covered by a bright, plastic rain cover.

“It’s been lovely meeting you, talking to you. I hope I didn’t bore you, about the barges, I mean.”

“Not at all. I’ve been fascinated. And I think you’ve helped me.” She watched him depart. He had to manhandle the big bike backwards out of the parking space then, obviously carefully, straddle it and start it before riding away.

Google found her a small hotel in Maldon High Street., and she got a good deal for a two-week stay. That should be long enough to know if she wanted to live there. She made use of the facilities – wrinkled her nose a little at them – and went out to her car. Re-programmed the GPS, and set off once more.

Geoff piloted the BMW through the A14 roadworks and onto the M11 where he was able to maintain a fairly consistent seventy until the A120 interchange. At that point he decided to call in at the Birchanger services to try to thaw out again, so a further cup of coffee and a half hour in the warmth, and he was ready to go again. It’s only about thirty miles to Maldon from there, but the last twelve or so are along narrow, winding roads with treacherous surfaces, so it was the better part of an hour later before he was drawing up on the Hythe Quay. Stiffly dismounting again, he parked and locked the bike before carrying his pack across one barge, SB Thistle, to board SB Reminder, where he’d be living. He dumped his pack in the fo’c’sle and collected the heavy rain cover which belonged to the bike and went back to secure it.

In the saloon (which used to be part of the main hold of the barge when it was in trade) he found Gerry Westwood, who had the kettle boiling. “Oh, good. You’re here. I expect a cuppa will go down well?”

“Thanks, Skipper, that’d be great. But what are you doing here? You’ve got the stove lit, too.”

“Indeed. Delia sent me down here when I said we expected you this afternoon. Said to welcome you and invite you to supper. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to come and stay with us?”

“Hardly! I thought the idea was I’d be a sort of combination night-watchman, tour guide and general dogsbody. But I wouldn’t say no to a home-cooked meal.”

“That’s good. Look, you don’t have to live in the fo’c’sle. Use one of the cabins. And you’ll probably run the stove most of the time. If it gets really cold, you could sleep in here by the stove.”