Chapter 1

Norma Hancock:

When Rob died – he was only forty-four – the bottom dropped out of my world. There was never anyone else for me. My parents and I moved, when I was nearly five, in to a thirties semi-detached house in Ipswich; when built, it was probably on the edge of the town, but the town had grown since. Ipswich is built around docklands at the head of the Orwell Estuary, importing timber I believe from the Baltic amongst other things. There were three major industries apart from agriculture. Fisons, a company, best known for agricultural chemicals, Ransomes, Sims and Jeffries, manufacturer of lawn mowers and other agricultural machinery, and Ransomes Rapier, a heavy engineering company, whose name may be found on railway turntables, walking draglines, cranes and such. I didn’t pay much attention to the industries, though. I went to a small primary school in Cliff Lane, where I met Rob – Robbie when were little – who, it turned out, lived just a few doors away.

We grew up together, despite being opposite in gender. Robbie never seemed to get the ‘girls are icky’ idea, and we kicked a football around, or played cricket, climbed trees, played ‘Robin Hood’ – I was ‘Maid Marion’, of course – played recorder together, went camping with our parents ... in short, I had a wonderful childhood, and when we reached our teens, there was no question but that we were boyfriend and girlfriend.

We left secondary school with decent exam passes, married and went together to college. For the first time, we parted company on our courses; Rob went into mechanical engineering, and I took mathematics and English with a view to teaching. Together, we learned to ride motorbikes. Rob insisted that I learn too, rather than ride pillion with him. Of course, at first he wasn’t allowed passengers anyway, so I didn’t fight it. We didn’t have a lot of money, and we bought elderly British bikes, two hundred cc Triumph Tiger Cubs. Rob put his expertise to work and by the time he’d finished we had two bikes that were in excellent condition, looked good and went ... excuse me, I nearly used Rob’s description, which involved a shiny shovel. They were pretty hot. Good for about eighty miles an hour, rather than the sixty plus when we got them.

The bikes took us all over, camping. Yorkshire Dales, Lakeland, Scotland ... our college was in Sheffield. We graduated, and Rob got a job in a small engineering company in Ipswich. It was easy for me to get a teaching post in the town, and our parents weren’t too far away.

Living near the sea, I suppose it was natural that we learned to sail. There was – still is, as far as I know – a sailing school at Levington, the Suffolk Yacht Harbour. We bought a house very like those of our parents’, in the same area. That limited our disposable income, but Mum and Dad gave us enough money to buy a cheap dinghy. Being cheap, and wooden, it needed some TLC, but we worked on it. There is a group called the ‘Dinghy Cruising Association’ (henceforth DCA) who do with dinghies what more sensible people do with cabin boats. Dinghies, being lighter and smaller, and drawing much less water when the centre-board is up, can go places where a larger boat cannot, and can be towed on a trailer. We joined the DCA. Made a ‘boom tent’ and bought or adapted camping gear, and went dinghy cruising; basically, camping in a small boat. Primitive, but fun. We traded the motorbikes ... actually, we sold them, and bought a Morris Minor and an AJS three-fifty single cylinder motorbike. The car could tow the boat, I could use it for work and Rob could ride to his job on the Ajay.

Time passed, and parents started making noises about grand-kids. We were established and solvent, so ... I came off the pill. And ... nothing. Still, we loved each other, and Rob’s low sperm count wasn’t the end of the world. We considered adopting, but somehow that fell by the wayside. One Christmas, we had a big celebration with both families, and met a number of relations I didn’t really know existed. One stood out; Rob’s great-uncle. He was tall, white-haired and bearded. He’d been, it seems, everywhere, and lived in what amounted to a shack on the banks of the river Blackwater, with a thirty-foot yacht moored to a buoy nearby. We began to visit him, and soon used his property to park our boat too. We’d visit every few months, and sometimes go out with him in his boat, which was a lot more comfortable than our dinghy.

Sadly, he suffered a stroke, and went in to a nursing home. He didn’t sell the property by the river. In retrospect, we should have realised the significance of that omission, but his boat was taken up to Maldon and (we thought) sold. We continued to visit; rather more regularly, in fact, even after Rob was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Uncle Sam ... yes, his name really was Samuel ... got pretty mobile again, and we took him out a few times. Between us, we could look after his needs in a hotel, or, on one occasion, on a cruise in a Thames Barge from Maldon. The skipper was a wiry little chap, Tom Carmichael. Apparently, his wife sometimes joined him. She could act as a Mate, and was a musician, but their family – three small children, made that difficult. So the Mate was a man, ‘Rusty’ Ironside, and there was a third man, Simon Townsend, who was training as a Mate.

Between us, we made it possible for Sam to enjoy nearly a week, sailing about the coast of East Anglia. Even had we not enjoyed the time ourselves, his expressions would have made it worthwhile.

Rob’s cancer did not respond to treatment. The last few months, well, I’d rather not dwell on them. His funeral was at the Heath Road Crem in Ipswich. We weren’t religious people, so the officiant couldn’t really know us. Our parents were tearful. I was numb.

After a couple of months, I began to pull myself together a bit, and went to visit Sam. He knew about Rob, but didn’t try to sympathise. He allowed me to talk, and held my hand when I found that I could cry, after all. I continued to visit him every few weeks. It was good. It was calming. It was restoring. Then, six months after Rob died, Sam had another stroke, a really bad one, and died too.

I hate funerals. Doesn’t everyone? Perhaps not. Sam’s was in the Parish Church in Maldon; I didn’t know he’d had anything to do with the church. There weren’t many there; a couple from the nursing home, a couple of locals just about as old as him, a young blonde woman with a little girl, a smartly-dressed man, Rob’s parents, and me. There was to be no ceremony at the Crem. The officiant was a woman, younger than me, with chestnut hair, a little plump. She spoke quietly and well, describing the man I knew, but didn’t really know.

“Sam lived well, a full, active life. He travelled, and when that became impractical, settled down on the bank of the river, and became part of this community. He was a great believer in doing good by stealth; I only know a little of what he did, and that only by accident.”

She said more before completing the ritual. Since there would be no service at the Crem, she waited by the door to greet each of the mourners. I was the last.

“You must be Norma,” she said. “I am Dulcie Chesterman, Rector of the parish. Sam spoke a lot about you, about your kindness, and about your loss. Should you like someone to talk to, I would be very glad to see you.” She pressed a card into my hand, then, impulsively gave me a hug, which I instinctively, and happily, returned before I left.

Outside, the well-dressed man was waiting. “Norma Hancock?” he asked.

“Why, yes.”

“I was hoping to see you here. You must have taken time off from work to come.”

“Yes, I did...”

“Could you spare me half an hour? I am Keith Hargrave, solicitor at law. I was ... am ... Sam’s lawyer. I have something to tell you.”

I supposed there was nothing pressing to make me rush home, so I agreed, and we walked up the High Street to his chambers.

“Do you drink coffee, Missus Hancock? Or perhaps you’d prefer tea or a cold drink?”

“Anything, Mister Hargrave. Coffee would be fine.”

Inside, an efficient, well-presented woman was at the reception desk. The lawyer smiled at her. “Missus Latham, could you produce coffee for Missus Hancock and myself? And bring me the Samuel Carter file?”

“Certainly, Mister Hargrave. It will be only a few moments.”

I was shown into an office, panelled with dark wood and book-shelves. The lady followed us in and placed a thick file on the solicitor’s desk. He waved me to a chair, and sat himself on another, rather than behind the desk, after picking the file up.

“Missus Hancock...”

“Please, call me Norma?”

“Certainly, if you prefer. I’m happy to be ‘Keith’. Norma. My client was a remarkable and an astute man. You and your husband made a profound impression on him. Apart from myself and the Rector, you were his only visitors towards the end. As a result, you are the main beneficiary of his will. There are a couple of small legacies, one to the Church and one to the nursing home, but the rest is yours.” He took a deep breath. “After tax, and there will be tax to pay, there should be about a million in investments or cash, and his property by the Blackwater in entirety. His boat is out of the water at Downs Road. The house by the river is unsound, having suffered from flooding a couple of times and neglect. However, Sam intended to replace it with something flood-proof. He got planning permission for a replacement, with a current estimated cost of half a million. Additionally, there is a substantial trust, which is yours immediately.”

“Oh.” That was eloquent, wasn’t it? But what could I say? I had no idea that this was in his mind. “This comes as a shock,” I said, after a minute or so to absorb it.

“I’m sure it does. However, as the executor, I have the responsibility to deal with all the legalities, and I am happy to do so. Sam had his affairs in good order, and there is little to do. Probate should present no problem. I believe Sam hoped you would complete his plans for the property and live there, and enjoy it, but of course there is no obligation on you to do so. The land with planning permission is quite valuable and you could sell it easily.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’d like to do that.”

“No, I can’t imagine you, the woman Sam spoke of, would do that. Probate will take a little time, so there’s no rush to a decision.”

He let me go, and I drove back to Ipswich with a great deal to think about.

Dulcie:

Funerals are strange things. As it happens, I knew Sam Carter a little. He’d been an occasional attender at Saint Mary’s after settling down a bit out of town. When he went into the nursing home, I visited every month or so, and took Communion to him. I always stopped to chat a little afterwards, so I learned a bit about his life. After a short-service commission in the Navy, he bought a boat and sailed the world, earning a living with magazine articles, photographs, and sometimes casual work. Many of the places he visited were rather backward, technologically, but he had a gift for improvisation. As an example, he built a windmill water pump in an African village. There was water, (found by the local witch-doctor, apparently) but it was deep underground, and his contraption lifted water for the village. I suppose he must have had money, but I didn’t know how. I just know he bought a river-side property, quite large, but subject to inundation during exceptional tides or tidal surges. It had a cottage, built on stilts and built of wood. He had plans to build something more substantial, but that was stopped when he had his first stroke.

I also heard about his great-nephew, Rob, and his wife Norma. I knew they visited him and how much he appreciated that. I remember his distress when he learned of Rob’s cancer, and subsequent death. So I had a good idea who the attractive woman was who came to the funeral. I say, ‘attractive’ ... that is an objective description, by a heterosexual woman devoted to her husband, of another woman a little older. She was taller than me, not fat, but lush, I suppose. Dark hair with a slight wave, dusted with some grey. I could sense sadness in her, but of course I knew she had reason to be sad; two reasons, in fact. She was last as I greeted each of the mourners as they left and, on impulse (the sort of impulse I have learned to not ignore) gave her a hug and handed her a card with my contact details. As she left I saw her intercepted by Keith Hargrave, one of our local solicitors.

I followed the hearse to Chelmsford Crematorium to say the few words necessary, then returned home. It’s been hard, but I have learned that ‘to everything there is a season’. I didn’t know what would happen, but I held Norma in my prayers consistently for the next several months.

Norma:

I tried to get on with life. I had a term of teaching to complete. A couple of weeks after the funeral, a package arrived which I had to sign for, which meant a trip to the delivery office. It was quite a large package, though not very heavy; I collected it using my driver’s licence as proof of identity, and carried it with me to school, then, at the end of the day, home. It sat in the middle of the kitchen table as I heated some stew out of the freezer, boiled potatoes, and sat to eat. It sat there as I cleared the table and washed up, and as I poured myself a generous tot of whisky. Neat.

I sipped, looking at the package, then pulled it toward me. I realised that I would need something to open it, and had to go to the cutlery drawer for a sharp knife and a pair of scissors. As it turned out, the knife was the best way. The package contained a sheaf of plans for a house on stilts to be built on Uncle Sam’s riverside property and a sealed envelope. I only glanced at the plans, but stared at the envelope for some minutes, sipping my whisky.

It contained, when I brought myself to the point I could open it, two letters. One was written by a carer of the nursing home and began with an explanation that it had been dictated by him:

Norma, my dear niece. This is merely to explain and to express my sadness at the death of your husband. The other letter is addressed to both of you, as it was written some time ago. Please know that I cannot express how important your visits have been to me, and I hope that the property I’m leaving to you will bring you some peace and happiness. Do not feel obliged to continue my plans, but I believe that doing so will be a positive act for you. Once more, my dear, thank you so much for your time and the love you and your husband showed me in my last years.

Your loving Uncle, Sam Carter.

The other letter was longer.

There followed an address and a number for a combination lock.

Well.

I examined the plans, nodding as I began to understand them. The property, about three acres of scrubby, flat land a bit higher than the salt-marsh, faced north-east onto a part of the river which was almost dry at low tide. The proposed house had a sloping roof, facing south-west with a thirty-degree angle and was shown with solar-panels almost covering it. Reinforced concrete pillars raised the whole structure seven feet above the ground level. The sloping roof rendered almost half of the upper floor unusable, but the highest half of the floor-plan was taken up by a lounge/dining room and a small kitchen. A fireplace was positioned in the middle of the back of the lounge. The lower floor had a master bedroom with ensuite facilities and two smaller bedrooms separated by a shared bathroom, all facing the river, each with a fireplace positioned to make use of a central chimney. At the back, storage, and a dark-room. A dark room?