Prologue - March 1996

The old Norton growled between my knees, eating up the miles along the A14. The vibration and the cold breeze both were comforting in their way. The speedo flicked — as chronometric speedos do — from time to time between 60 and 62 m.p.h. A the rate of 1 mile every minute, I was leaving behind my old life of 55 years; my home town (Cambridge) my profession (psychiatric nurse, retired; ill health) my marriage (ended formally a few months before) my two children (who hadn't contacted me in any way since my wife and I separated) the family home (sale finalised that very morning) and a couple of cabin trunks, containing those of my possessions which would either be of undoubted value in the life I intended, or from which I did not wish to be parted; (in the care of a delivery company, to follow shortly).

Surely, turning away from so much personal history, there should be some regrets? But no — search my heart as I could, I found only relief, a lightness such as one might feel on dropping a 30 kilo rucksack after a long walk. I twisted the grip; the growl strengthened, the speedo flicked higher. 65, 70, 75, 80 ... at 90, I knew there wouldn't be much more from the 40 year old motor, though it was running easily. Now, the wind was tearing at me; the vibration through the handlebars was very noticeable. I eased off and the bike slowed as the road sloped up — I was back at sixty as I crossed the Orwell Bridge. The wind tugged at me, buffeted me; I had no time to look down the river to note the state of the tide, even had I needed to. The great trucks heading to Felixstowe container port demanded attention. I accelerated to 70 again, but was blocked by a lorry in the outside lane and slowed to stay behind. There was no hurry, after all.

The water-tower at Trimley hove into sight, then I was coasting down to the dock-road roundabout. Leaving the trucks, past what used to be allotments — once intended as the site of a new hospital, which never materialised; and onto Colneis Road. Soon I was passing the parish church (partly Saxon) then on to the High Road and sight of the sea. Past the big houses, The Dip, the Golf Club and the links and on to the rough car-park at Felixstowe Ferry.

In the café, I was served excellent coffee by a garrulous Goth. "Neat bike — my Dad would love it. I love it."

"Do you know Charlie Taylor?

"My dad. Probably in the yard."

"Thanks!"

"In fact — that's him coming in now. Dad!"

A very weathered, middle-aged, bearded man came over.

"Pestering the customers again, Donna?"

"No, Dad, he was asking after you. That's his Norton in the car park!"

"Nice bike. What would you be after with me, then?"

"Two things. I was told you might be able to find a sheltered spot for my bike, and give me a lift out to my boat; it was supposed to have been delivered to a swinging mooring last week. Eirene. Then, I'm going to need a mud berth with river access a couple of hours each side of High Water, if possible. That's not too urgent."

"Well, I think we can manage those. I know the boat. I wondered who it was belonging to."