Chapter 1

My name's Barry Conway. I was christened Brian Andrew, but I never liked Brian. I'm sixty-five years old, but I retired several years ago. My wife and I were going to sail round the world, visiting all the exciting places we'd read about through the years. We'd been sailing together every holiday in a succession of small sailing yachts for most of our forty year marriage, promising ourselves that 'voyage of a lifetime' when I retired. We bought a larger, better equipped boat, a ketch, learned its ways and made sure everything was absolutely in tip-top condition. We put off leaving when she started feeling a bit unwell, thinking it was flu, maybe, but she didn't get better ... our G.P. did all the usual tests and took some blood samples; a week later, he told us he was referring Lucy to the hospital in Ipswich. We didn't realise that the doctor she was to see was an oncologist, but we did worry when the appointment came through within a fortnight.

Possibly the one mercy of cancer is that you know your time is limited. We had six months, in which she said goodbye to our friends. We'd never had children of our own, but we had three 'sons' that we'd fostered over the years and they treated us like their real parents, presented their fiancées, and later their children. They made sure they saw us a lot. We visited our favourite places ... but not by boat. We drove up the East side of England, staying in bed-and-breakfasts, stopping at Lindisfarne, and Berwick, into Scotland, we spent a few days in Edinburgh, watched salmon leap near Pitlochry, before calling on Inverness, then driving down the Great Glen. We'd never visited Iona, or Skye, so we did. We walked by the banks of Loch Lomond. Continuing down the West, we spent a couple of weeks in Cumbria, and another couple in Wales.

Despite taking things easily, and taking breaks every time Lucy needed treatment, she got very tired, and we had to stop before we got to the West Country. She died in the Autumn, as the leaves fell, and the year drew to a close. It was like having a part of me cut out. I was numb for months, and I hurt for months more, but eventually I got used to it. Our friends, and the 'boys' and their families kept an eye on me. I realised how run down I'd got, physically, and I started getting out and walking around the town. Felixstowe isn't a large town, but it's got most things you could need, and I could walk from our, I mean my, house to the town centre in half an hour, or I could walk along the seafront to Landguard and back, taking it easily and stopping in tea rooms at intervals, in a day. In the other direction I could walk to Felixstowe Ferry for lunch in the Ferry Café, taking about an hour each way. If the weather was bad, there was the library; oh, yes, there were things to do, and I made myself do them.

I had various places I liked to sit and look at the sea. The sound of the waves breaking, or lapping on the beach is calming, or even soporific. Felixstowe beach, though, is stony. Like a number of other east-coast beaches, it is shingle and it is rare to see any sand; the sound is different because the waves churn the pebbles against each other.

It was one day in Spring, about eighteen months after Lucy died, that I met Mandy. I was sitting on the prom, watching the waves and the big ships entering and leaving Harwich Haven. I saw her, walking along the prom. Sometimes, you can sense a person's aura, especially if they're feeling strong emotions. I thought she had a small black cloud over her head. She radiated sadness. I've always been a sucker for unhappy women, and besides, you know the saying, 'misery loves company'.

Visual impressions were not good. Clearly overweight, with baggy, mismatched clothes; her face puffy, dark shadows under her eyes, lank, stringy hair. Yet something in me wanted to reach out to her. What kind of a fool am I? She was clearly young; late teens, early twenties maybe. I was at least forty years older, and, as I say, she wasn't particularly prepossessing.

As she came up to me, she spoke; "mind if I sit here?"

"Not at all ... help yourself. At a loose end?"

"You could say so..." and burst into tears.

I just sat there trying to radiate sympathy for a few minutes, thinking. Having come to a decision, I stood. "I'll be back in few minutes," I said, and walked a few yards to an ice-cream kiosk, one of several at intervals along the Felixstowe prom. I bought two '99' cones and walking back to the bench, held one out to her.

"What?" she squeaked, looking at it.

"Rules of the country," I said. "No-one is allowed to sit on Felixstowe prom without eating an ice-cream. Even if it's blowing a blizzard and the temperature is below freezing."

She looked at me, almost as though I'd grown an extra head, and an expression that might have been the beginning of a smile crossed her face as she slowly reached out and took it.

We sat and licked our ices, and watched the morning 'Cat' (a high-speed ferry) heading out towards Holland from Harwich.

"Do you sit here a lot?" She asked, looking at me.

"Oh, at least once, most weeks. I like to listen to the waves on the shingle."

"So do I," she responded, and sighed.

After a few more minutes, I stood. "I need to be on my way," I said. Actually, I needed to think. "It's been nice meeting you."

"Has it, really?" she asked, "I've enjoyed meeting you."

I set off to the North along the prom. Fish and chips for lunch seemed like a good idea, and I had quite a long walk ahead of me to the Ferry Café.

The next day found me back at the same bench. That was unusual; I rarely did the same thing two days running. Besides, it wasn't a particularly pleasant day to be sitting; it was cloudy with a biting wind and rain threatening. To say it was almost June, you'd think it was November. I hadn't been there long when she appeared.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" she asked again.

"Not at all," I replied, looking at her. She'd obviously taken some pains over her appearance; her hair was washed and brushed, her clothes, while still not particularly flattering, at least appeared to match. "You're looking a little better today."

"Thanks, I'm feeling better."

"We didn't introduce ourselves yesterday ... My name's Barry."

"How do you do? I'm Man ... Amanda." She added, "people call me Mandy".

"I'm pleased to meet you, Amanda. That's a lovely name ... do you know what it means?"

"I don't understand."

"Well, we British are a cultural mixture. Names originally meant something, but because of all the different languages different invaders and immigrants have brought to this country, we've lost track of the original meanings. Some still make sense, like Charity, but most are just sounds. Amanda is derived from Latin, and means 'Lovable'"

She snorted, "not really?"

I looked at her, seriously, "really, that's what it means."

"What about your name?"

"Mine? Properly, I'm Brian, and the origins of Brian are uncertain, but the diminutive, Barry, is Irish Gaelic, and means 'spear'"

"Wow! I never really thought about it, it was just what I was called. I don't think I'm lovable, though."

"Do you not? That's a pity. Tell you what, though, it's a bit nippy here like this. Will you walk with me and I'll buy you a coffee?"

She didn't answer immediately, but I noticed her glance drop to my left hand, which still bore the broad gold band Lucy put on my ring finger when we were married. I could never bring myself to take it off, as though that would have been cutting off one of the last links to the woman I loved for all those years.

She looked up again and met my eyes, "OK, I'd like that."

We walked about quarter of a mile to a tea-room at the bottom of South Hill, where I got a large mug of decent coffee, and a pot of tea for Amanda; as an afterthought, I added a couple of scones.

"Why are you being kind to me?"

I sipped my coffee, and buttered my scone (rather more generously than I should, really, but what the hell), trying to think of the right thing to say.

"Well ... I like being kind, and I thought you looked like someone who needed some kindness."

"You got that right."

"You want to tell me about it?"

"Maybe. Are you married?"

"Was, I'm a widower. Lucy ... died eighteen months ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry..." everything; expression, posture, tone of voice, was genuinely sympathetic. I'd been drawn to her ... I was beginning to like her.

"So, you want to tell me? Or just sit and enjoy the tea? I don't mind."

"I'll give you the short form. One day ... I may tell you the rest, if you want me to."

I nodded, and met her eyes.