Chapter 7

We moved on; with west-south-westerlies, we sailed up to Wivenhoe on the last of the flood, (you may not want to hear this, but Wendy’s period began on the way up) round the next day on the ebb back to the Orwell, reaching Pin Mill in the early evening of Wednesday. We treated ourselves to a meal in the Butt and Oyster before retiring to enjoy what intimacy was pleasant for both of us. Thursday morning, we took a walk along by the river, and left Pin Mill to work over the last of the flood to get back to Levington at slack water. We spent the afternoon making sure Curlew was tidy, that the sails were dry, and putting the covers on. We removed our perishables and packed the car.

“Gwen,” I began, as we sat in the car before starting, “would you ... I mean...”

“Would I move in with you?” She ... twinkled – that’s the only way I can describe it – at me. “Um ... I think ... yes, I will. But not until next week. Wednesday. I’ll come at lunch time.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.

“I need to make some arrangements,” she said, “and I won’t move lock-stock-and barrel right away, either.” She paused. “I don’t really have any doubts, but I do want somewhere to retreat to until we get used to each other in an ordinary setting.”

I nodded, and started the car. I drove rather slower on the way to Wendy’s; I wasn’t looking forward to leaving her, at all. I helped her with her bags, and kissed her at the door. The car seemed very empty as I drove home.

I hadn’t been in very long when there was a tap on the door, closely followed by Katryn walking in.

“Well, how did it go, then?”

I smiled at her. “It went very well, thank you.”

“Well, go on – I want gory details.”

“Ah, now, you’ll have to get those from Wendy,” I grinned, “I’ll just say, I’m grateful you gave me a push.”

“Huh! Men – either go where they’re not wanted, or keep away where they are. I’m off, then. I’ll be round tomorrow, though, and probably Saturday. Urgent work for the Petersons. I’m always amazed people leave repairs until the last minute, then want them done yesterday when they want to sell the house. Wanna come? Some nice slimy plumbing for you.”

“Gee, thanks. But, yes, I think I will. I could do with some distraction.”

“Hmmm. I see. Well, see you tomorrow, then.”

I was grateful for the prospect of some occupation, and I certainly got that. Traps that hadn’t been cleared for years – no wonder the drains were slow. Every tap in the house was either very stiff, or dripped. There was one toilet cistern that didn’t overflow if left for a day or two, but the hot-water cistern needed a new ball-valve. They wanted a connection for a dish-washer ... not that they had one, just in case a prospective buyer wanted one. And so on, and so forth. It was good working alongside Katryn again. She was not only very attractive, but remarkably sane and sensible. We had some good conversations about technical stuff ... and I learned some tidbits of information about Wendy and her likes and dislikes.

On Saturday, mid-afternoon as we were packing up, “you going to propose, then?”

“What!”

“I said, are you going to ask her to marry you?”

“Well, I want to...”

“I can’t tell you what you want to hear, but she won’t hit you over the head with a lump-hammer if you do; and if she turns you down you can ask me out again, can’t you?”

I just looked at her. I suppose my mouth must have dropped open or something, because she laughed – pointed at me – and laughed some more. “Relax. I’m only teasing! Mind you, if she did turn you down, I might well accept.”

I shook my head. “Shoo,” I said, “before I get really worried.”

After she’d gone, I picked up the phone and called Wendy.

When she answered I broke a personal rule, and said, “it’s me.”

“Harry! Is everything alright?”

“It is now I’m talking to you. I just realised it’s almost forty-eight hours since I told you I loved you, and I couldn’t go another minute without doing so. I love you.”

“Oh, Harry,” there was a very long pause, “and I love you, too.” I thought there was a catch in her voice, but I may have been wrong.

“I don’t suppose I can persuade you to come over early,”

“Don’t tempt me. I really do have several things I need to get done.”

“Then I’ll let you. I love you...”

Sometimes it’s hard to finish a phone call, isn’t it...

I thought it would probably be a waste of time going to bed early; I was all caught up on sleep and I knew I would only have to get up again and read or something. I found some music that wouldn’t make me maudlin, starting with ‘Die Walkure’, poured some whisky and sat down with my laptop to catch up on emails. That took a while, not having looked at them for over a week. I firmly rejected the idea of reading online, knowing the effect it would have and made myself catch up on my accounts. Wanting a change I dug out a Cruxshadows CD and poured some more whisky. When the CD ended, I wove my way to bed – I don’t have a high tolerance for alcohol – and eventually fell asleep.

Sunday morning ... and nothing to distract me. I had breakfast, made some sandwiches and set off for a long, long walk. The fresh air, the river, the wildlife ... sounds of sea-birds, boats on the river, calmed me. I ate my sandwiches sitting on the sea-defences, then called in at a pub in Waldringfield for a pint of beer. By the time I got home, I was ready to throw a meal together, have a bath and go to bed. I slept ... quite well.

Monday, and a full day of work, replacing a fence; once more, a long soak in the bath, and a good night’s sleep.

Tuesday, and one day to go ... but no work to distract me. Katryn would be doing some joinery during the morning and perhaps the early afternoon. Mid morning, tidying the garden, and an unexpected, not entirely welcome visitor.

Brenda, my ex-wife.

“Harry ... can I talk to you?”

I looked at her; long, and steadily.

“I can’t think that there’s anything to say,” I said, “but I’m ready for a cup of coffee, if you’d like some.”

I ushered her into the kitchen, looking at her as objectively and dispassionately as I could. She was always an attractive woman ... and knew it. She had the power to ... exude ... a sexual magnetism at will, and I knew that was what she was doing; I was beginning to suspect why she was there, and I was right, though it took a long time to come out. Bill, the Royal Marine, was dead. I confess I had wondered if he’d tired of her and kicked her out, but perhaps that was just my emotions at work.

I felt ... sympathy. I was surprised; had I thought about the possibility of her returning, I would probably have thought ‘you made your bed – go and lie in it’. But no, I actually felt sorry for her.

But not sorry enough to agree to take her back. Quite apart from Wendy, and the life I had put together, there was too much water under the bridge, too much history between us, and I said so, without mentioning Wendy.

I stood, and moved toward the door, but she intercepted me, plastered herself against me, and fastened her lips against mine ... and, of course, that was the moment that Wendy walked in. It was very difficult – physically difficult, that is – to detach myself; Wendy took in the scene, went quite white, turned and walked out.